Just Called to Say by Marie_Granger

Rating: PG13
Genres: Angst, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 26/01/2007
Last Updated: 09/05/2009
Status: Completed

The summer after fifth year, phone calls from Hermione help Harry grieve for Sirius and the two
grow closer. -- FYI added by PK co-admin gal-texter May 14 2009: Story ending's angsty but this
fic is PK-compliant as a standalone or a prequel. It follows the spirit of our rules. Just
pre-empting misunderstandings; see my May 10 review. --




1. Part I
---------

Just Called To Say…

Author: Marie (J) Granger
Title: Just Called To Say…
Challenge: Hermione attempts to comfort Harry, who is grieving over Sirius's death
Summary (for fics): Telephone calls during the summer after Harry’s fifth year help him get to know
Hermione (and himself) better.

Warning (if applicable): Some of the angst in this story may be unexpected.
Other ships (if applicable): None seen, many discussed.
Rating: PG-13 to be on the safe side.
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor am I making any money from this endeavor.

Part: 1 of 8.

Notes: I’d like to dedicate this story to five people. First, Athena, my wonderful beta reader;
without you this story would not be half as interesting or a quarter so readable. Thank you so much
for taking the time to polish it. Second, “Luney,” who first encouraged me to write “mush.” I’m not
sure she’d be proud of me for exercising the skills she taught me to write Harry/Hermione, but I
think about her often as I do. Third, my husband, who nags me to work on this and doesn’t mind when
my art imitates life. Fourth, Amanda, who kicked me back into gear of writing this ages ago. And
Finally, Pen/Gal, who helped me get brave enough to post it to Portkey.

Part I

Number four, Privet drive was more open to Harry Potter during the summer following his fifth
year than it had ever been before. Calling it hospitable would still be an overstatement, but
people no longer growled when he entered a room. Harry had even sat through an entire episode of
*East Enders* with his aunt one afternoon – not that he’d noticed or paid any attention to it
of course.

If Harry had bothered to wonder about his relatives’ suddenly moderate nature, he could have
attributed it to fear – fear that Harry’s friends would suddenly appear on their doorstep and carry
out their threat to make the Dursleys pay for mistreating Harry. Since a mere week had passed since
that threat was articulated by two of Harry’s former teachers, it was likely still fresh in his
aunt and uncle’s minds.

Dudley, however, had room in his piggish mind for only one thing these days: Ludmilla Canard.
According to Dudley’s dinnertime boasts, he had met her at an interscholastic boxing competition.
Dudley knocked out their school champion and Ludmilla had apparently been smitten with him
immediately. If the picture propped up on Dudley’s night table was anything to judge by, she bore a
striking resemblance to one of Aunt Marge’s prize pugs, but Dudley’s strutted around the house as
if she were Britain’s next super-model.

For the safety of the neighborhood children, Dudley’s infatuation was a godsend. He refused to
leave home unless absolutely necessary, for fear that Ludmilla might call in his absence. Piers
Polkiss had become *de facto* leader of the neighborhood miscreants, but his tastes ran more
toward graffiti than physical violence. He apparently spent most of his days creating new, more
colorful phrases to paint around the play park (which had been cleaned up by the citizens while the
boys were off at school). Jessamyn Norman, a nineteen-year old girl who lived on Magnolia Crescent,
probably figured into many of them as the boys tried to come up with synonyms for “tramp.”

Piers had dropped by for tea one evening and afterwards the boys had spent time in Dudley’s room
discussing trouble-making. Aunt Petunia naturally assumed the ‘little dears’ were just talking
about their girlfriends, and was happily gossiping on the phone with her friend Yvonne, oblivious
as to what her son was really up to. Harry had retreated to his own room to try and do some
homework, but was annoyed to hear the two hooligans' loud voices and laughter through the
walls. He hadn’t seen the delinquent behavior for himself though, because he had not set foot
outside number four since he returned.

As he had unpacked his trunk he’d found a note that had somehow made its way in among his
things:

*Harry,*

*Do not leave your aunt and uncle’s unless accompanied by a member of the Order. Your Aunt’s
protection only safeguards you within the house.*

*~ Professor Dumbledore*

What was worse, he suspected that Dumbledore had been in contact with his aunt again because she
had expressly forbidden him from leaving the house. Harry doubted that anything could have brought
him joy that summer, but the bland walls of the Dursleys’ house were already driving him mad. The
occasional news he got from his world helped only a little. He took the *Daily Prophet* every
morning and had already received several letters from his friend Ron about life at the Burrow and
the surprisingly positive start for the Chudley Cannons. Hedwig and Pig had been busy for several
days during an especially long match as Ron kept Harry updated on each goal scored in the three day
game. The Cannons’ seeker had finally caught the snitch in a spectacular dive; Ron had been beside
himself.

Oddly, Harry had yet to hear from his other best friend. Hermione had written like clockwork the
summer before; even though there was nothing to say, he had gotten a letter from her every two
days. This year he didn’t even know where she was spending the summer. He supposed she could just
be lacking access to an owl. He’d send Hedwig to find her in a day or two if he didn’t hear from
her. He scowled to think that she could be at the Burrow but hadn’t found time to write in the week
since he’d last seen her on the Hogwarts Express.

This evening Aunt Petunia had gone off to an office party with Uncle Vernon, remembering to warn
Harry to stay put as she left. Dudley had refused to stir; he was expecting Ludmilla to ring. Harry
had plopped himself down in the living room and was mindlessly watching the telly with Dudley.

Dudley kept glancing at his watch every five minutes and muttering under his breath, “Why hasn’t
she called yet?” Harry couldn’t help but snicker at his cousin when he started pacing the room and
looking at the wall clock.

“What’s the matter? Wish **you** had a girlfriend? Huh. Like any girl would ever go for a
scrawny little nothing like you…”

“One did,” said Harry surprising even himself.

“What? You’re lying. Hah, I thought you went the other way. Maybe you’ve had a fight with your
*boy*friend.” Since Dudley seemed to enjoy the sound of his own voice, Harry decided he didn’t
need to correct this perception. He’d rather keep his brief relationship with Cho Chang secret
anyway. “What was his name again? Carver? No… Cedric. Yeah, that was it. What, did he want to take
things to the next level? Maybe things were getting too **serious**! You were muttering last
night…”

But Dudley’s jibe caught in his throat as Harry was suddenly standing directly before him and
his head had collided with the living-room wall. Steely green eyes locked on watery blue towering a
foot above them, but height was no advantage since the hand generally found holding a quill or wand
was now firmly around his cousin’s neck. “Dudley, if you ever mention that again, I will kill you
with my bare hands, boxing champion or no.”

Dudley gaped at Harry for several moments, unable to speak. Before he could develop an
appropriate retort the jangling of the telephone interrupted their stare-down. Harry let go of
Dudley, who promptly dove for the receiver and answered in falsely honeyed tones that belied his
stature, “Hey baby doll, what took so long?” He listened for a few seconds, spluttered, “Come
again?!?” listened again, then scowled and thrust the phone toward Harry. “It’s for you,” he
hissed. “A girl. Be quick about it, you.”

Harry took the phone, utterly baffled. Who could be calling him? Cho? She didn’t have his
number. Ginny? He doubted she’d know how to use the phone any better than her brother had three
years before, and Dudley hadn’t acted like the caller had unusual phone manners. Still curious,
Harry ventured a hesitant, “Hello?”

“Harry! Oh, I’m so glad I’ve caught you. I was worried that your aunt and uncle might be back
already. Of course, I called as soon as Hedwig arrived. I’d given her instructions on the train to
come to me if she ever saw both Dursleys getting into the car. I was beginning to wonder if they’d
ever leave together and I had promised Tonks I’d get a hold of you soon so I’m not sure **what**
I’d have done if she hadn’t come this evening.” Harry looked up to see Dudley making a slow
slashing gesture across his throat with a look of pure venom in his eyes.

Harry cleared his throat and broke into Hermione’s enthusiastic recital, “Er, Hermione? My
cousin’s expecting a call so I should really ring off…”

“Oh, of course, how silly of me! I’m at my parents’ house for the summer and they’ve installed a
private line in my room, so if you could just call me back at midnight we’ll have time to talk
without disturbing anyone. My number is…” she proceeded to rattle it off so quickly that Harry
barely had time to transcribe it correctly. “Have a great evening, Harry, and I’ll look forward to
hearing from you later.”

“Um, right. Okay. Bye.”

Harry hung up the phone, still nearly as bewildered as when he’d grabbed the receiver. He
retreated to his room with Hermione’s number, afraid of Dudley’s mood turning further south.
However, before he went to bed that night he smuggled the cordless from the downstairs washroom up
to his room.

When his clock rolled over to 12:01, Harry dialed the number Hermione had given him. He didn’t
bother to consult the slip of paper; he had been staring at it for over four hours so he felt that
the number had become permanently imprinted on his brain.

A breathless Hermione answered after only half a ring, “Hello?”

“Er, hi. You asked me to call you back.”

“Yes, I did. You see, Tonks had the idea that the telephone would be a good way to keep in touch
with you this summer. The Ministry doesn’t monitor it, it can’t be intercepted like an owl, and I
doubt if any of the Death Eaters would recognize a wire tap if it snuck up and bit them.” Harry
grinned at the odd analogy. “Anyway, she thought I’d be the best person for you to call because
it’s not a long distance call for your uncle to pay for and it gives me something useful to do
while I’m stuck at home.”

“Stuck?” Harry ventured, wondering where she would rather be – the Burrow?

“Yes, stuck. You know Professor Moody’s a stickler about security, and in order to stay in a
Muggle neighborhood for the summer I had to promise him I wouldn’t leave the house without
authorization. Now I have to spend all day with only Crookshanks for company; we’ve started
fighting over the prime square of sunlight as it moves across the dining room every morning.
Grimmauld Place may have been grim, but at least I had people to talk to and cleaning to keep me
busy.”

“Why didn’t you go back to Grimmald Place, then?” Harry asked, wondering why anyone would
condemn themselves to a house arrest like the one that was chafing him.

“Well, I did back out of that ski trip I was supposed to take with my parents at Christmas and I
spent all of last summer with the Order, so Mum was raising a bit of a stink about seeing me. I
guess she wrote a letter to Professor McGonagall about how much she wanted to have me home for the
summer.”

“Mm-hmm,” replied Harry, even though he imagined the Dursleys would be thrilled at the prospect
of not seeing him for an entire year – or ever again for that matter

“When Professor McGonagall and Tonks were both in St. Mungos they brainstormed ways to get me
here safely, and then they called Moody in for the details. He came to see me in the hospital wing
to tell me about all the arrangements, but he made sure I knew he thought I was being foolish for
coming back here at all – he won’t even let me have *The Daily Prophet* delivered anymore
because he’s afraid someone might follow the owl,” Hermione answered ruefully.

“Follow the *delivery owl*?” Harry clarified, unbelieving, “That’s a bit farfetched, isn’t
it?”

“Well, that’s just Moody, isn’t it? Constant Vigilance and all that,” Hermione sighed, “I miss
getting news, though. Tonks said she’ll drop by for tea when she can and give me some sort of news,
but I know it’ll be filtered to just what they think I should be allowed to know.”

“Yeah, that’s annoying,” Harry replied pointedly. He knew it would bug her not to be able to
follow everything that was going on, but he had been in the same boat the previous summer. “I’ll
let you know if anything big happens.”

Hermione lapsed into an uncharacteristic silence. Just as Harry was wracking his brain for a way
to fill it, she ventured, “Um Harry? I… I wondered if you might want to talk about Sirius. I mean,
at Hogwarts it seemed like you sort of wanted to, but Ron kept shushing me.” She said everything
after the first “I” in a single breath.

“Well,” Harry answered, trying to fight off the catch in his voice, “I, er, thanks… but no. I
don’t… I don’t think I’m ready yet.”

“That’s all right,” Hermione replied quickly. “I just wanted to offer. I’ll be here to listen,
you know, whenever.” Harry nodded and Hermione somehow got the message because she plunged ahead,
“At any rate, Tonks thinks it would be wise – and I agree – if you could just call me every night
and let me know that you’re okay and you don’t need anything.”

“Sure,” Harry said, not sure what else to say. “Ah… what are you doing this summer?”

“Reading mostly. I’ve done about a third of our summer homework already. Have you started yours
yet?”

Harry suppressed a chuckle at her slipping back into their usual pattern. “Actually, yeah. I got
really bored a couple days ago. Finished the whole Potions essay and got part way through the
Charms one.”

“That’s terrific, Harry,” Hermione exclaimed with an audible grin.

“Yeah, thanks.” Harry searched around for something else to talk about. “So, what are your
parents doing? People who’d name their daughter Hermione must be rather interesting.”

Hermione laughed, “They’re sleeping now. They’re really not that interesting – dentists, you
know. As for my name, I think maybe they were trying to make up for their own boring ones. Dad’s
called William and Mum’s Anne. Can you get any more British than that?”

Harry hemmed, “Well, maybe if they were called William and *Mary*…”

Hermione giggled, “True. Well, honestly, Dad named me. He’s a huge Shakespeare buff and he
thought ‘Hermione’ was pretty.”

“It is,” Harry murmured.

Hermione continued as if she hadn’t heard, “Mum didn’t think much of it so she tacked on ‘Jane’
as a way of civilizing the odd name. She really has no room to talk since she named me after her
favourite author, too.”

“Who’s…” Harry began, but Hermione answered before he even finished the question.

“Austen. Mum reads *Pride and Prejudice* at least once a year and went catatonic when the
BBC’s version of it came on the telly.”

“Hermione, you read *Hogwarts, a History* at least once a year too,” Harry reminded her,
but then relented, “As for the BBC *Pride and Prejudice*, my Aunt Petunia still babbles on
about that like a love-struck schoolgirl, but I think that’s just because of Colin Firth. She reads
every magazine she can get about him too.”

“Yeah, my mum fancies him as well. That book is really Mum’s only vice,” Hermione hedged.
“According to my grandmother, she’s been passionate about oral hygiene for her entire life and
she’s always wanted to help people. Dad’s a different story. He always says he’d have been a
literature professor if his parents hadn’t insisted on dental school. He makes up for it by reading
with me every chance he gets. Even this summer he’s gone back to reading to me before bed, just
like he did when I was a little girl. He still calls me “My-nee,” but he no longer pats his knee
and bounces me up and down when he does it. Right now we’re reading ‘the Scottish Play.’ It was
Dad’s idea to read literature that deals with witches and have me tell him how close they
came.”

“That sounds nice,” Harry said, hearing the fondness in her voice.

“It is,” she replied, “I’m not sure what we’re going to read next, though. He’s gone through
everything he can remember that has to do with magic in letters with me.”

“Why don’t you just read *Hogwarts, a History* with him?” Harry asked.

“Yes, that would be perfect!” Hermione exclaimed. “I think that might really help Dad understand
what my life is like. And maybe then he could help Mum understand…” she trailed off.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, Mum isn’t very happy about my being gone so much. She says she hardly knows me anymore.
She’s trying to ‘connect’ with me through girly activities like cooking and going through fashion
magazines and getting me this phone. But I wear robes most of the time so clothes don’t matter much
to me. Professor Sprout supposedly does a mini-course on domestic spells with the sixth year girls,
so Muggle cooking isn’t that necessary either. The phone makes things easier, I suppose. And lying
to them all the time doesn’t help, even though they don’t know that yet.”

“What are you talking about?” Harry asked, confused.

Hermione sighed, “They don’t know Voldemort’s back and they wouldn’t really understand what that
means even if they did. I mean, last summer Professor McGonagall told them I could take a summer
course in an old magical house in London that’d help me prepare for my O.W.L.s, but that wouldn’t
work again. To make matters worse, there are all kinds of security measures around this house that
Kingsley Shacklebolt set up before I returned home. My house isn’t even visible to magical people
unless I tell them the address. It’s like a reverse of the Muggle repelling charms that are cast on
Hogwarts. He did that so that my parents wouldn’t have trouble getting the post or the newspapers.
They’ve also lived here for twenty years, so it’s not like the neighbors wouldn’t notice if the
house suddenly disappeared. Anyway, Shacklebolt has moved into a flat across the street from us and
he shadows my parents on their tube ride to work every morning. They have no idea. I keep on having
to make up ridiculous excuses about why I can’t go out to dinner or to a play or something with
them. I’d just level with Dad, but I’m afraid Mum would have a conniption fit. Furthermore, guess
who their receptionist is?”

“Who?” Harry asked, having no idea what she was talking about.

“Penelope Clearwater. I didn’t even find out until I was talking to Kingsley on Wednesday. She
went to work for their dental office last summer because Professor McGonagall and some of the other
Order members worried that my parents might be targets for Death Eaters.” Harry wondered whether
she meant all parents of Muggleborn students were in danger or whether hers were a specific target,
but he was somewhat afraid to ask. Hermione continued, obviously on a different train of thought,
“Mundungus has found a legitimate position, too, but I bet Mrs. Weasley’s not happy about it.”

“Why not?” Harry asked, wondering where she was headed with this.

“Because he’s working for Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes,” Hermione answered immediately. “But since
they’re an official company now he can do procurement of controlled substances legally – or mostly
legally, anyway. The twins have also employed Angelina Johnson and Alicia Spinnet. The girls take
turns minding the front of the store so that the twins can keep inventing new merchandise in the
back room. They’ve got a flat above their premises too, and Ginny says they get up to a lot more
than sleeping there – much to her mother’s chagrin.”

Harry chuckled, imagining Mrs. Weasley’s reaction to this news perfectly. “I’m surprised you
know all this, Hermione. You don’t seem to be the kind of girl who’d be into ‘information sharing,’
as Professor McGonagall calls it.”

Hermione laughed, “Harry, I live nine months of the year with Parvati, Lavender, and two
deaf-mutes. Even if I tried to avoid gossip it’d happen by osmosis while I slept. For example, I
could probably tell you the details of every time Lavender and Seamus snuck off to the Astronomy
Tower last year. I could also give you the complete angsty roller-coaster ride that was Parvati’s
crush on a Muggle boy from her home town. Or I could…”

“Stop, please!” Harry cried, laughing, “I’ll wake up my aunt or my uncle, and that’d get me in
big trouble.”

“All right, I’ll stop,” she agreed, “But you have to call again tomorrow night.”

“I will. Thanks, Hermione.”

“Sure. Goodnight, Harry.”

“Goodnight.” As Harry hung up the phone he felt better than he had in weeks.



2. Part II
----------

Part II

For Disclaimers and author’s notes, see Part I.

Over the next few days, their nightly chats grew longer and longer. Harry took to waking up just
long enough to pay off the owl who brought his *Daily Prophet*, and then going back to sleep
for hours. Aunt Petunia seemed thrilled with this new arrangement; it meant that Harry was
underfoot for a smaller percentage of her day. Harry knew she’d be less than pleased if she knew
that he had been making any phone calls from their house, even if it wouldn’t cost them anything.
The phone calls brought him a sense of pleasure and he looked forward to them all day long. His
happiness was something that his Aunt Petunia was categorically opposed to, but for now she was
blissfully ignorant.

Dudley, however, seemed insulted that Harry wasn’t constantly handy for an in-house punching bag
(if he had dared to try it). Dudley’d had a tiff with Ludmilla and his mood oscillated between
sulky silence and blind fury at the least provocation. Harry coped by staying out of his way. He
completed more homework and read a bit of a novel Hermione had sent him via Hedwig after their
first conversation: *The Lord of the Rings* by a man named Tolkein. Parts of it were
interesting, but other bits he found most useful for inducing sleep when he was still wide awake
after talking to Hermione.

One afternoon the phone rang while Aunt Petunia was out to tea with her friend, Yvonne. Harry
was surprised that Dudley failed to pounce on it immediately, but he eventually answered it
himself. A saccharine voice trilled, “Is dearest Dudley there, please?”

Avoiding retching by the narrowest of margins, Harry managed to reply, “I’ll get him for you.
Just a minute.” He rushed upstairs with the cordless phone and was sure that Dudley would be eager
to hear from his lady-love. However, Harry pulled up short just before knocking as he heard odd
noises emanating from Dudley’s room – a series of muffled squeaks, grunts, and even a groan. Harry
wondered momentarily whether Dudley had found a mouse or one of Mrs. Figg’s cats to torture, but
then he heard what sounded like a feminine moan. Blushing furiously, Harry retreated to his room
and made feeble excuses to Ludmilla, “I’m sorry, Dudley seems to be indisposed at the moment. Can I
take a message?”

The voice at the other end turned immediately frosty, “Indisposed? What do you mean? I’ll show
**him** indisposed…”

“Really, I’m sure he’s sorry and he’ll call you back. He is… in the shower,” Harry covered
desperately.

“Oh. Well, see that he calls me soon,” she replied huffily and hung up without so much as a
goodbye.

Harry squeezed his eyes tightly shut, wishing he could block out the mental images that were
deluging him. How could any girl want to get close enough to make those kind of noises with his
repulsive cousin? Harry opened his eyes and stared out the window, little dreaming that he’d find
the answer to his internal query. However, the answer was obvious; the door to number four banged
shut and a young woman in a much-too-tight red skirt hurried away, adjusting her flimsy charcoal
blouse as she did so.

Even from this distance Harry recognized the bleach blonde as Jessamyn Norman, the neighborhood
tart. She was several years older than Dudley and Harry – old enough to be finished with school –
but she still lived with her father a few blocks away. Mr. Norman refused to believe the awful
rumours that spread about his little “Jessy,” but all the women in the neighborhood buzzed about
her incessantly. Harry knew that Aunt Petunia thought her little better than the persistent soap
scum ring after one of Dudley’s long bubble baths.

Meanwhile Harry heard the shower running, and decided he would pass along Ludmilla’s message
once Dudley reemerged. He silently thanked his cousin for reducing his lie. Dudley took the news
calmly, seemingly without any sort of remorse. Harry sought the shelter of his room, privately
sickened by his cousin’s lewdness.

Harry was longing to tell Hermione about his disturbing afternoon, but she was aflutter with
news of her own when he first got on the line. Apparently her mum had been in a rotten mood all day
because their receptionist had eloped and her temporary replacement was vastly incompetent – Dr.
Granger wondered loudly whether the woman had ever seen a phone before, as she seemed afraid of it
when it rang.

“You’ll never guess who’s filling in, Harry.”

“Who?” he asked immediately, not even caring to venture a guess.

“Hestia Jones! I suppose the Order wanted to make sure they had some protection and they
couldn’t find another Muggle-born witch, but I’m afraid Mum’ll fire her before Penny and Oliver get
back.”

“Oliver!?! What are you talking about? I thought Penelope was dating Percy,” Harry exclaimed,
bewilderedly.

Hermione laughed, “You are behind the times, aren’t you? No, Penelope broke up with Percy when
he took the job in Fudge’s office. She even went to Mrs. Weasley and told her she supported them,
not Percy in that whole mess. That’s how she ended up working for Mum and Dad.”

“Okay,” Harry answered, “But that still doesn’t tell me how she’s ended up eloping.”

“Well, apparently Oliver’s flat is close to my parents’ practice, so they ran into one another
one evening and started to go out anytime he wasn’t on tour with the team.”

“Wait, do you mean Oliver *Wood*?” Harry cried.

“Of course, silly. Do you know any other Olivers?” Hermione giggled, “Anyway, I guess Puddlemere
United had a week-long break in their schedule, so Penelope and Oliver decided to go ahead and
elope secretly.”

“But she… I mean… I guess… I just never would have pictured the two of them together,” stumbled
Harry, still trying to take it all in.

“Honestly, I think any girl would choose a handsome Quidditch star over a great red-headed prat
if she had the chance, no matter how sensible she seemed to be,” Hermione teased. “But that
certainly can’t be the oddest match-up you’ve ever heard of.”

“I guess not,” Harry admitted, thinking back to that afternoon. He related the incident between
Dudley and Jessamyn to Hermione.

She was similarly disgusted. “He doesn’t deserve to have a girlfriend, not even a horrible one
like this ‘Lewd-milla’ person.”

Harry laughed in agreement, and this led to him relating stories of growing up with Dudley.
Hermione was appalled at the way Harry’s own cousin had treated him, but Harry found that re-living
the horrors for Hermione was much more calming than being forced to recall them in Snape’s presence
had been. Some of the events even seemed comical when he recounted them, much to his surprise.

Once the conversation reached a lull, Harry sensed that Hermione was thinking about Sirius
again. However, to his relief she did not broach the subject again, but instead launched into
another batch of Hogwarts gossip, interspersed with tidbits from Ginny’s letters.

“Ginny says Bill is still teaching Fleur English… and she’s teaching him all *sorts* of
French things in return,” Hermione leered.

Harry colored, trying not to picture his friend’s cool brother and the disdainfully beautiful
French girl grunting and groaning like Dudley and Jessamyn. He tried to deflect the subject, “You
mean like how to make bread and that pancake dessert and stuff?”

Hermione laughed, “Something like that. Ginny doesn’t like Fleur all that much, I don’t think.
Bill always spoiled her rotten, but he hasn’t had as much time for her recently. Ron’s probably
jealous too.”

“Nah, I doubt it,” Harry replied. “Fleur caused him enough grief that I don’t think he’s
recovered enough to think about her that way again.”

“True. Parvati and Lavender would have plenty to say if they found out Bill was dating someone
his brother used to have a crush on. Of course, Lavender and Parvati always have a lot to say about
*everything*,” she added scathingly.

“Like what?” Harry asked. He was ashamed to say that he was finding gossip more and more
intriguing.

“Well, speculating about teacher relationships is one of their favorite hobbies,” Hermione
began. “They like to think that Professor Snape and Professor McGonagall are having a wildly
passionate, torrid love affair behind our backs. They talk about it constantly and I think they’ve
actually talked themselves into believing it. They imagine late night trysts on the Quidditch pitch
and in the Potions storeroom.”

Harry was aghast. Somehow passionate seemed incongruous with his generally stern Transfiguration
professor, especially when combined with his greasy Potions instructor. “Wha… what?” was all he
managed to respond.

“I know. It’s ludicrous! They obviously respect each other as colleagues, but there’s no way
they’d ever get along romantically with the severity of their house rivalry,” Hermione rejoined.
“I’d never tell them this because they’d guffaw, but I think it’s perfectly obvious that if
Professor McGonagall is having a secret relationship with anyone at the school it’s Professor
Dumbledore.”

At this Harry was even more shocked. Professor Dumbledore was a wise bastion of knowledge and
understanding. An institution. The spirit of Hogwarts itself. He simply couldn’t picture the kindly
professor in a romantic relationship. “Um, why?”

“It’s obvious, Harry. He’s the only one in the school who calls her ‘Minerva,’ they both have a
common interest in Transfiguration, and she puts her life on the line for the Order of the Phoenix
even though she’s terrified of Voldemort. It’s obvious to see how much they respect each other and
value each other’s opinions. I wouldn’t vouch for them *being* in a relationship, but I think
it’s perfectly plausible and even natural. They could even be married and conceal it to keep
students from gossiping.”

Harry shook his head, “If you say so, Hermione, but their attempts to avoid students gossiping
don’t seem to have worked.”

Hermione sniffed, apparently put out at his lack of enthusiasm for her theory. “It could be much
worse, you know. Lavender and Parvati are forever coming up with the wildest teacher match-ups you
could think of. Madame Pince and Mr. Filch. Professor Flitwick and Professor Sinistra. Madame Hooch
and Professor Grubbly-Plank.”

Harry’s head was swimming with the web of supposed links and disturbing mental images, when
Hermione added something that made him sit up and take notice. “I do have it on good authority that
one of our former professors has actually found a relationship, though. You know that Tonks
inherited number twelve, Grimmauld Place, right?” Harry shrugged, and Hermione plunged ahead, “Well
Ginny says that Professor Lupin kept the room he’d been using before she moved in and they’re
apparently getting quite *friendly* these days. I think it’s wonderful, actually. He deserves
some happiness.”

Harry had never thought about Professor Lupin that way (since he’d never before considered
teachers’ relationships) but he supposed Hermione had a point. Remus Lupin must have led an awfully
solitary existence since his Hogwarts years and Harry was glad to hear that he’d found some measure
of happiness. “That’s true, I guess. I’m… I’m glad for them.”

Hermione chattered away in a similar vein until Harry heard a tapping on his window. He looked
up to see that the sky had become streaked through with dawn’s first rays and that the *Daily
Prophet* delivery owl was already there.

“Um, Hermione? It’s really late and the paper’s here. I’d better ring off and pay for it.”

Hermione’s reply sounded slightly embarrassed, “Sure, Harry. Call me tonight, all right?”

“Of course. Talk to you then.” Harry hung up the phone and paid the owl as usual. He stuck the
newspaper on the bottom shelf of his nightstand and tiptoed downstairs to put the phone away. He
turned around after placing the phone it its cradle to see the washroom door blocked by his
cousin’s mammoth frame.

“Been talking to your *girlfriend* again, Potter? Just wait ‘til I tell Mum. You’ll be
grounded until it’s time for you to go back to that freak school of yours,” sneered Dudley in
obvious delight. “She’s already irritated that you’ve been sleeping in so late in the morning.”

Harry scrambled for a reply, “I’ll stop sleeping in – I’ll get up early and scrub the bathrooms
tomorrow. Besides, it’s not long distance; Aunt Petunia wouldn’t mind.” Part of his brain was stuck
on being annoyed at Dudley for interfering, and another part wondered why *everyone* always
assumed that Hermione was his girlfriend.

Dudley’s face showed plainly the inadequacy of that excuse, so Harry decided to pull a play out
of the twins’ book. With a sigh, he continued, “All right, Dudley. Tell on me if you must, but if I
ever answer the phone when your darling Ludmilla calls again I’ll tell her what you were getting up
to yesterday afternoon.”

Dudley’s smug grin morphed into horror. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me,” Harry warned. “And I don’t suppose Aunt Petunia would be very happy to hear that you’d
let *that woman* into her house, either.”

Dudley’s face grew paler. “Fine then. You keep your trap closed and I will too. Just… don’t try
any funny business.”

“There’s nothing funny about me, Dudders,” replied Harry calmly. “Oh and you might want to wash
your sheets before your Mum tries to change your bed. It sounded like they got quite a
workout.”

Dudley scowled, turned on his chubby ankles, and slumped back to his own room. Privately, Harry
prayed that Dudley would hold up his end of the deal. Harry’s calls might be in keeping with the
instructions the Dursleys had received from the Order members at King’s Cross and they might not be
costing them a cent, but Harry still knew that his aunt would find a way to stop anything that
brought happiness to Harry’s weary days. He set his alarm for 8:00 and hoped that some early
morning cleaning would help placate his aunt.

Harry was on quills and wand tips throughout the next day, worrying that Dudley wouldn’t keep up
his end of the bargain. He kept his own resolution to be helpful around the house even though he
was exhausted. He retreated to his room directly after dinner for a quick nap before his nightly
conversation. Since he hadn’t been summoned to the kitchen for a good screaming-at before Aunt
Petunia went to bed, he took that as a sign that his cousin was trustworthy after all.

He discussed his fears with Hermione that night, “Dudley found out about our talks. I’m afraid
he’ll tell my aunt and then….”

“She’d prevent us from talking?” Hermione asked confusedly

“Yeah, because these calls make me happy; and we can’t have that sort of thing, if you know what
I mean.”

“Yes, I suppose,” sighed Hermione. “I don’t understand how anyone could get their jollies out of
making you miserable, though. I mean, with Voldemort you can sort of understand because he’s evil,
but your aunt just sounds sadistic.”

Harry laughed mirthlessly, “Sort of like a former Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher we could
mention?”

“Yes, exactly like that,” Hermione replied, showing the warning signs of gathering fervor. “She
was so fond of power that she couldn’t bear to be contradicted or open her eyes to the possibility
that there might be a bigger destabilizing threat out there than a couple of mouthy teenagers.”
Harry grinned, as that was a pretty apt description of his behavior in Umbridge’s class. Hermione’s
too, for that matter. “And it’s like the wizarding community is with house-elves, too. We’ve got to
exert our power over them so we keep them dressed in rags and call them servants when they’re
really nothing more than slaves and…”

Hermione’s recitation of the S.P.E.W. manifesto was very familiar after the past two years.
Harry thought back to her tireless but apparently wasted efforts to knit the Hogwarts elves’ way to
freedom. He wondered if he should finally come clean and tell her the truth about what happened to
all of those hats and socks.

“Just look at Dobby! He risked his life to save you and he never would have been able to resist
a direct order from a member of the Hogwarts staff if he hadn’t been a freed elf,” Hermione
finished with a flourish.

“Er, right,” Harry said since he felt he had to say something. Then, casting his lot in, he went
ahead, “Do you remember what he was wearing the night he came to warn us, Hermione?”

“Not really, I wasn’t very close to him at the time,” she answered, sounding puzzled.

“Well, he was wearing about eight of your hats and at least three pairs of socks,” Harry
answered reluctantly. “I think he really likes them,” he added, trying to soften the blow.

“But why would he have taken them? Surely he would want the other elves to become free like he
is?” Hermione asked, sounding hurt.

“Y’see, the thing is… Dobby says the other elves don’t want to be free. I’m sure Professor
Dumbledore would free them if they wanted it, but they don’t for some reason. Just look at
Winky.”

Hermione sounded close to tears, “But they’re slaves! They should want to be free!”

“Maybe they’ve been slaves for so many generations, that they have no idea what freedom would
mean. And, y’know, the unknown is scary” Harry suggested.

“You’re absolutely right, Harry,” said Hermione cheering up. “I should have realized – it’s just
like Plato’s Allegory of the Cave.”

“Come again?” Harry said, wondering what obscure Astronomy lesson she was talking referring to.
He now knew Pluto’s moon didn’t have mice on it, but he couldn’t remember anything about a cave on
it either.

“Plato made this argument that if people were held prisoner in a cave and couldn’t turn their
heads, they wouldn’t understand the difference between shadows on the walls and the objects that
cast them. Later when they would get released into bright sunlight, they would see how skewed their
sense of reality was,” Hermione explained patiently.

“And that relates to house-elves, how?” Harry asked perplexed. He still didn’t know who Plato
was, but he suspected that he didn’t have much to do with Astronomy.

“They just need to learn what freedom offers them! Maybe I should spend some more time talking
to them in the kitchens next year about freedom and oppression and self-determination. I can save
the clothes for after they’ve decided they want freedom.”

“Yeah, maybe that would help,” Harry said, trying to sound encouraging. “Freedom can be a pretty
scary thing when you’ve never experienced it. I guess the familiarity of a planned existence can be
pretty appealing.”

“You don’t enjoy it though, do you?” Hermione asked quietly.

“No,” Harry had to admit that he much preferred his life in the magical world, dangerous though
it was, to his monotonous existence on Privet Drive. “Maybe you should try to talk to Professor
Dumbledore or Professor McGonagall about it. Or maybe Professor Binns could tell you more about the
history of house-elf/wizard relations.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Hermione replied in a still-small voice. “Why did Dobby keep taking my hats,
though? And if you’ve known this so long, why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“Dobby took them because he was the only elf that was willing to go to Gryffindor Tower. The
other elves refused to go there because they were offended that you were trying to trick them into
freedom. I’m really sorry I didn’t tell you earlier,” Harry replied sincerely, “I might have saved
you some yarn and some knitting time. My only excuse is that I didn’t want to hurt your feelings
like I just have. As for Dobby, he really did like the hats, and I know he shared them with Winky
too,” Harry added, hoping that the reference to their other freed house-elf acquaintance would help
pacify Hermione.

Hermione sighed loudly, “You’re forgiven. I suppose I should have noticed that no one ever said
anything about newly freed elves. To be honest, I wondered at first whether or not I even had the
authority to free the elves. I mean, I’m a student after all and Professor Dumbledore’s the one who
hires them. But when the hats and stuff kept disappearing, I figured it was working. Do you think
that I was being stupid?” she asked with a sniff.

“You? Stupid? Of course not! No, you were just hopeful and enthusiastic,” he answered, racking
his brain for a way to cheer her up. “Um, have you heard anything about the twins recently?”

His gambit worked. “Oooh, yes!” Hermione exclaimed. “Tonks finally came by for tea today. She
wanted to know how you were, of course, but she also told me about the twins and *Weasley’s*
*Wizarding Wheezes*…” Soon Hermione was regaling him with stories of failed experiments and
their new *Daily Prophet* ad, which featured a scratch-and-sniff panel that exuded essence of
George’s feet. Harry picked up his copy of the paper, which had lain untouched since the owl
brought it the previous morning and began to flip through for the advertisement. Before he got
there he found an article about a bombing of a Muggle bookstore which had strong Death Eater ties.
He didn’t want to upset Hermione further so he didn’t mention it, but before they said goodnight he
reminded her how important it was to follow Moody’s safety precautions.

After he hung up the phone, he returned to the *Prophet* article. Apparently the bookstore
that had been bombed specialized in fantasy and witchcraft books. The reporter traced the suspects’
ties to known Death Eaters and speculated that the objected to having Muggles know anything about
magic – however ill-informed and inaccurate the fictional portrayals might be.



3. Part III
-----------

Part III

For Disclaimers and notes, see Part 1. Additional dedication to Brad, for his brilliantly
detailed reviews!

When Harry awoke the next morning, the bombing of the Muggle bookstore still weighed heavily on
his mind. For some reason it seemed particularly ominous, but he couldn’t pinpoint a reason. As he
lay in bed trying to work it out, his aunt’s shout abruptly tore him from his reverie.

“HARRY! Get down here this instant. There’s someone to see you,” she called in tones that were
somewhere between indignant and terrified.

Harry grabbed his wand and held it at the ready as he approached the stairs. Could a Death Eater
have penetrated the defenses of Privet Drive? Who else would possibly come to see him? Maybe
someone had bad news for him and wanted to deliver it in person. Just as his imagination was
working up all sorts of horrid scenarios involving Hermione, Ron, Professor Dumbledore, or one of
his other teachers, he turned the corner of the stairs and saw Hagrid framed in the doorway.

He allowed his guard to drop a bit, but realized that it could still be an imposter, so he
racked his brain for a confirmation question, “Hagrid! Is that you?”

“O’ course it’s me, Harry! I came ter see if you’d like teh go ter tea with me an’ an ol’ friend
o’ mine,” Hagrid said cheerfully.

“That sounds nice, Hagrid, but I don’t think I’m supposed to leave the house,” Harry said
carefully.

“Professor Dumbledore said it’d be alrigh’ as long as I was with yeh, and I think yeh could
stand the chance ter stretch yer legs a bit,” Hagrid observed keenly.

“Well, yeah,” Harry agreed, still slightly suspicious. “Say Hagrid, what was the name of that
pet you had during my first year that caused us so many problems?”

“Do yeh mean Norbert or Fluffy, Harry? If I remember righ’ you weren’t so fond o’ either of
‘em.” Hagrid grinned, and Harry finally believed that it was really his friend rather than a Death
Eater using Polyjuice Potion.

“Okay then. May I go with him, Aunt Petunia?” Harry asked, as politely as he could manage. Aunt
Petunia merely nodded mutely. Harry could tell that she was mortified at having such a *freak*
on her front porch and he suspected that she was also remembering her last encounter with Harry’s
overgrown friend. Still, Hagrid cut an imposing enough figure that Harry couldn’t really imagine
his meek aunt trying to stand up to him.

Gleeful at the prospect of escaping his dull suburban prison – even if only for an hour – Harry
had a hard time containing himself as he followed Hagrid down the street. Hagrid’s cautiously
watchful attitude subdued him a little, but he still couldn’t keep from hissing, “Where are we
going?” under his breath.

“Mrs. Figg’s house, o’ course,” Hagrid said as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“Her an’ me go way back – I was in school with her brother. Their family was always nice to me,
even after I’d been chucked ou’. I think they understood, havin’ a Squib in the family. But no more
talking ‘til we get there, Harry,” Hagrid finally remembered to admonish him when they were but a
few steps away from Mrs. Figg’s familiar home.

The door flew open to reveal Harry’s steel-haired former babysitter, still in her
house-slippers. “Well get in here, then,” she said briskly, “ I still think this was a foolish risk
Hagrid.” Arabella Figg clucked about and locked the door behind Harry with an energetic twist.

“Aw, there’s no harm done, Bella,” Hagrid cajoled, “Good fer Harry to get a bit o’ fresh air
now‘n again. An’ it’s better he does it with me than tearin’ off on his own.”

Mrs. Figg sniffled as she poured tea into her best teacups. Harry, however, was thrilled at the
chance to talk to his friend, “What’s new Hagrid? Why’d you want me to come here with you?”

Mrs. Figg answered for him, “Your Miss Granger reported that your relatives were making things
unpleasant for you, so Dumbledore thought a temporary extraction was in order, just to make them
remember their promises.”

Harry nodded, finding this explanation completely plausible, but then Hagrid broke in, “Yeah,
an’ also, Hermione says you won’ talk to her ‘bout Sirius, an’ I just wanted to say you really
should talk abou’ it, Harry. Maybe it’s silly o’ me to think you’d talk ter Hagrid when you won’t
talk to your own best friend, but…”

“Honestly, Hagrid, do you really expect the boy to talk to you when he won’t talk to his
girlfriend?” Mrs. Figg tutted at Hagrid as if he were Harry’s age.

“O’ course not! An’ she’s not his girlfrien’, neither – is she Harry?” Hagrid asked curiously.
Harry looked at Hagrid as if he’d suddenly sprouted a second head. Surely, out of all his adult
friends, *Hagrid* should know the reality of his relationship with Hermione. Harry’s
incredulity must have made itself apparent, because Hagrid finished lamely with, “Nah, I didn’
think so,” and then lapsed into silence.

Desperate to change the subject, Harry blurted, “I read about some Death Eaters bombing a Muggle
book store in London. Why d’you think they’d bother?”

Hagrid and Mrs. Figg exchanged a look that only enhanced the tension that had been building in
Harry’s stomach since he’d first read about the incident. Mrs. Figg spoke up finally, in what was
probably meant to be a calming voice, “Well, Harry dear, it could have been random Muggle torture,
but Kingsley is worried because it’s fairly close to the Grangers’ dental practice and Hermione’s
father sometimes shops there.”

Harry’s insides suddenly felt as though a dementor had entered the room. He actually glanced
behind his comfortable chair while stumbling over his response – there was no one there. “I…do
you…I mean…does he…does he think…was that on purpose?…Were they…y’know…trying to…”

“Don’t worry, Harry,” Mrs. Figg said in a soothing tone. “Kingsley is a brilliant Auror and even
flighty little Miss Nymphadora packs quite a spell. They’d never let anything happen to your…friend
or her parents.”

Harry suppressed a grin, mostly at the thought of what Tonks would do if she heard herself
called “little Miss Nymphadora.”

“Well, I know they’re careful and all, but Hermione said she’s beginning to run out of excuses
for why she can’t go out to dinner or something with her parents! What if she can’t–” Harry worried
until Hagrid cut him off.

“Harry, have yeh ever met a witch – or a wizard – smarter ‘n Hermione?” Harry shook his head,
still looking apprehensive. Mrs. Figg smiled encouragingly and began to fill a teacup as Hagrid
continued, “Well, then, I reckon, you oughter trust her creativity. It’s not like she can tell her
paren’s abou’ You-Know-Who now is it? They’d spend all summer worryin’ abou’ her an’ they migh’ not
ev’n let her go back to Hogwarts in the fall”

Harry scowled; he didn’t like imagining Hogwarts without Hermione. Mrs. Figg may have sensed
this, because she broke into Hagrid’s litany of rhetorical questions with, “Harry, would you like
some cream in your tea?” and a grandmotherly smile.

“Oh, um…sure,” he said, grateful for the interruption.

Hagrid hardly noticed their asides as his train of thought chugged steadily onward, “Yeah, yeh
wouldn’ like it if’n the Grangers found ou’ how much danger our Hermione’s been in at school. They
migh’ jus’ pull her righ’ out of Hogwarts like your gran’parents did with your aunt.”

It took the sound of a shattering china teacup on a beautiful wooden floor for Hagrid to realize
his faux pas, but Harry’s ears had perked up at “your gran’parents” and a million questions were
wrestling for his attention the moment “aunt” escaped his friend’s giant lips.

“My Aunt?!?” cried Harry. “What are you talking about, Hagrid? Aunt Petunia never went to
Hogwarts… did she?”

Mrs. Figg threw Hagrid a furious look as she swept up the pieces of her shattered cup. “Now
you’ve done it. The Kneazle’s out of the bag and Dumbledore’ll have your hide.” She looked at him
expectantly, but he just looked confused so she plowed ahead, “You might as well tell him. You
can’t have him going home to interrogate the relatives now can you? Of course not. It could
invalidate the magical bond that protects the boy and bring the Death Eaters down on all of us and
*then* where would we be?”

It had been nearly five years since the first time one of Hagrid’s pronouncements had turned
Harry’s world upside-down. This one was scarcely less shocking. He sighed and began, “Well, Mrs.
Figg is right tha’ I’ll be in trouble fer tellin’ yeh this. But I s’pose yeh’da found ou’ somehow
anyway. Yer always stickin’ yer nose in.” Mrs. Figg gave him an obvious ‘quit stalling’ look, so he
continued, “Yer aun’ is two years younger’n yer Mum, Harry. When she was eleven, she got a letter
invitin’ her to go off to Hogwarts, same’s yer mum had”

“But… I thought my grandparents were Muggles,” Harry wondered confusedly.

“They were,” Mrs. Figg assured him, “But that happens sometimes. Don’t you have some young
friends where there are two Muggle-born wizard boys in a family?”

Harry nodded and Hagrid chuckled, “Yeah, them Creevey boys’ll try’n be the next Fred n’ George
if’n I give ‘em a chance. But er… yeah. Yer aunt wen’ to Hogwarts for three years. She was showin’
signs of great talent. Then You-Know-Who started targetin’ Muggle-born wizards and their families
in particular, so Dumbledore sent a letter to the paren’s of each studen’ he had who fit that
category. Mos’ly it jus’ warned ‘em about safety precautions they should follow durin’ the summer
an’ such. But yer Granma an’ Granpa Evans got hyper-protective. They refused ter let either of
their girls go back to Hogwarts. Petunia obeyed meekly. Lily though,” Hagrid grinned at the memory,
“Yer mum didn’ take that lyin’ down, no sir. She told her paren’s that she’d just earned top marks
on her O.W.L.s and she’d be darned if she were goin’ to drop out of school an’ live like a Muggle
after all that trouble. They had a big yellin’ match an’ yer gran’paren’s ended by disownin’ yer
mum.” Harry gasped and Mrs. Figg looked grim. Hagrid continued reliving the bittersweet time, “She
moved in with one of her closes’ school frien’s an’ her family – Dorcas Meadowes.”

Harry felt overwhelmed at this burst of information, “But what about Aunt Petunia? She just…
dropped out of school?”

Hagrid nodded sadly, “Yep. Far as I can tell, she passed as a Muggle from then on. She wen’ ter
a Muggle school an’ finished up quick as she could.”

Mrs. Figg looked at him primly. “She then started working as a book keeper at your uncle’s
company right out of secondary school. Your Uncle Vernon was her boss and she moved into his house
when they got married. It was a bit scandalous when she gave birth to an infant that looked full
term only six months later. The neighborhood tongues were still wagging about that when I moved in
here shortly after your parents died.”

Harry shook his head, as if to relieve it of cobwebs. “I just… I can’t picture Aunt Petunia as a
witch. She’s just so… normal. I can’t wait to ask her—”

“NO!” cried both Hagrid and Mrs. Figg together.

“You canna mention a word of this to her, Harry!” Hagrid said seriously. “The on’y reason I wen’
ahead and told yeh what I knew is tha’ I knew yeh wouldn’ sleep with it bein’ a mystery an’ all.
But Dumbledore promised her when she agreed ter take yeh in that yeh’d never find ou’ the truth
abou’ her past. If yeh tell her yeh know… jus’ don’, all righ’ Harry?”

“It’s crucial that you understand this, dear,” Mrs. Figg added emphatically. “Your aunt got
upset once when your cousin was very young and mistakenly turned his rattle into a rattlesnake. The
Accidental Magic Reversal Department had to go out and fix him up before your uncle got home.”

Harry wondered fleetingly if that’s what Dudley had seen when the dementors came so close to
them the previous summer. “You mean Uncle Vernon doesn’t know about all of this?” Harry asked
amazedly.

“He has no idea. It’s bad enough fer him ter have weird relatives, but I don’ think he could
deal with knowin’ his wife’s a witch too, extreme Muggle tha’ he is,” Hagrid added ruefully.

Harry took a deep breath. “Okay, so you’re telling me that my aunt is a witch by nature but
she’s been pretending to be a Muggle since she was thirteen? Yet, I’m not allowed to talk to her
about this because my uncle doesn’t know and they might kick me out of the family so I wouldn’t be
protected from Voldemort anymore?” Harry recapped, still feeling dazed. Hagrid recoiled at the
sound of Voldemort’s name, but Mrs. Figg just nodded sympathetically and passed him a freshly
poured cup of tea. “All right. I suppose I can keep my mouth shut about her
<I>*abnormality*</I> as long as she’s nice to me.” Mrs. Figg gave him a pointed
look, so he amended his condition, “Well, civil anyway.”

Mrs. Figg sighed, “I know it’s been hard for you to grow up with them, but just think how hard
it must be for your aunt to live in constant fear that her husband will discover her secret and
chuck her out of the house.”

Harry found it difficult to muster much sympathy for the woman who’d allowed his childhood to be
completely miserable, but he merely grimaced. “Yeah, I guess. So… did my mum ever see my
grandparents again after they disowned her? Where are they now?”

Hagrid and Mrs. Figg exchanged the sad look again, so Harry knew that more bad news must be on
the way. Hagrid finally spoke up, “Well, yeh know that You-Know-Who was out ter get yeh and yer
paren’s when you was a baby, Harry. They wen’ inter hidin’ an’ if it weren’ for that snivlin’
little rat they woulda been fine. The Death Eaters didn’ like failin’, though, so they tended ter
torture anyone they though’ migh’ know where they’d taken yeh. Remus an’ even Professor McGonagall
got roughed up a time er two. Dorcas’s whole family was killed ‘cause they’d taken yer mum in an’
someone thought she’d of chosen one of ‘em as Secret-Keeper.”

Mrs. Figg sighed deeply and took up the tale in anguished tones, “About a month before the
tragic night when your parents were killed, Bellatrix Lestrange and her band of miscreants managed
to track down your mother’s parents. They tortured them for information about Lily’s whereabouts,
but they honestly knew nothing because they had cut off all contact with your parents. They sent a
letter with a gift after your birth announcement saying that they never wanted to hear from Lily
again. That broke your mother’s heart, and then when she heard that her parents were tortured to
death by the foul beings who were after you…” she shook her head sadly.

Harry choked back a sob for the grandparents he’d never known. Maybe they hadn’t been the most
loving of parents to his mother, but they had only wanted to keep their daughters safe. “Does… does
Aunt Petunia know that?”

Mrs. Figg nodded shortly. “Yes, I’m afraid that’s part of the reason she’s always been so cruel
to you, Harry. She knows, deep down, that she might have been able to protect her parents if she’d
defied them like Lily did and stayed to become a full-fledged witch. Or if Lily had done as she did
and quit going to Hogwarts, Lord Voldemort would have left all of them alone. Her guilt and anger…
she blames the world you were born into for her parents’ death, so that manifests itself in cruelty
to you.”

The three of them continued to talk about the Order of the Phoenix and other Wizarding issues,
but the visit and tea had hardly been the salve to Harry’s soul that Hagrid had hoped for. They
spent much of their time convincing Harry how important it was to keep his newly learned
information to himself. He could talk to Hermione about it, of course, but Hagrid and Mrs. Figg
both impressed on him the urgency of keeping his knowledge from the Dursleys.

Before Hagrid took him back to his immaculate prison, Mrs. Figg reminded him of one last issue
pointedly, “Didn’t his **friend** Miss Granger mention that Harry hadn’t been sleeping well and
that he’d been having odd dreams again?”

“Oh yeah, I nearly fergot, Harry!” Hagrid replied genially, “Hermione says yer still havin’
funny dreams, an’ since no one can teach yeh Occlumency while yer at Privet Drive, I had Professor
Snape mix up a batch of concentrated potion for dreamless sleep.” Hagrid must have correctly
interpreted Harry’s incredulity, because he hastened to add, “I know yeh don’ think much o’
Professor Snape righ’ now, Harry, but he is tryin’ ter help. I even tested the potion on meself
las’ nigh’ ter make sure it’s safe for yeh.”

Harry grinned in spite of himself and reached for the flask Hagrid had produced from one of his
many pockets. As he examined the murky green liquid he asked, “How am I supposed to use this?”

“Jus’ take a spoonful ‘afore yeh turn in fer the nigh’ an’ yeh’ll sleep like a baby ‘til
mornin’” Hagrid promised. Harry nodded and allowed himself to be escorted back to number four, even
though he wasn’t exactly eager to see his relatives again since he now understood them better but
was forbidden to discuss any real issues with them.

Aunt Petunia simply ignored him for the rest of the day and Dudley spent most of the time holed
up in his room on the phone – whether to Ludmilla or Jessamyn – Harry neither knew nor cared. Harry
avoided his aunt so that he wouldn’t feel tempted to question her about her secret life. Instead,
he listlessly attempted his History of Magic essay. He knew it was probably pointless since the
only O.W.L. he’d done worse on than History of Magic was Divination, but it helped give him
something to do to occupy his time until he could call Hermione and unburden his mind.

When he finally thought it was late enough to call and heard her breathless, “Hello?” his story
spilled out of him like a pumpkin juice cask that’d hit the counter of the Three Broomsticks too
hard. He hardly paused for breath during his overflow of personal history and his currently
confused feelings toward his relatives. He, too, felt guilty about his grandparents’ deaths. He
couldn’t decide whether he was more angry at or sorry for his aunt, and his bitterness toward his
uncle had reached an all-time high.

Hermione listened patiently for hours, encouraging and comforting in turn. As Harry finally
began to feel that his fervor on the topic had spent itself, a nagging question occurred to him, “I
just don’t get why Aunt Petunia would have fallen for Uncle Vernon. I mean… he’s a lump. He can’t
ever have been attractive.”

“Well, girls go for Dudley, don’t they?” Hermione reasoned, “And your aunt probably had ample
reason for wanting to find affection.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked.

“Well, she was pretty young when she left Hogwarts, but I’d imagine that she had a tough time of
it with her parents afterwards,” Hermione speculated, “They’d have been told that a
partially-trained witch couldn’t fully control her magic. They were probably a little scared of
her, and I’m sure she knew it.”

“That’s a good point,” admitted Harry, “She probably also reminded them of my mother and her
defiance. They, um, didn’t like her much after she left home after all.”

“Yeah, I’m sure your Aunt reminded them of Lily constantly, and she probably even missed her
older sister,” Hermione agreed, “So between that and her constant vigilance on avoiding using
magic, she was probably really lonely in Muggle school. Then, the first time a man looked
interested in her – even if it was a slug like your uncle – she leapt at him and ended up pregnant
with Dudley so she had to marry him. Ever since then she’s had to live an imaginary ideal life,
knowing that her husband would hate her if he knew the truth. She probably has a large dose of
self-loathing too. It’s really rather tragic when you think about it.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” said Harry, although pity for his aunt was a new sensation. “Her life
would have been much different if she’d run into someone a little more open-minded when she was
young and vulnerable.”

“Yes, she could have gone back to school as an adult or at least come to terms with that part of
her life and herself,” Hermione supposed, “She probably would have had more children and they might
have been magical, so she could have explored that through them. She’d like herself better at any
rate.”

“It’s weird to think about her having more children to lavish attention and sickly nicknames
on,” Harry mused.

“Oh, I doubt she’d be nearly so overbearing if she had more children and wasn’t trying so hard
to be perfect so your uncle wouldn’t suspect her,” replied Hermione, “I’m sure she avoided having
more children for fear that they would be magical – and because she wasn’t really eager to create
them with your uncle once she’d already secured a ‘normal’ life with him.”

“Oh, gross!” cried Harry, “Please don’t make me think about my aunt and uncle being intimate.
It’s nearly as bad as thinking about Snape that way,” he moaned, but then stiffened to hear
footsteps approaching. He feared that his aunt or uncle was going to discover him, but a slightly
muffled voice over the phone told him that they were actually on her end of the line.

“Hermione Jane Granger! What are you doing on the phone at this hour of the night?!? It’s
three-thirty in the morning; don’t you know you should be asleep? Honestly, child I would never
have been allowed to be awake this late when I was your age! I knew giving you that phone would
turn out to be a mistake, but your father insisted,” Anne Granger’s rant was crystal clear, even
though she was apparently across the room from Hermione’s receiver.

“I’ve got to go,” Hermione whispered urgently.

And without any more fanfare, Harry was left listening to a dial tone. He snuck back downstairs
to put the cordless phone away in the washroom. He wondered how much trouble Hermione was going to
be in due to him and whether or not their nightly phone calls had come to an end. He hoped not. He
was too keyed up to sleep, so he took a dose of the sleeping potion against his better
judgment.

[Author’s Note: The World Book Day chat reinforced JK’s confusion with numbers/ ages/ chronology
(in the question about the Weasley brothers’ relative ages). I’m using that to justify my decision
to make Petunia younger than Lily, even though most people assume it was the other way around. She
also muddied up the waters about Petunia in the Edinburgh Book Festival’s Question and Answer
session when she said that, “No, she is not a Squib. She is a Muggle, but—[Laughter]. You will have
to read the other books. You might have got the impression that there is a little bit more to Aunt
Petunia than meets the eye, and you will find out what it is. She is not a squib, although that is
a very good guess. Oh, I am giving a lot away here. I am being shockingly indiscreet.” So, it
doesn’t seem like she’s just your run of the mill Muggle either. I had this theory about Petunia
also being a Witch, and I think it is good dramatic bang, even though it contradicts what JKR had
in store for us. This is AU anyway, so I’m going to use what I think works dramatically.]



4. untitled
-----------

**Part IV**

For Disclaimers and author’s notes, see Part I.

To his mild surprise Harry awoke in the morning with no apparent health defects. He spent the
morning alternating between worrying about Hermione being in trouble with her mother and wondering
about Aunt Petunia’s true history. By lunch he was so bothered that he had to bite his tongue
throughout the meal to keep inappropriate questions from spilling forth. After lunch he tackled his
Transfiguration essay, hoping that his O.W.L. scores would be sufficient to make his efforts
worthwhile. He tried not to think about all the questions he would like to have Hermione answer
because that only lead to worrying about her safety and her mother’s displeasure.

By midnight Harry’s scroll was three-quarters full. If Hermione were in a good mood he might
send it to her and ask for suggested corrections; if not, he would muddle through on his own. He
punched the last digit of her phone number just as his clock turned over to midnight.

“Yes?!” came the terse response from the other end of the phone.

“Hermione? Is that you?”

“Yes, it’s me.”

Harry breathed a sigh of relief. He had been worried that Mrs. Granger might pick up the phone
and tell him off for daring to call again.

“Her-Hermione? Are you all right? Are you in trouble or something?” Harry asked anxiously.

“Well, there’s nothing actually <I>*wrong</I>* with me if that’s what your
asking.” Hermione huffed.

“What happened?” asked Harry worriedly.

“For starters, I got a two hour lecture in the middle of the night on proper sleeping habits,
and then once I woke up this morning I found Mum had taken the day off work. She spent all day
giving me the third degree about who I had been talking to and why we were up so late.”

“So you’re in trouble?” Harry asked worriedly.

“No, not really. I got aguilt trip complete with a set of baggage about how I never talk to her
anymore about anything. She said maybe if I talked to her occasionally I wouldn’t have to spend all
night talking to my friends. And then when she found out that I had been talking to you she was
actually disappointed!”

Harry flinched at the passionate outburst.

“Well I guess she’s glad that it wasn’t Viktor,” Hermione continued, “Because the fact that I
dated somebody three years older than me and from another country always freaked her out. She was
just mad that it wasn’t *Ron*.”

“Huh?” Harry asked feeling as if he had been thrown from his Firebolt. “I don’t understand.”

Hermione half chuckled, “Well apparently Mum is sure that since Ron and I argue all the time
that we’re destined to get married just like ‘Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy’. In fact when she found out
I had been talking to you she said that she owed Dad twenty quid. Can you believe that?!? MY OWN
PARENTS were betting on my love life! It’s bad enough that Lavender and Parvati’s pool has been
extended to every Gryffindor above first year; I really thought my parents would be above such
nonsense.”

“Lavender and Parvati have a pool?” Harry asked bewilderedly.

Hermione sighed, “How have you not noticed? It started during our third year.”

“Well, I’m not allowed in the girls dorms, Hermione. So how would I have known that they put in
a pool. Anywhere where did they find the space to put it in?”

Hermione laughed, “No, not a swimming pool, silly. A betting pool. All of our friends – and even
people we don’t really know – have contributed five Knuts for the privilege of trying to predict
which of my best friends I would eventually date and when that momentous event would occur.”

“Wha---Why would they do that? I mean, we’re all just good *friends*. Why can’t people
understand that?” Harry asked.

“Because they’re empty headed fools who really need a new hobby,” replied Hermione
scathingly.

“Okay, does Ron know about this?” Harry asked still not sure what to make of this news.

“I don’t know,” Hermione sighed, “I don’t think so, but if he did he’d probably enter.”

“You put your bet in yet?,” Harry joked, trying to calm her down. “You’d really have the inside
track on winning wouldn’t you?”

Hermione laughed in spite of herself, “I haven’t yet, but maybe it is a good idea to join them
if I can’t beat them.”

Harry refrained from asking which way her bet would go, as he wasn’t quite sure he wanted to
know the answer. “Maybe your mom could enter for you and win her twenty quid back.”

“I’m not sure I want her to win her money back,” said Hermione shortly, “because not only did
she bet on my love life with my father, she also took the fact that I was talking to a boy late at
night as a sign she needed to repeat her… ‘Where babies come from’ lecture this afternoon. It’s not
like I didn’t hear it seventeen times the summer before she let me go off to Hogwarts. No, no, now
she’s added a chorus of ‘babies don’t spring out of pumpkin patches you know’ and some mumbo-jumbo
about responsibilities for our bodies and their interactions.”

Harry snorted quietly, but let Hermione continue raving. Apparently her mother had assigned her
to read and write a book report on *<I>The Scarlet Letter*</I> and its
implications for modern women. Harry was baffled at the thought of a parent assigning extra
homework, “So she didn’t ground you or anything, you just have to read an extra book?” he
clarified.

“Yes, but it’s a horribly boring book about puritanical North Americans – you know, the kind who
used to burn witches at the stake?” Hermione spat.

“That doesn’t sound like much fun,” Harry sympathized. “She’s just worried about you, though. I
mean, you’re her only child so she wouldn’t know what to do if something happened to you.”

Silence reverberated from Hermione’s end of the line.

After fifty or so seconds, Harry broke into the silence, “I’m sorry, Hermione, did I say
something wrong?”

“N—no. I just… I’m not used to having people refer to me as an only child,” she said
quietly.

Harry was beyond confused. Why wouldn’t she be used to that? Was she
*<I>not</I>* an only child? “You have a sibling? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset
you.”

Hermione sighed, “No. Not anymore. I had a sister. She was three years younger than me.” She was
quiet for a moment, “Her name was Viola Rose and she was so beautiful, Harry. When Mum used to take
us on walks as little children, people would stop us on the street to tell Mum how beautiful Viola
was. I wasn’t even jealous because it was true. She was like… sunshine personified,” a sob escaped
from Hermione’s lips. “Everyone always said what a happy little girl she was and Mum loved her so
much. She was the ideal daughter – everything I’ve never been.” Hermione’s voice bore not even a
trace of bitterness, just overwhelming sorrow.

“I’m so sorry,” Harry said quietly. “What happened to her?”

Hermione took a deep breath and continued, “When Viola was five, she was diagnosed with
leukemia. The doctor said she had at most six more months to live. Mum was devastated. I was too,
of course, but having me under foot while she was having to oversee all of Viola’s medical needs
was too much for her. She sent me away to stay with her mother in the South of France. Vi died
three months later, but I hadn’t seen her since the day she was diagnosed,” Hermione’s voice was so
low by the end that Harry had to strain to hear her.

“So that’s why you can’t see thestrals?” he asked before he had considered the implications.

Hermione sobbed, “Yes. And that’s why I don’t get along with my mother. Because I will never
measure up to the perfect daughter she lost and I’ll never really forgive her for not letting me
say goodbye to my sister.”

Harry was at a loss for words. Hedwig hooted from her corner, which gave him a desperate idea.
“Hermione? I’m going to sent Hedwig to you. I can’t come hug you myself right now, but I think you
might like some company.”

Hermione choked out, “Yeah, that’d be nice. Thanks Harry.”

Harry hurriedly scribbled, “*I wish I was there or that there was something I could do to
help. Love from, Harry*” on a bit of parchment and tied it on Hedwig’s leg. “Go to Hermione,
Hedwig, and be quick. Take her this hug,” And with a cursory squeeze he tossed his pet out into the
inky night. Then he returned to the phone, “Hedwig’s on her way, Hermione. I hope she helps.”

“I’m sure she will. Thank you. Do you mind… can I just talk about Viola for a while? I hardly
ever do and it might be good for me. I’ve never mentioned her to any of my Hogwarts friends and it
makes Mum and Dad too sad to talk about her.”

“Of course you can,” Harry said gently.

“The day Viola would have turned eleven was the day I ended up quitting Divination and slapping
Malfoy. I was overwrought with grief and stress. I think… no, I know Vi would have been magical as
well. She used to make the flowers in the back garden grow much faster than they should whenever
Mum’s back was turned. She would have been a Gryffindor, and I think she’d have been better
qualified than I am. Viola was so brave… right up until the end…” Hermione’s voice broke. “Her last
words were ‘Don’t cry Daddy, I’ll be with Grandpa and he can take care of me.’”

“I can tell you miss her a lot, but you’re very brave too, Hermione,” Harry reassured her. “Why
don’t you tell me what it was like when you were really little together?”

For the next half hour Hermione regaled him with stories of early birthday parties and girlhood
hi-jinks. She laughed a little – like at the memory of the mess they made when they tried to cook
breakfast for their parents on their anniversary – but mostly she cried and he listened.

[Author’s note: JKR had said in the World Day Chat in 2004 that she had originally planned for
Hermione to have a younger sister, but then later at the Edinburgh Book Festival she nixed the
idea. I came up with this idea in the interim, and I still think it has good dramatic effect. Thus,
I’m showing how Jo *could have used* that idea of a younger sibling. And now that she’s
dispelled the idea, it makes for an even bigger surprise for my readers. ;-) I'd always felt
that Hermione acted more like an oldest child than an only, anyway.]



5. untitled
-----------

**Part V**

For Disclaimers and author’s notes, see Part I. Sorry I forgot to take the formatting stuff out
last chapter; I’ll remember from now on I hope. Here’s another chapter sooner than you probably
expected to make up for it, lol.

Harry woke up early the next morning and spent much of the day polishing the silver at his
aunt’s request. His mind was on Hermione the entire time. He had lost his parents before he’d even
gotten to know them and Sirius’s death still ached like an open wound, but he still couldn’t quite
imagine losing someone who was both a sibling and a close friend. Sure, he’d been concerned when
the dementors were bearing down on his idiotic cousin the summer before, but his relationship with
Dudley had always been more like tormentor/victim than relatives that cared for one another, so it
bore little resemblance to Hermione’s relationship with her late sister.

Around four in the afternoon, a tawny owl swooped through his window and dropped a letter into
his lap. He stole a glance at the door to make sure his aunt hadn’t seen this; he didn’t feel like
a lecture. Once he was sure that his ‘transgression’ had gone undetected, he hurriedly opened his
mail. There, on the official Hogwarts stationary, was the following missive:

*Dear Mr. Potter,*


*I am writing to inform you of your scores on your recent Ordinary Wizarding Level (O.W.L)
examinations. You will also find a book list enclosed that encompasses all the texts you will need
for the courses you’ve been accepted into for the following year. The courses you are enrolled in
are starred next to your score on their exam in the list below. Please contact me if you wish to
make any changes in your schedule before the term begins. I need hardly remind you to be certain
you’ve completed all the summer homework for those classes.*


*Charms … A **


*Transfiguration … E **


*Herbology* *… A **


*Defense Against the Dark Arts … O **


*Potions … O **


*Care of Magical Creatures … E **


*Astronomy … A **


*Divination … D*


*History of Magic …P*


*I trust that your family will enjoy hearing of your satisfactory performance on these
examinations and – Mr. Potter – congratulations.*


*Sincerely,*


*Minerva McGonagall*

Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Harry gave the book list a cursory glance, but mostly he was elated by his results. He was
surprised that he’d managed to pass Astronomy despite the large distraction that had been staged
during the practical portion of that exam. He was frankly glad that he could give up both
Divination and History of Magic, and although he was not looking forward to continuing lessons with
Snape, he did wish he could have seen the greasy professor’s face when he received Harry’s O.W.L.
results. Harry was sure he’d be livid at the prospect of continuing to teach him and wondered if
Snape would demand a recount of Harry’s score. That thought made him chuckle softly.

Harry finished polishing the last teaspoon and packed it away carefully, then headed up to his
room to work on his summer homework. He looked forward to calling Hermione because he was sure
she’d be ecstatic over her exam results. Despite the myriad of distractions they’d faced, he
couldn’t imagine Hermione getting lower than an ‘Acceptable’ on any of her tests.

As if summoned by the thought of Hermione, Hedwig was sitting on his windowsill when Harry
entered the room. A large box was harnessed around her middle, but she looked patient and unruffled
by the extra burden. Harry quickly detached it and refilled her water container. She hooted softly
in appreciation as Harry sat down on his bed to unwrap the package.

Inside, Harry found a stuffed brown rabbit, a length of silver ribbon, and a piece of parchment
bearing Hermione’s familiar script:

*Dear Harry,*


*Thank you so much for your kindness and sympathy last night. It is not easy for me to talk
about my sister, but to you it just came naturally. I also appreciated your sending Hedwig to me
when you did. She was able to nestle into my chest and comfort me as only a living being could. It
meant more to me than I could say, and I’m sending this to you as a small token of my
gratitude.*


*This is Jack, my Velveteen Rabbit. Daddy bought him for me just after Viola passed away. She
used to love that book, and holding him made me feel closer to her somehow. I’ve slept with him
since I was seven.*


*I even took Jack to Hogwarts with me. I was homesick at first and he made me feel less alone
during those first few weeks. Lavender teased me about sleeping with a stuffed animal at my age and
I went to Professor McGonagall in tears. She enchanted the enclosed silver ribbon for me. It’s an
invisibility marquee; when you tie it around Jack’s neck he disappears (although you can still find
him by touch). I’ve been using it ever since so the other girls have no idea that I still sleep
with him at night. Of course, now I really wouldn’t care if they laughed at me, but it’s still
easier to avoid bringing it up. Ginny knows about him, of course. In fact, I think she gave the
twins the idea for their headless hats.*


*I’d like to be able to give Jack to you for good, but I’m afraid that I’ll miss him once we
return to Hogwarts, so I may ask for him back once we return to school. For now, sending him to you
was the best way I could come up with to give you a hug from this far away. I’ve hugged him
countless times, so I hope that when you hug him you can get one of those hugs back. I know you
could probably use a hug this summer.*


*Love,*


*Hermione*

Harry immediately hugged the bunny tightly and noticed that he smelled like Hermione. He
couldn’t quite describe the scent – one part Hogwarts library, one part pumpkin juice, and one part
something uniquely Hermione – but it was comforting all the same. He was gently reverent with the
creature who had brought so much comfort to his friend all these years. Especially during the
months before he and Ron saved her from the mountain troll on that fateful Hallowe’en, Jack must
have been her only friend at Hogwarts. Harry caressed the bunny’s worn face and then tied the
ribbon around Jack’s neck in a sloppy bow, which made him disappear as promised. Although Harry
wasn’t exactly ashamed of the rabbit, he suspected that if Dudley ever saw it he would make
Lavender’s old teasing seem like supportive encouragement.

As he was carefully positioning Jack to the right of his pillow, Harry realized that he no
longer had an excuse to put off talking to Hermione about Sirius. She had just shared several of
her most personal secrets with him. If she trusted him enough to do that, he knew he should trust
her enough to discuss how he was really feeling. With Hedwig and Hermione’s rabbit there for moral
support, there was no use prolonging the inevitable.

Having made that momentous decision, Harry promptly set his alarm clock for 11:30 and fell
asleep with an arm slung over Jack. He slept straight on through dinner, so when his alarm buzzed
at 11:30, his stomach was making all sorts of protestations. He snuck downstairs to grab the phone
and a quick piece of toast. However, he realized that his stomach’s aerobics were only partially
due to hunger – mostly, they were just nerves. After forcing down a single slice of dry toast,
Harry hurried back up to his room.

He lay on his bed with the phone on his chest, trying to plan out what he wanted to say.
‘Hermione, it’s high time we talked about Sirius.’ No, too direct. ‘Hermione, I’ve been thinking
about what you said last week and I think you were right. I am grieving and the only healthy way to
cope with it is to discuss my emotions rationally.’ No, too long-winded. It sounded more like
Hermione than Harry. ‘I miss him, Hermione.’ No, too out of the blue. ‘Hagrid told me that I had to
talk to someone about Sirius soon and I’m afraid Aunt Petunia’d have a heart attack if he showed up
here again. So I guess I might as well talk to you about it.’ No, no, no! That made it sound like
she was just some random person and that wasn’t true at all.

Harry took a deep breath and dialed the phone. “Hello?” came the expected answer.

“Hi, Hermione. I think I’m finally ready. Thanks for being so patient. I… I miss Sirius. It’s
just… I never remember having a father or a brother or an uncle… well, I had Uncle Vernon but he
wasn’t really what you’d call…”

“A father figure?” Hermione suggested quietly.

“Exactly. Sirius was, though. He was all of those things rolled into one, and he was my friend
on top of it all.”

“I know he was, Harry,” Hermione said, just to reassure him that she was there.

“I mean, I love my father, but he’s just an image to me really. A name. A face. But not quite a
person…” Harry struggled to explain.

“Your father was an ideal, but you’d actually gotten to know Sirius,” Hermione supplied, “You
knew him – faults and all.”

“Right. He… he was there for me as often as he could be. He took stupid risks just to make sure
I was okay. He always wanted to be where he could help me if I needed him. Sirius broke out of
Azkaban, which had never been done before, just to make sure Peter wouldn’t hurt me. He lived in a
cave, eating *rats* for months so he could be near me during the tournament. He endured that
awful old house because it helped the Order and they were helping keep me safe. He even went to the
Department of Mysteries against Dumbledore’s orders because he knew I was in danger…” Harry trailed
off with a muffled sob.

“He loved you, Harry,” Hermione said simply.

“I know and I loved him too,” Harry sighed, “I wish I had gotten to know him better. Even though
he couldn’t spring me out of the Dursleys’ house, I had so many things I wanted to ask him about.
He knew my parents and I always meant to find out more from him about them.”

“Well, Professor Lupin knew them too. Maybe he can help with that some,” Hermione suggested
softly.

“I know, but it’s not the same. He was Dad’s best friend, he could’ve helped me know my father
and even my mother as people rather than just ideas. If only I’d bothered to ask,” Harry berated
himself.

“You never thought there’d be a time limit on your ability to ask those questions though,”
Hermione reasoned gently, “They’re hard to ask and I’m sure you knew it’d be hard for him to talk
about them.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Harry acquiesced. “It’s not just them, though. I always wanted to talk to
Sirius about other things, too. Like the Tri-wizard Tasks and… Cho. He was the only one I would’ve
felt comfortable going to for advice about that.”

Hermione answered in a voice that was oddly muffled, “Well… I am a girl, Harry. I can try to
help you out with stuff like that in the future.”

“I know you are, and I appreciated your help,” Harry reassured her, adding only to himself *‘
but* *there are some things that I need to ask a guy about. Like how far should you go on a
first date, and how best to let a girl know you want to kiss her. I could never ask any girl those
things. And, you know… there are some things I’m not sure you’d be comfortable with me asking you
about – like why it bugs me so much when everyone assumes you’re my girlfriend even though you’re
not or why I was upset that your mum hoped you were talking to Ron late at night’*

“Thanks,” she replied, sounding a little more normal, “I’m glad you feel like you can talk to me
about him now anyway.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, realizing that this talk was long overdue but that he wasn’t close to
being finished exorcizing his demons about Sirius’s death. “It was so… sudden. I mean, before the
members of the Order of the Phoenix arrived, I was sure all six of us were goners. When you went
down to that curse… I was so paralyzed I could hardly react to the fight that was still going on. I
was afraid that I had lost you. Then when Neville found your pulse, I could actually breathe
again.”

“I… I didn’t know,” Hermione replied, her voice sounding more flustered than he could ever
remember.

“Yeah. But even after that, when Ron and Luna and Ginny got hurt… I was sure the Death Eaters
were going to end up killing all of us. When Sirius and Tonks and Lupin and everyone showed up, I
thought we were saved for sure. It never really occurred to me that one of *them* could die,”
Harry choked a little on the last word.

“It was… Neville said it happened very quickly,” Hermione encouraged him to continue.

“Yeah. Dumbledore had just gotten there and everything was going our way. Sirius was taunting
his horrific cousin and then… he just fell through that idiotic veil. I mean, how can a stupid
piece of fabric kill someone?” Harry demanded.

“I don’t know,” Hermione replied apologetically, “It seemed peculiar the first time we were in
that room.”

“I guess. If Lupin hadn’t held me back, I would have followed him through to try to bring him
back out,” Harry said savagely. Hermione gasped, but he continued, “I kept thinking that Dumbledore
or someone would be able to pull him back through and it’d all be okay, just like when Neville
found your pulse. It wasn’t, though. I think part of me is still screaming as he falls and refusing
to believe that he’s gone.”

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione sympathized, apparently at a loss for words.

“I know he can’t come back,” Harry said quickly to let her know he wasn’t completely crazy. “I
even asked Sir Nicholas how people become ghosts, but I guess the veil made that impossible for
Sirius. He didn’t have his mirror, either, so I couldn’t talk to him through that.”

“Mirror? What mirror?” Hermione asked gently.

“The one he gave me for Christmas,” Harry sighed bitterly, “He said I should use it to tell him
if Snape was picking on me during Occlumency lessons, but I never even opened the package until
after he died. I had just stuffed it at the bottom of my trunk and… forgotten about it. See, when
he gave it to me, I was afraid that it was some sort of magical alarm and that it would make him
come to Hogwarts to string up Snape or something. So, I promised myself I’d never use it because I
didn’t want to lure him out of Grimmauld Place and have him get captured. Fat lot of good that did
me.”

“Your heart was in the right place,” Hermione assured him, “How did the mirror work?”

Harry was aware that she was trying to distract him, but he humoured her anyway, “They’re
two-way mirrors. Sirius’s note said he and Dad used to use them when they were in separate
detentions. If you say the person’s name who has the other mirror into yours, his face will appear
in your mirror and you can talk to each other.”

“That sounds really ingenious,” Hermione said with only slightly false enthusiasm, “I wonder who
came up with it.”

“They probably did,” Harry said indifferently, “McGonagall said they were really smart about
stuff like that – a lot like Fred and George.”

“I’d like to see it, if you’d let me,” Hermione ventured.

“You can’t,” Harry snapped, harsher than he intended, “When I couldn’t use it to contact Sirius,
I threw it into my trunk and it shattered.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Hermione apologized immediately.

“It’s okay, you didn’t know,” replied Harry graciously, feeling guilty for hurting her. “I
shouldn’t have done it. It was my last gift from him and I… I broke it in a fit of rage.” A single
tear ran down his cheek as he realized that since his knife had melted and his broom was still
locked away somewhere at Hogwarts, he no longer had anything whole that Sirius had given him.

“You didn’t mean to…” she trailed off, then asked hesitantly, “Um, Harry? Do you still have the
pieces of the mirror?”

“I think so, I haven’t really cleaned out my trunk since then. Why?”

“Well, if you wanted me to, I could try to put it back together,” she offered, “Then if Lupin or
Tonks could find Sirius’s half, you and Ron could use them when you’re in detention. Sort of carry
on the tradition?”

“So you think Ron and I are destined to be in detention again this year?” he teased, trying not
to get his hopes up on her being able to fix it.

“Sorry, I was just…” she stammered.

“Don’t worry about it, I seem to land in detention about as often as I’m in the hospital wing,”
he joked, reassuring her that he wasn’t actually offended. Then, struck by sudden inspiration, he
continued, “If you do fix it and we find the other one, I want you to keep it. That way, we can
keep talking at night even once we get back to Hogwarts.”

“I’d like that,” Hermione replied, sounding inordinately excited at the idea, “I could teach you
a Silencio Bubble so your dorm-mates wouldn’t be disturbed by your voice.”

“That would be nice,” Harry agreed. He immediately cradled the phone between his ear and
shoulder, slipped out of bed, grabbed an envelope, and carefully culled through his trunk for every
last shard of the mirror. He sealed the envelope carefully and attached it to Hedwig’s leg with a
warning that she should be extra cautious with this parcel. She hooted derisively, as if to say she
was always careful, and then took off in the familiar direction of the Grangers’ house.

As he had been busy in his trunk, Harry had heard Hermione flipping through textbooks and
muttering to herself. Finally she said triumphantly, “I think I found a spell they might have based
it on, Harry!,”

“That’s great!” Harry cried, then – remembering to lower his voice – continued, “I just sent
Hedwig to you with the pieces. Promise you won’t do any magic that’d get yourself expelled,” he
added as an afterthought.

“Oh, I won’t,” she laughed. “I’ll just spell-o-tape it together like a jigsaw, and then send the
whole thing to Professor McGonagall with the enchantments I’ve looked up that I think might return
it to working order. I think she’d be willing to fix it for us – it’s an academic challenge after
all and she always enjoys those.”

“Hermione, if **you** asked her to, she’d probably let you splatter-paint the Great Hall and
tie-die your robes,” Harry answered, trying to sound solemn.

“Why would I want to do that?” Hermione asked, apparently duped into thinking he was
serious.

“You wouldn’t,” he said exasperatedly, “but she likes you enough to let you do it if you had a
good reason for it – just like the time turner.”

“Are you calling me a teacher’s pet, Harry James Potter?” Hermione asked, taking mock-offense
and unconsciously turning on her ‘McGonagall voice.’

“No I’m not, Hermione Jane Granger,” he said, aping her tone, “I’m just saying that Professor
McGonagall would be more likely to do you a favour than she would me or Ron because you’re such a
responsible, reasonable, reliable prefect.”

“Hmph,” she replied, but he could tell she wasn’t really upset. “I’d be more of all of those
things if I didn’t have you two around as bad influences.”

“You wouldn’t have as much fun, though, would you?” Harry cajoled.

“No, I suppose not,” Hermione relented. “And if Professor McGonagall can’t or won’t help me, I
bet the twins would. They’re of age, so they can use magic whenever and however they want to.”

“That’s a good idea,” Harry agreed, “and they wouldn’t worry that you’d be tempted to use it at
night when you should be sleeping.”

“Good point,” Hermione replied, “Maybe I should just send it to them to begin with.”

“I think I would,” Harry grinned. “Professor McGonagall might feel obligated to confiscate
something like that if she thought we could make mischief with it.”

“That’s true,” Hermione allowed, “All right then, I’ll do the spell-o-tape and research bits,
and then send it off to the twins’ laboratory.”

They lapsed into silence for a few minutes. Hermione was probably looking up more spells that
might be useful on magic mirrors. Harry’s thoughts drifted back toward Sirius. Talking to Hermione
about him helped, and he hoped she and Fred and George would be able to mend the mirror so he’d
have another way to remember him. Still, he wasn’t sure he’d exhausted all the feelings he needed
to explore.

Harry crawled back into his bed, tucked himself in, and found Jack to cuddle against himself. He
loosened the invisibility ribbon and looked into the bunny’s amber eyes – somehow they reminded him
of Hermione’s, and he knew he still needed to talk to her. His next volley of words burst forth
like a mountain stream – unrehearsed and unfiltered, “I guess I’ve been avoiding talking about
Sirius because I miss him so much and I feel so incredibly guilty about his death. He was *my*
guardian, yet it’s my fault that he died. If only I had listened to you instead of charging off to
the Ministry… If only I’d practiced Occlumency like you and Dumbledore and even Snape told me to…
If only I had remembered the Christmas package when I needed to get in touch with him… If only I
had only remembered that Snape is in the Order too… none of this would have happened,” Harry’s
conclusion was interrupted by a dry sob, but he plunged on, “I tried to blame Dumbledore and Snape
and even that foul sneak Kreacher, but there’s really no one to blame but myself. Everyone tried to
warn me but I was *so* sure I knew better. I alone understood Voldemort’s plan because I had
this special connection to him. And I was so curious about the bloody Department of Mysteries that
I played right into his hands. I didn’t try to stop the dreams, even though I could have. Snape
accused me of feeling important because of the visions and maybe he was right. I was scared by the
dreams of course, but they also made me feel like I was doing something for our side –
counter-intelligence, you know? I even looked forward to dreaming about the corridor because I
wanted to know what was on that shelf so badly. I was a fool, Hermione, and someone I loved very
much paid the ultimate price for my foolishness.”

“Harry… I know you’re grieving and I understand why you feel like you need to blame someone –
even if it’s yourself. But you need to remember that you did the best you could with the
information you were given. No one thinks you were foolish, least of all me. Many people have been
tricked by one of Voldemort’s plots.”

“Yeah, but I should have known better. You warned me that the dream I had might have been an
illusion, but I was too stubborn to listen,” Harry groaned, “I don’t know how you can keep from
saying ‘I told you so,’ you certainly have reason to.”

“I would never say that to you, Harry. I screwed up worse than you did. You had the excuse of
being emotionally invested; I had no reason to forget Snape’s position in the Order. I’m sorry
Harry, truly,” Hermione said softly.

“Don’t blame yourself,” Harry bit out, “It’s my bloody fault.”

“No, it’s not,” she argued soberly. “Harry, if I’d seen Viola being tortured in a dream, I doubt
that I would even have stopped to tell you and Ron about it. I would have jumped on the nearest
broomstick and flown to where ever the dream had taken place, even though I hate flying and there’s
no way such a dream could reflect reality. In many ways I admired your restraint.”

“You don’t have to defend me, Hermione. I know I messed up,” Harry said flatly.

“People make mistakes, Harry. Hug Jack for a second; he always loved me in spite of my
mistakes,” Hermione directed, little imagining that Harry was already clinging to her rabbit
desperately, “Anyway, I want you to remember that you didn’t cause Sirius’s death; Voldemort and
Bellatrix Lestrange did. Besides, Sirius himself chose to put his life on the line that night – no
one forced him to do that.”

“Maybe, but *nobody* would have been in danger that night if I hadn’t been such an idiot. I
ignored your warnings and Dumbledore’s and everyone else’s. I dragged you and Ron and Ginny and
Neville and Luna into a perilous situation and we’re lucky any of us came out alive. Tonks was
injured for me and Sirius… Sirius died. Because he loved me too much to let other people fight my
battles rather than doing it himself,” Harry choked back, squeezing the bunny as if his life
depended on it.

“We were all there because we love and trust you, Harry, but it wasn’t you who put us in danger.
Voldemort and his ruddy Death Eaters did that. They’re the evil ones, not you.”

Harry sighed, “It was all so pointless, though. Nothing was gained from that experience and
Sirius’s death was so very sudden and senseless. The wizarding populace still thinks he was a
murderer after all he did to help keep them and me safe,” Harry added bitterly.

“Well, we’ll see if we can eventually find enough evidence to clear his name posthumously. If
Peter Pettigrew is eventually captured as a Death Eater it’ll go a long way toward proving his
innocence,” she pointed out soothingly.

“I guess that might help a little,” Harry agreed grudgingly, “At least then he could have a
proper headstone in a wizard cemetery – someplace I could go to grieve openly.”

“Exactly. I think having his name cleared would make him happy,” Hermione encouraged, “Besides,
his death really wasn’t pointless, Harry. Because we had a showdown with Death Eaters in the
Ministry of Magic, Minister Fudge was forced to take his head out of the sand and finally admit
that there is trouble brewing. That’s enormously important. Also, Lucius Malfoy and Macnair and
other Death Eaters who’d passed as respectable citizens since the first reign of terror were seen
for what they really were – spineless cowards.”

“So? Didn’t everyone already know that about them?” asked Harry sullenly.

“No, they didn’t. Particularly not about Malfoy,” Hermione explained matter-of-factly. “I
suspect that Minister Fudge may not hold his office down much longer. Having Malfoy outed as a
Death Eater becomes extremely important in that case. If he hadn’t been, he might have been able to
weasel his way into the Minister’s position, or at least a high-ranking post. Now that the general
population knows him for what he is, that won’t happen. Imagine all the damage a true Voldemort
supporter could have done. When a selectively-blind Minister allowed him to accomplish so much in a
year, the outcome of one of his compatriots in that position would be catastrophic!”

Harry wasn’t sure that he agreed with her reasoning at first, “So if Malfoy and the others
hadn’t gotten themselves caught, you think one of them would have become Minister? Yeah, that
would’ve been worse for us.”

“Exactly,” Hermione said, “They could’ve pushed through all sorts of Anti-Muggle laws. I mean,
look at the lengths Fudge went to in trying to bring Hogwarts under Ministry control. A
power-hungry Death Eater would be much, much worse.”

“I know,” Harry agreed. “Even Umbridge would be worse – she’d pass anti ‘half-breed’ laws and
make things miserable for Hagrid and Remus and even poor Firenze.”

“Yeah,” Hermione agreed fervently. Then, suddenly sounding as if a pent-up thought was about to
burst free she added, “Say, speaking of Hagrid and Firenze… did your O.W.L. results come
today?”

“They did. Did yours? I wasn’t sure they’d be able to get through your security measures,” Harry
replied.

“Well, since McGonagall helped set them up, letters from her are allowed,” Hermione explained.
“How did they go?”

“Really well, actually,” said Harry, glad he had good news to tell her. “I failed Divination,
and History of Magic of course, but I managed to scrape through in all the others. I even got an
‘O’ in Potions so Snape will have to take me again!”

“That’s wonderful, Harry!” Hermione exclaimed, “I just knew you could do it.”

“Thanks,” Harry said, glad she couldn’t see his blush, “I’m sure you passed all of yours. Did
you break Percy’s record?”

“I don’t think so,” Hermione laughed. “I got ‘A’s in History of Magic and Astronomy, ‘E’s in
Defense Against the Dark Arts and Ancient Runes, and ‘O’s in everything else.”

“Congratulations,” said Harry sincerely, “I’m sure they’ll make you head girl next year.”

“Thank you, Harry,” Hermione replied, almost shyly.

“Of course,” Harry answered, “And Hermione? Thanks for listening to me talk about Sirius. It’s…
it’s not easy, but I think you were right that I needed to do it.”

“You’re welcome. You can talk to me about him anytime you feel the need to,” Hermione
promised.

“Thanks,” Harry yawned, “I know it’s early, but I’m actually pretty worn out.”

“Well, we were up really late last night, so that makes sense. Call me tomorrow?”

“You can count on it. Goodnight, Hermione.”

“Goodnight, Harry.” As he tiptoed downstairs to hang up the phone, Harry realized that talking
to Hermione about Sirius had felt pretty natural. He hadn’t cared that she knew he was crying;
she’d cried openly on the phone the night before. He knew having Ron hear him cry would still make
him uncomfortable, but somehow with Hermione it didn’t bother him.



6. Part VI
----------

Part VI

For Disclaimers and author’s notes, see Part I. Thanks for all of your lovely reviews; keep them
coming!

Harry slept particularly well the night after finally discussing Sirius with Hermione. He used
the potion from Professor Snape as he had been doing, but his thoughts as he was drifting off had
been more pleasant than those he’d had any previous night of the summer.

When he awoke the next morning, he felt the familiar sensation of eagerness for it to be
midnight again, but he was also greeted by a whiff of Jack’s Hermione scent, so he smiled rather
than grimaced at the interminable hours until he could call her again.

He spent part of the day cleaning his room so Aunt Petunia would have no reason to lecture him
about cleanliness. Ever since Hagrid’s accidental revelation, Harry’d been trying to help his aunt
maintain the perfect order she so craved. He thought she was nutters, of course, but he still
sympathized with her twisted, tiny little life. Also, he’d found that being sequestered at Privet
Drive was less intolerable when Auntie Petunia was happy and he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to
avoid slipping his newfound knowledge in if he were to get into another row with her – or even
Dudley for that matter.

Once his room was in the pumpkin-pie order that satisfied his persnickety aunt (well, as long as
she didn’t look under his bed) he dove into his Summer term homework. Knowing what classes he’d be
in for sure – and heeding Professor McGonagall’s threat, er, warning – he wanted to be sure that
he’d be prepared when he got to go back to Hogwarts. There were only he noted, checking his
long-neglected homework planner for the count, forty days until he got to take the 11 am scarlet
steam engine from Platform 9¾.

Harry naturally picked revising his Transfiguration essay as his first task. He wanted to be
sure not to disappoint the professor after her encouragement to him about pursuing the Auror career
path. He wondered idly whether Hermione’s years of making study schedules for their final exams was
finally paying off.

The afternoon flew by, and soon he was sitting down to tea with the Dursleys. Since Dudley was
‘off with one of his mates,’ Harry found digestion somewhat easier. He suspected that his cousin
was actually off snogging Jessamyn, but what he didn’t tell couldn’t hurt him. It was easier to get
through with occasional nods at Uncle Vernon’s interminable Grunnings stories than it was to listen
to hypocritical Dudley spout off Ludmilla’s latest summer sports accomplishments. Now that he spent
a little more care noticing her, it seemed that Aunt Petunia mostly just nodded along as well. He
wondered privately how many years ago she’d stopped listening to them.

After the pudding, Harry volunteered to do the washing up. Uncle Vernon gave him a piercing
look, but allowed him to do so and went off to the den for his evening telly. Aunt Petunia puttered
around, storing the remaining pudding in the refrigerator for later. Since it was chocolate cake –
the fruit garnish was the only concession to the eating healthy kick they were all supposed to be
on “for Dudder’s sake” – Harry guessed that it would all disappear before breakfast. Well, all
except for the fruit garnish.

Having done his bit to preserve his peace for the night, Harry returned to his room with the
bits of food he’d smuggled for Hedwig (his real motivation for the washing up). She greeted him
affectionately and dove into her treats while he settled in for the less-than-pleasant task of
revising Potions.

After an hour of toil, he drifted off and only woke when Hedwig pecked him to alert him that his
alarm was going off. He gulped, turned it off, and released her to do her night’s hunting. Then he
made his way down to the washroom to grab the phone for the night.

Harry’d just made it into the washroom without being spotted when he heard rustling in the
kitchen. Bloody Dudley! Now he’d have to stay hidden in here until he heard his cousin go back
upstairs or risk getting caught and having another go-round over re-negotiating their mutual
silence pact. A few painful minutes ticked by before he finally heard Dudley lumbering past the
washroom door and up the stairs. They squeaked loudly, but Harry was confident it wouldn’t wake his
Aunt and Uncle. Since Dudley’d been sneaking food every night since the first day he could reach
the fridge’s handle and they’d somehow managed to ignore his ballooning, he doubted that a
nighttime stroll would get either of them caught.

“There’s a first time for everything, though,” a little voice in his head warned. So as soon as
he heard Dudley’s door thump shut, he secreted the receiver under his shirt, darted out of the
washroom, and climbed the stairs with practiced caution so he missed all the tell-tale squeaks.
Once inside his room he clicked his door closed and dove into bed. His fingers tapped out
Hermione’s number without a conscious effort.

Hermione’s usual, “Hello?” was music to his nervous ears.

“Sorry,” he whispered, gasping slightly, “I fell asleep over potions and forgot to get the phone
and Dudley almost caught me with it. That would’ve made me a lot later.”

“Oh,” replied Hermione softly, “I’m glad he didn’t.”

“Me too,” Harry replied with as much fervor as he dared. “Wait… I hear something.”

The all-too familiar sound of the master bedroom door swinging open and his uncle’s elephantine
feet thudding toward his room. He yanked his glasses off and managed to hide both them and the
phone under the coverlet and pasted his best fake sleep face on by closing his eyes and thinking
about Professor Binns’ lectures.

Harry heard his door click open, felt his uncle survey him suspiciously, and finally heard him
mutter disappointedly and click the door back closed. If he’d caught the words correctly it was
something about a freakish ingrate. Harry didn’t care if his uncle heaped insults on him all day
though; his ruse had successfully fooled him.

After a brief grace period, Harry brought the phone back up to his ear. “I managed to fool him
into thinking I was sleeping,” he whispered relieved.

“I’m glad,” Hermione said, echoing both his whisper and his relief.

“You don’t have to whisper, silly,” Harry murmured, suppressing a giggle.

“I know, it’s just habit to match the person you’re talking to,” Hermione replied in her more
normal-tone of voice.

“I suppose,” Harry said, still whispering to be on the safe side. “So, how was your day?”

“Well, the morning and afternoon were about the same as always,” Hermione replied, “I re-read
*Pride and Prejudice* for the millionth time and listened to the radio. Then Mum came home…”
she trailed off.

“What happened? Did you get in trouble again?” he asked concernedly.

“No, no, quite the opposite, actually. She’d overheard a little bit of what we were talking
about last night when she came to check on me, and I guess she realized that it was too important
to interrupt to yell at me for being up late. Besides, she was so thrilled with my O.W.L. results
that she’s forgiven me over the talking thing. No, she wanted to ask me about… well, about you,
actually.”

“About me?” Harry asked, bewildered, “What do you mean?”

“Well, she knows you’re my best friend and I talk about you and Ron whenever I tell her about
school, of course, but I guess she had gotten curious based on what she heard.”

“How so? I’m not that interesting,” Harry replied, still confused.

Hermione laughed aloud, “Well, I think the rest of the Wizarding World would disagree with you
on that, but that’s not the point. Mum wanted to know about what had happened last year. So I told
her about the Department of Mysteries, which was a highly abbreviated version that lacked any of us
being there, the idea of Voldemort and his Death Eaters there, or anything dangerous at all. That
meant that it sounded like Sirius got into a nasty argument with someone at the Ministry of Magic
and then just tragically died as a result. I told them I was injured in a dueling accident.”

“Of course,” Harry said bemusedly.

“Anyway, she was horrified when she heard about Sirius’s death. She said, and I quote, ‘That
poor boy! How awful to lose his godfather after losing his parents and everything else he’s been
through. No wonder he needs a friend to talk to, dear.’”

“Well, it’s nice of her to feel sorry for me, I guess,” he replied.

“She is pretty compassionate – part of being a pediatric dentist I guess,” Hermione answered,
“Anyway, talking about that somehow led to talking about Vi – which we never do. I guess she hadn’t
realised how much I miss her and think about her, even now.”

“Some wounds never really heal,” Harry said, wondering where that came from even as it left his
mouth.

“I know, and it was nice to talk to her and have her hug and cry with me. Then she did something
that completely floored me.”

“What was that?” Harry asked.

“She left my room for a few minutes and came back with her jewelry box. She pulled out a small
necklace – a mustard seed set inside a glass bead, strung on a child-sized gold chain. It was
Viola’s,” Hermione explained, sounding calmer than she had the last time she mentioned her late
sister. “Meméré Rose and I had picked it out for her while she was sick, to encourage her to have
faith that something better would come after the illness. At the time I thought Meméré was just
trying to distract me, but now I really think she was right – Viola is in a better place. Ever
since I put her necklace on I’ve felt closer to her than I have since Mum sent me off to
France”

Harry was confused. “What does mustard have to do with faith and a better place?”

“Oh, sorry. Well, in the Bible Jesus said faith was like a mustard seed – the tiniest seed that
grows into a huge, strong plant when cultivated well. It’s come to be symbolic of faith and hope,
so they use it to make jewelry,” Hermione explained, “Meméré was very religious; we went to the
local cathedral and prayed for Viola every day I was staying with her. She still goes three times a
week. Dad says she has ever since Mum’s father died and Meméré moved back into his family’s house
in southern France.”

“I see. Where did your grandmother live before that?” Harry asked curiously.

“Oh, well, she and Pepéré raised my mum in London, but he was French – Meméré had met him in
college.” Hermione expounded, “He died when I was just a baby and she decided she’d feel closer to
him in the house where he grew up and where they’d often taken trips during the early years of
their marriage.”

“It must be lovely there. I remember you telling Hagrid how much you enjoyed the French Coast
last year,” Harry replied.

“Yes, it is,” Hermione enthused, “I’ll have to take you there sometime. You could learn all
about the French wizarding history in that region. Of course, I didn’t know anything about it until
Mum and Dad took me to visit her before our third year, but it’s really fascinating. Professor
Binns was impressed because he’d never heard some of the local witch legends and histories I picked
up from books I bought there.”

Harry chuckled, “You read French?”

“Wellll…. Not really,” Hermione admitted, “Mum and Meméré helped me translate them. Mum really
wants me to learn to speak French, but it’s not really possible at Hogwarts.”

“You could always ask Fleur for French lessons,” Harry teased.

“Don’t mention that she-devil to me!” Hermione commanded crossly.

“What, do I detect some jealousy?” Harry pressed, “She seemed like a perfectly nice girl and I
thought she and Bill were happy – are you wishing you and Bill could discuss Arithmancy privately
or something?”

“Hardly,” Hermione snorted, “But he does need some cheering up from what I heard in Gin’s last
letter. Apparently she’s being really rude to the whole family even though they’re engaged now.
Reading between the lines, Ginny’s probably being rude right back.”

“That figures,” said Harry, “I feel bad for Bill, though, being caught between them.”

“Me too,” replied Hermione. “But it’s getting sort of late, Harry, I think we should get some
sleep.”

“If we have to,” Harry whined. “I’d rather go on talking to you and sleep the rest of
tomorrow.”

“So would I, but your relatives would be cross and you don’t want to risk your uncle catching
you on the phone,” Hermione reasoned.

“Good point,” Harry agreed reluctantly, “Good night, then. Sweet dreams.”

“They will be,” Hermione answered tiredly, “I hope you don’t have any.”

“I won’t, I still have Snape’s potion that Hagrid gave me,” Harry assured her.

“Good night then, Harry, I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” she said.

“I’ll look forward to it. Goodbye.”

“Bye,” Hermione said, and he heard the familiar dial tone. Quickly and quietly he snuck the
handset back to its assigned spot and returned to his room. Taking his potion, he drifted off into
a deep, dreamless slumber.

The next couple of weeks passed in much the same way. Harry would spend his days perfecting his
essays for the N.E.W.T. level classes he’d be in and keeping the Dursleys pacified. One morning he
forgot to tie the ribbon around Jack’s neck and Dudley saw him. Harry endured a morning of teasing
until it occurred to him to claim that the rabbit was Hedwig’s toy. Dudley accepted that
reluctantly and returned to his usual philandering and phone calls.

Every night Harry spent as much time as he dared talking to Hermione. Sometimes they just
chatted about their days and sometimes they discussed Sirius and Viola. Occasionally Harry would
start to cry, but he didn’t feel ashamed. Rather, he felt comforted knowing that Hermione was on
the other end of the line, caring and listening. Sometimes she would even cry with him, and he was
surprised to find that reassuring.

One Friday night Harry called to find Hermione quite animated, “Guess what, Harry? You’ll never
guess what’s happened!”

“I guess you’ll just have to tell me then,” Harry responded, bemused.

“I got a letter and package from Professor Lupin,” she explained, apparently not noticing his
teasing. “He’d helped the twins with the last charm on your mirror, and it works now!”

“That’s great news,” he replied, glad that his last gift from his godfather would be intact
again.

“He also found Sirius’s mirror in his things,” she continued cautiously, “and sent it along as
well.”

“Oh,” Harry said, trying to be enthusiastic. Part of him was still hoping that Sirius had his
with him and had just been out of range when he’d tried to reach him at the end of the school
year.

Hermione sensed Harry’s dejection and quickly changed the subject, “Professor Lupin went on to
say that Fred and George found a way to alter the magi-technology. They’ve merged them with
Extendible Ears, in a way.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked.

“Well, they’ve come up with a set that just behaves as an ordinary mirror on half, but the other
half hears and sees whatever is said near or reflected in the mirror,” Hermione explained.
“Originally, the twins wanted to sell the dummy one as a vanity and keep the peeping tom side for
themselves, but Angelina and Alicia vetoed that idea right away.”

“I can see why,” Harry answered wryly.

“Yeah, me too,” Hermione giggled, “The Order will probably find a way to use them, though.”

“Hey, yeah!” Harry exclaimed, “It’d be great if you could get one of those into the Death
Eater’s houses.”

“Exactly,” Hermione agreed. “From what little he told me, I think Professor Snape is going to do
his best to get the dummies set up in their temporary headquarters and in the homes of some of the
more influential members.”

“They could even try to get one into Azkaban,” Harry suggested.

“That’s a good idea,” Hermione replied. “I’ll mention it to Professor McGonagall in my next
letter – giving you credit, of course.”

“Thanks,” Harry said, a little embarrassed. He searched for a change of subject. Finally, he
asked, “Why did Alicia care if Fred and George were using the mirrors like they planned? I mean, I
can see why Angelina would care, but why did Alicia?”

“You hadn’t heard?” Hermione asked, surprised. “I was sure I’d told you Alicia and George
started dating while she was working with them this summer.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Harry said, feeling silly. “Is there any other gossip I’ve somehow missed or
forgotten?”

“Well, did I tell you about Ginny’s last letter?” she asked.

“I don’t think so.”

“Ah, well then, there’s lots,” she replied. “Apparently Dean went to visit the Burrow last week.
The two of them had a lot of fun, but Ron caught them snogging in the field where the Weasleys
generally play pick-up Quidditch and went nuts.”

“Really? Did he punch Dean?” Harry asked.

“No, but only because Gin immobilized him before he could,” Hermione laughed. “He couldn’t stand
to be around Dean for the rest of his visit, though, so he actually agreed to Luna’s invitation to
dinner at her house.”

“She fancies him, doesn’t she?”

“Yes, she wasn’t too subtle about it last year, was she?” Hermione grinned, “And apparently
she’s been over to ‘see Ginny’ almost every day this summer. She spends most of her time mooning
over ‘Ronald,’ though.”

“Sounds like a regular love boat in the Burrow,” Harry quipped.

“Indeed,” Hermione replied. “But you know, even though I think Dean is much better for Ginny
than Michael was, I wish she’d notice Neville more.”

“What?” Harry asked, “How so?”

“Well, he was quite taken with her after they went to the Yule Ball,” Hermione explained, “But
she met Michael there and started going out with him before Neville had gotten up the nerve to ask
her out again.”

“Oh, poor Neville,” Harry agreed.

“And then she and Dean started dating before we’d half realized that she’d split up with
Michael,” Hermione continued. “I only hope she’s remembered to send him a birthday card.”

“Was today Neville’s birthday?” Harry asked, thinking about the prophecy fleetingly.

“Yes,” Hermione replied. “I sent him a card and some sugar-free gum with a book I thought he
might like.”

“That was nice of you,” Harry said.

Hermione laughed. “Hey, look at your clock.”

“What about it?” he asked, reading 12.49.

“It’s your birthday, Harry. You’ve been sixteen for nearly an hour and I hadn’t said anything.
Forgive me?” she entreated.

“Sure,” he promised easily.

“Then will you also send Hedwig to me? I’ve got a present for you, but I don’t have a way to get
it to you.”

“Right away,” he said, going over to her cage and whispering, “Go to Hermione, girl.” Hedwig
hooted softly and soared out his window in the familiar direction of the Grangers’.

“Thanks,” she replied humbly, “You know, speaking of Michael, Ginny said he and Cho visited Fred
and George’s shop last week.”

“Really?” Harry asked uninterestedly.

“Yeah, apparently they were quite touchy-feely and bought some fireworks,” Hermione reported
carefully. “Ginny figures they did it on purpose so word would get back to her.”

“That sounds like Cho,” Harry said impassively. “She wasn’t that nice, to be honest.”

“You don’t miss her, then?” Hermione asked, trying to sound casual.

“Nope,” Harry replied honestly, “I hope I eventually get better at the whole kissing thing,
though.”

“Me too – er, I’m sure you will,” Hermione responded. “Um, speaking of kissing – guess what
Ginny did to mess with Ron after Dean left?”

“I hope she didn’t kiss him,” Harry said dryly.

“Ew, no!” Hermione cried, “See, Dean had tried to teach Ginny to play football, and he’d gotten
his shirt all muddy in the process so Mrs. Weasley gave him an old one of Percy’s to wear.”

“Okay…” Harry prompted, wondering where this was headed.

“Well, Dean forgot to take his original shirt home with him, so Ginny washed it and was planning
to send it back to him. Then she realized that Ron had missed the whole football thing, so she
decided to mess with him.”

“How’d she do that?”

“She put on bright red lipstick and left kiss-marks all over the collar of the shirt. Then she
put it where Ron was sure to find it the next morning.”

“Aha,” Harry laughed in spite of himself, “How did Ron react?”

“About like you’d expect. He stormed around and insisted that his mother give Ginny the ‘where
babies come from’ lecture again. Mrs. Weasley obliged, and according to Gin it sounded a lot like
the one Mum just subjected me to.”

“I guess that proves that Muggles and Magical folks aren’t that different after all,” Harry
quipped.

“Mothers are pretty much the same across the board,” Hermione answered, then quickly added, “Oh,
I’m sorry, Harry.”

“It’s okay,” he assured her. “So, how did Ron’s dinner with the Lovegoods go?”

“Nothing much to report, at least not that Ginny knew,” she said.

“That’s probably because he’s crazy about you,” Harry said naïvely.

Hermione sighed, “He’s not – he just thinks he is.”

“Huh?”

“He’s convinced himself that he’s in love with me because I’m the only girl besides Ginny that
he’s comfortable around. He also probably thinks like Mum – that our fighting all the time means
we’re destined to be together or some such rot.”

“You, er, don’t agree?” Harry asked, realizing suddenly how happy he was to hear that.

“Of course not, Harry!” Hermione replied, sounding shocked, “I spent most of last year trying to
discourage his romantic notions, didn’t you notice?”

“Um, no,” he replied, feeling like Fawkes had just pulled the entire Chamber of Secrets off his
shoulders.

“Well, he gave me horrible perfume for Christmas and I ignored it. I made sure I was with you,
Luna, and that Skeeter woman on Valentine’s Day, and I wasn’t that fussed about his Quidditch
games,” Hermione recited, “None of that gave you a clue?”

“I guess not,” Harry replied, “I just thought since he liked you, you’d end up dating.”

“As they say, it takes two to tango, and although I like him very much as a friend, my dance
card’s not for Ron,” Hermione concluded neatly.

“Does he know that?” Harry asked.

“Unfortunately, he seems impervious to hints,” she sighed, “I wish he’d fall for Luna so we
could avoid a big scene when he finally comes out and asks me and I have to turn him down.”

“It would make things easier, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes, but we can’t control who people fall in love with,” Hermione replied philosophically.

“It’s sort of like a tape Dudley used to have when we were kids,” Harry said suddenly. “Have you
ever heard of a song called ‘The Farmer in the Dell?’”

“Maybe, but what’s that got to do with Ron and Luna?” Hermione asked, confused for once.

“Well, in the song, everyone wants or takes something different than what wants or takes them.
Just like Neville wants Ginny, who wants Dean. And Luna wants Ron, who wants you. And I’m the
cheese.”

“The cheese?”

“Alone.”

“You won’t be alone, Harry, I promise,” Hermione said, sincerely.

“Thank you,” Harry said. They were quiet for a few minutes. Then, just as Harry heard her
breathing level off to the point where he knew she was almost asleep, he heard himself whisper,
“Love you, My-nee.”

This time the silence was deafening. Where had that come from? He certainly hadn’t planned to
say it. He must have been so relieved to hear that she wasn’t interested in Ron that he forgot to
guard his feelings. Why wasn’t she saying anything? Was she shocked? Upset? Asleep? Had he just
ruined their friendship forever? Did he misunderstand her promise that he wouldn’t be alone?

Finally, after what seemed like an eternal age, Hermione replied, “Me too, Harry. Bye,” and hung
up.



7. Part VII
-----------

Part VII

For Disclaimers and author’s notes, see Part I. Thanks for all of your lovely reviews; keep them
coming!

For several minutes, Harry lay there, stunned, as the dial tone buzzed in his ear. “Me too?”
What had that meant? Did Hermione actually mean she loved him or was she just embarrassed by his
admission and trying to avoid the awkward situation? Her hanging up right after it seemed to
indicate the latter, but he had no prior experience to judge by.

For that matter, he had to wonder whether he'd actually meant it. Did he love Hermione?
Certainly as a friend – what was the word for that? Platonic? Hermione would know.

Remembering back to those awful moments in the Department of Mysteries, though, Harry had to
admit that he felt more deeply for Hermione than he did for any of his other friends – even Ron. He
couldn't imagine his life without her. What if he'd just ruined their friendship forever?
Would he be able to have classes and spend time near her if she didn't want to be right beside
him anymore? He hugged Jack for comfort and breathed in Hermione's scent. He groaned. There was
no way he'd be able to live without her now that he'd realized how much she meant to
him.

Maybe he ought to write to her to apologize for saying that so suddenly, especially if it had
scared her. Oh, blast, he couldn't send a letter – Hedwig was already at Hermione's. His
sixteenth birthday was shaping up to be even worse than his thirteenth, and he was barely an hour
into it.

Harry took the phone back to the washroom quietly and then returned to his room and slumped onto
his bed. There was no way his mind would let him sleep with all the confusing emotions swirling
through his head. Not even Professor Snape's potent sleeping potion would allow him rest now. A
tiny part of him was excited at the possibility that Hermione had meant that she loved him as well
– after all, he couldn't remember what it was like to actually feel loved. The overwhelming
feeling he got, though, was hopelessness.

Why would Hermione, the brightest witch of their generation, be interested in him? Without her
help he'd be no great shakes at school, he was always taking foolish chances and risking his
own life and often those of his friends as well. She'd made it clear that she wasn't
interested in Ron, who was better looking, funnier, and less dangerous than he – why on earth would
she want *him*?

During the next hour, Harry worked himself into a right funk by thinking of all the boys at
Hogwarts more worthy of Hermione than he was. Neville – at least he always appreciated
Hermione's help, as opposed to him and Ron, who took it for granted. Terry Boot, that
Ravenclaw, had seemed awfully impressed with her Protean Charm during their DA practices, and
he'd certainly be more willing to study with her. He might even be in Arithmancy with her, now
that Harry thought of it. If Dean ever got tired of Ginny, he'd be a better choice too. He was
artistic and considerate, and he was a Muggle-born just like Hermione. Once Harry got around to
wondering whether or not Draco would ever be interested in her, he knew he needed to get his mind
off his heart's troubles.
He dug around in his school books and pulled out
*Practical Defensive Magic and Its Use Against the Dark Arts.* Maybe planning Dumbledore's
Army sessions for the next year would keep his mind off of Hermione. He had a feeling that the club
would have official sponsorship now that Dumbledore was reinstated. Maybe Professor Lupin would
even be able to come in as a guest lecturer – during the safest phases of the moon, of course.

Harry was only a few pages into the chapter on enchanted incendiary devices when he heard Hedwig
tapping at his window. Relieved – he hadn't really processed anything he'd read so far – he
retrieved a fat envelope from his pet and gave her a treat to reward her quick trip.

Then he turned to the envelope. The outside said “*Happy Birthday, Harry!*” in
Hermione's familiar script. His hands shook as he tried to open the envelope. Would her letter
explain how she'd meant the cryptic “Me too” at the end of the phone call? He certainly hoped
so – he couldn't stand the suspense any longer.

Once the envelope was mangled open, three things fell out into Harry's lap. The first was a
familiar sized piece of parchment. The others looked like Muggle tickets of some sort. Mystified,
Harry read Hermine's letter:

*Dear Harry,*

*I know you usually don't enjoy your birthdays since you have to spend them with your
Muggle relatives. I thought this year would be more fun if we could spend it together, so I begged
Tonks' permission and we arranged this.*

*If you want to, use the enclosed ticket to take the morning train into London. I've also
included a tube pass so you'll be able to switch over at Paddington Station and get to the stop
nearest the Leaky Cauldron. For safety's sake, Tonks will be accompanying you. Look for a
brunette with a Beatles shirt and plaid pants at the bus stop nearest your house. She won't
acknowledge you, but she'll be keeping an eye on you. I will meet you in the Leaky Cauldron and
we can spend the day in Diagon Alley, shopping for our school books and just enjoying a mini-break
in the magical world.*

*Love from,*

*Hermione*

*PS: Hedwig looks pretty tired; you'd better let her rest for a bit.*

Harry's head spun. Had she sent this before their conversation ended? She certainly
didn't allude to it in any way – she'd been signing her letters “Love from Hermione” for
years. Still, unless she'd changed her mind as a result of his admission of love, he would
really enjoy a chance to get out from under the Dursleys' thumb for a day. Diagon Alley was
always fun, and he was now eager to spend the day with Hermione. Assuming she was still speaking to
him, of course. They could go visit Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor and catch up on news
from actual witches and wizards rather than relying on just the *Daily Prophet*. And with
Tonks with them, they'd be safe enough – she was a trained Auror after all.

Feeling optimistic about the coming day, Harry glugged his nightly potion, snuggled up with
Jack, and drifted off to sleep.

Harry awoke, giddy with excitement. He knew he'd have to sneak out of the house, but he was
ready to risk it, just to get away and see Hermione. Checking his train ticket, he saw that
Hermione had booked him a 10:00 ride. That would give him enough time to sneak out and catch the
bus to Langley Train Station.

He quickly put away his school books and straightened his room. He made sure Hedwig had plenty
of food and water for the day and whispered a quick apology for leaving her alone. Wishing he could
cast a silencing charm on her for the day, Harry had to just hope she wouldn't make a racket
and give him away. After checking to make sure Uncle Vernon had left for the day, he grabbed his
wand and pulled on his invisibility cloak. Then he set off down the stairs.

Harry knew he could probably get out the door without his aunt's noticing, as she was
usually occupied with cleaning the kitchen or gardening this early. He just had to hope that Dudley
would still be asleep and that he'd be able to get to the bus station at the corner of Magnolia
Road and Wisteria Walk without bumping into any of the neighbors.

As he expected, he had little trouble edging his way down the stairs and to the front door of
Number Four. Because he was being extra cautious, it took longer than he would have liked, but he
had escaped from the Dursley's by 9.04.

Harry was beginning to gain confidence as he hurried softly down the Privet Drive sidewalk.
Then, from a few feet ahead of him he heard a voice growl, “Potter! What do you think you're
doing outside? Don't you know there could be Death Eaters hiding around the next bend?!? Get
back into your aunt's house on the double, boy!”

For a moment Harry was confused until he placed the voice: Mad-Eye Moody. It would be just his
luck for “Constant Vigilance” Moody to be on guard duty the day he tried to sneak out; he was the
only member of the Order that could see through Invisibility Cloaks. He tried to reason with the
man, knowing it was probably fruitless, “But Professor, Tonks was going with me – it would have
been safe and...”

“Don't contradict me, Potter, and don't talk to me on the street. I want you to turn
right around and go back home. I'll come along and hear your cockamamie explanation if you
insist.”

Harry turned, defeated, and felt a wand poke into his back. Resignedly, he trudged back to the
Dursley's depressingly perfect house. Mad-Eye marched him all the way back up to his bedroom,
where he cast a Silencing Bubble and ordered Harry to spill the entire plan to him. After hearing
it, he muttered something about 'Over-romantic fools' and pulled his wand out. After doing
something Harry couldn't quite see, he spoke into it, “Nymphadora? What's this I hear about
your authorizing Potter and the Granger girl to take a day trip to Diagon Alley?.... No, it's
*not* all right! You know they're both huge targets for Lord Voldemort and his minions.
Oh... Harry, go call Hermione and tell her not to leave her house for any reason.”

“But I want to see her! I'm sick of being cooped up here with the Muggles,” Harry
whined.

“Well, you're not going to Diagon Alley, and that's final.” Moody snapped. “I'll
work it out with this foolish Tonks – tell your little girlfriend that you and I will be coming to
her house instead and make it perfectly clear that she is to stay indoors until we arrive.”

Moody's tone brooked no refusal, so Harry stole down to the washroom and dialed
Hermione's familiar number. She answered on the second ring, and Harry found himself relieved
that she hadn't left for The Leaky Cauldron yet.

“Hermione? This is Harry. Moody caught me on the way to the train station and says neither one
of us are allowed to go to Diagon Alley.” Harry said hurriedly. He hoped the news might seem less
bad if he rushed.

“Oh, no. Tonks was afraid he might catch you. She was going to try to see if she could get the
guard schedule switched up for today – I guess she couldn't manage it.” Hermione replied
mournfully.

“No, and he's chewing her out as we speak,” Harry added, “But Moody says if you'll stay
put he'll bring me to your parents' house, seeing as it is my birthday.”

Harry could hear the smile break out on Hermione's face, “That's great, Harry! Maybe we
can make a cake or something. You'll enjoy the house, I think and I've just gotten a movie
that...”

But before Harry could hear about the movie, Mad-Eye Movie had yanked the phone out of his hand.
Harry hadn't even noticed him entering the washroom, but he heard the man's request loud
and clear, “You'll have to tell me your address so we can switch the train tickets and find
your house once we get there.” After listening for a moment, he confirmed, “#7 Oakridge Drive? All
right, missy. Potter and I will be there in under two hours. You watch yourself, now, and don't
try to do anything else to invite trouble!” With that he hung up the phone with a flourish and
shepherded Harry out of the room.

“Now, I've given Tonks your list of school books and she's going to Diagon Alley to get
them for you. Neither you nor Miss Granger will be allowed there this summer – there are too many
wizards that want both of you dead.” Moody admonished loudly.

His annoyed voice brought Aunt Petunia out of the kitchen, and she gasped at the sight of her
nephew and the intimidating wizard from King's Cross striding purposefully through her front
hall. “Mr. Moody? What are you doing here? I thought Hagrid promised no more wizards would disturb
us this summer. I really won't stand for it – I'll write to Professor Dumbledore about this
if you don't leave my family alone.”

Harry was mildly surprised to learn that his aunt knew Professor Moody as well, but the man
saved him from thinking up an answer. “We're taking Harry here out for a birthday treat, but
we'll have him back before nightfall. Then, as long as you treat him right, you should be left
in peace for the rest of the summer,” he barked, pulling his invisibility cloak over his head and
motioning for Harry to do the same. Aunt Petunia shuddered and retreated to the kitchen.

Following Moody's purposeful strides, Harry made it to the station in record time. Moody
ducked into a Men's room and cast an illusionment charm on himself to make him look like an
average London Muggle businessman. He then took Harry's ticket up to the counter and exchanged
it for one to Rayleigh Station. Harry heard the ticket agent say they'd have to change to the
London Underground at Paddington and then back to a train at Liverpool Station.

Moody didn't buy a ticket for Harry, and when the train arrived, he subtly indicated that
Harry should follow him onto the train. Apparently he was to remain invisible throughout the trip.
Harry wondered whether this was meant as a security precaution or a punishment. He wouldn't put
punishment past Moody, since he'd seemed incredibly peeved at Harry's carelessness in
wanting to leave the Dursleys. He supposed he ought to just be thankful that he'd been allowed
out at all.

Once the train arrived, Moody ushered Harry o quickly. He gave Harry the window seat and took
the aisle for himself. He would probably be able to scare off any Muggle who tried to take
Harry's spot – and as there was no one else in their car, it seemed unlikely that they'd
have that problem anyway.

However, shortly before the train started to move, a young woman entered and took the seat
directly across from Moody's. It took Harry a moment to realize that it was Tonks. She was
wearing a white Beatles t-shirt as Hermione had said she would, but she had apparently decided to
take the theme to the nth degree. She was sporting an unremarkable shade of brown hair – but it was
styled into a very familiar-looking bowl cut. She had perfectly round 'Lennon' glasses on
as well, but the most amazingly terrifing part was her huge handbag. It was covered with patches,
pins and paint – obviously hand made. All of it had something to do with the band, from album
covers to a “Penny Lane” street-sign.

When she sat down, Moody's face turned even grimmer and Harry could tell that he wasn't
the only one in the man's bad graces.

Tonks, seemed immune to the glare he shot her and chirped in a vaguely American accent, “Hello!
I'm Karen. What's your name?”

“None of your business, miss,” Moody growled.

“Well, that's not very nice, sir,” she replied blithely. “You look like you're having a
rough day – I bet some music would cheer you up.”

“I seriously doubt it,” he groused.

“Well, at least let me try,” she replied, pulling a CD player out of her bag. She fiddled with
the volume so that the headphones would project loudly enough for Moody to hear.

Cheery chords issued forth before the lyrics began, “*When I get older, losing my hair, many
years from now*...” 'Karen'/Tonks grinned at him as the song continued to play.

Moody continued to scowl at her and snapped, “I was eighty-seven on my last birthday; this song
hardly applies to me.”

Unabashed – and, Harry suspected, secretly enjoying baiting him – she replied, “Oops, I'm
sorry about that. Let's try another one then.” She rumaged through her bag again and pulled out
a different CD. She swapped it with the one in the player and bubbled, “I think you're just
working too hard. The stress is obviously getting to you.”

Moody rolled his eye as the Beatles crooned, “*It's been a hard day's night and
I've been working like a dog. It's been a hard day's night; I should be sleeping like a
log*...”

“I'm not over-worked or stressed out, I just don't like noisy, nosy little chits
bothering me on the train!” he boomed over the music. Moody was clearly not enjoying this charade
as much as Tonks was.

“Well, I know one you can't possibly frown through,” she replied, undeterred. She stopped
the CD and switched again.

She winked at Harry's seat as the song began, “*You say it's your birthday? It's
my birthday too*...”

“It's not my bloody birthday, now would you please turn that thing off?!?” Moody thundered,
finally losing his last shred of patience.

'Karen' sighed, “Well, if you insist. You're missing out, though. Anyone who
couldn't be cheered up by Beatles music is clearly too grumpy and unfriendly for his own
good.”

“I didn't like those mop-tops when they were running around making my daughter and every
other girl her age squeal their heads off; I sure don't want to listen to them now,” he
grumbled.

Harry wondered idly whether Moody actually had a daughter. His musings were interrupted by
'Karen'/Tonks's gasp. “Your daughter actually got to see them in concert? How
wonderful! I wish I'd been alive when they were touring. My mother remembers seeing them on the
Ed Sullivan Show and she even got to go to one of their big stadium concerts. She said her ears
rang and she was horse for three days afterward, but it was well worth it.”

Moody snorted and interrupted her reverie, “Where are you headed, miss?”

“Paddington Station, where I can switch to the Underground. I'm meeting my mom and my
boyfriend and my brother near Abbey Road. We're going to pose for a picture just like they did
on the album cover here,” she gestured toward one of her pins, “I get to have bare feet like Paul
did!”

“How lovely,” Moody snipped sarcastically.

“Yes, it will be!” she enthused, “You see, we're on a Beatles Pilgrimage and I just went to
Buckinghamshire to see an old school friend of mine who's married an Englishman.”

“A Beatles Pilgrimage?!” Moody asked incredulously.

“Oh, yes. We've already been through all the relavant sights in Liverpool, and now we're
visiting all the sights in London that are connected to them. It's a dream vacation,” she
finished with a huge smile..

“That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard of!” Moody exclaimed.

“Well then you need to get out more,”Karen replied saucily.

“No, I don't. I need to be left in peace so I can finish this paper before I get into the
city,” he snapped, pulling a blank sheet and a pen out of his pocket.

“You have to start before you can finish,” she parried back. However, she apparently decided
that she'd pushed him far enough, because she turned down the volume a little and put on her
headphones.


When they reached Paddington Station, Moody hustled Harry off the train and toward the ticket
machine. Karen winked at Harry as they rushed off. She followed at a more lackadaisical pace and
bypassed the machine. Apparently she traveled by Tube often enough to have a pass, which Harry
suspected was due to her Muggle-born father. Moody's ease with the machine proved that he had
passed as a Muggle more often than Mr. Weasley did. He even bought two cards and pretended like
he'd accidentally sent them both through the turnstile, giving Harry a chance to squeeze his
way through.

Since it was after morning rush, the station wasn't overly busy and they made it to their
train's platform without incident. When their underground train arrived, Moody hustled Harry
into an empty car. He purposefully bumped Harry into a seat and then stood in front of it, holding
the hand loop and blocking anyone else from accidentally sitting on Harry. This wasn't overly
comfortable for Harry; he could see very little and Mad-Eye regularly stepped on his foot.

He occupied himself on the journey by reading the adverts on the wall opposite him. A travel agency
was advocating weekends in Scotland and he wished he could be heading back to school. A map of the
Underground kept him occupied for a few minutes, tracing their route and marveling at how many
different ways they could have gotten between the two stations.

Then his eyes lit on a life insurance advert that blazed, “What does your future hold?”

Suddenly Harry heard Professor Trelawney's harsh tones echoing, “AND EITHER MUST DIE AT THE
HAND OF THE OTHER FOR NEITHER CAN LIVE WHILE THE OTHER SURVIVES...” as he'd heard them in the
Pensieve over a month before.

The prophecy... his destiny to kill or be killed... Remembering it always made him shudder, but now
he had an additional reason to dread it. He hadn't told Hermione or Ron about it, hadn't
told anyone.

'I have to tell her,' Harry told himself gloomily. 'I told her I loved her
last night. It's hardly fair for her not to know that I'm likely to kick the bucket any day
now. That, or if I'm really lucky, I'll get to murder someone. I'm such a
catch.' *
* Then he realized telling her wasn't the only thing he ought to be worried about.
Voldemort had proved that he was willing to hurt people Harry cared about to get at him. Maybe it
wasn't fair to love Hermione anyway. Perhaps he should nip this in the bud now to keep her
safe. Yes, as soon as he explained the prophecy to her she'd agree that a relationship was a
bad idea. His heart sank.

Perhaps he should even encourage her to date Ron. That would give her some distance from him and no
one would realize how much he cared for her. No, he couldn't do that. It wouldn't be fair
to Ron; Hermione had made it clear that she wasn't interested in him that way. He shouldn't
be used as a shield. They'd just have to put their feelings aside and go on being friendly as
if nothing had changed.

By the time they reached Liverpool Station, Harry was in a right funk. He tailed behind Moody
through the station just as he'd done at Paddington. He nearly ran into a woman because he
wasn't watching where he was going closely enough. Mad-Eye was able to pass it off as his own
clumsiness, but Harry resolved to be more careful. They boarded their train without further
incident and Moody went back to studiously ignoring Harry and reading his newspaper. Harry went
back to brooding about his future and wondering how to tell Hermione about the bloody prophecy.
They arrived at Rayleigh Station before Harry had puzzled out this dilemma, so he decided he’d have
to wing it. He hurried to keep up with Moody as they walked through the town and toward Hermione’s
neighbourhood.

When they arrived, Moody actually turned and spoke to him, “Well, we’re here, Potter. Hermione’s
address is #7 Oakridge Drive.” At those words, an unpretentious home blossomed into Harry’s view
between two similar ones in the quiet neighbourhood. Moody continued, “Go on in and see your
girlfriend; I’ll keep watch out here.”

Harry decided not to correct him about the state of their relationship, then turned and rang the
doorbell as all his doubts about Hermione’s real feelings toward him resurfaced.

[Author's note – I used the Lexicon's essay on the placement of Privet Drive to figure
out what train station Harry would probably use. You can find it here: http://www.hp-lexicon.org/atlas/britain/atlas-b-surrey.html]



8. Part VIII
------------

For bingblot, who asked...


Part VIII

For Disclaimers and author’s notes, see Part I. Thanks for all of your lovely reviews; keep them
coming! I especially want to know what you think of the end.
Harry needn’t have worried that Hermione would act different toward him after his
confession of his feelings for her. When the door to the Grangers’ house opened she let out a huge
shriek and engulfed him in a hug that nearly knocked him off his feet.
“Oh, Harry, I was so afraid Moody would change his mind and not let you come,” she
said, then noticed him and added, “Sorry, Professor.”

“Don’t worry, Miss Granger,” he replied, “Just get Harry inside where your wards will protect
him and I’ll keep an eye out for anything suspicious out here.”

Once the door was shut, Hermione smiled at him with a touch of nerves. “I’m sorry, Harry, I
don’t have anything planned for being here. We had such a great day planned in Diagon Alley and
honestly, I just think Professor Moody is being paranoid…”

“It’s all right, Hermione. As long as I get to spend the day with you I don’t care what we do,”
Harry reassured her.

Hermione turned pink and replied, “Well, since it’s your birthday, would you like to try to make
a cake?”

“Sure,” Harry grinned.

“Don’t expect much,” she warned, “Without magic I’m rubbish in the kitchen.”

“I don’t care; let’s try anyway,” he answered.

They found a simple recipe and started mixing together ingredients. They discussed their
summers, keeping things light until Harry finally built up the courage to say, “Hermione, I need to
tell you something.”

“Sure, Harry, by now you should know that you can tell me anything,” she answered as she sifted
flour into the mixing bowl.

“Well, you know how the prophecy about me and Voldemort was destroyed in the Department of
Mysteries? Well, that’s not the whole truth. Dumbledore was the one who heard the prophecy in the
first place – Trelawney made it – and he let me see it through his Pensieve last year,” Harry said
with a speed that rivaled Hermione’s usual pace.

“You know the prophecy?” Hermione asked with raised eyebrows, “Oh Harry, what was it?”

“Well, it said that a baby would be born at the end of the seventh month, to parents who had
defied the dark lord three times. This boy would have the power to vanquish the dark lord and he
would mark him his equal,” Harry began, brushing his bangs down over his scar self-consciously. “He
would have a power the dark lord knows not, but either he or the dark lord must die at the other’s
hand. So basically, I either have to murder Voldemort or die.”

The mixing bowl crashed to the floor and shattered, making a huge mess. Hermione didn’t even
give it a second look, though, as she enfolded Harry in another giant hug.

“You can’t think this will change anything, can you Harry?” she whispered and led him into her
living room, clinging to him all the way. “What we said last night – that’s still true. I love you,
Harry. You know that love <i>is</i> the power you have that Voldemort doesn’t.”

Before Harry could protest, he found her lips on his. He quite enjoyed the sensation, so he
kissed her back with passion he didn’t know he possessed. He buried his hands in her bushy hair,
feeling overwhelmed at her being in his arms and the softness of her body pressed against his, yet
somehow doing this with Hermione felt more like home than any *place* ever had.

Hermione finally broke off the kiss and giggled slightly, “See? I told you you’re not bad at
kissing!” Harry laughed in spite of himself. “Now about this prophecy – Harry, I know you’re
scared, but it’s really nothing we didn’t already suspect. We’ll find a way around it, I know we
will.”

“But Hermione, it was really specific. It said neither Voldemort nor I could live while the
other survived.”

“Well, Harry, I know you don’t like the idea of killing anyone – even him – but think of all the
things he’s done. If it’s the only way, you’ll make it through somehow. You’ve escaped him four
times already and there’s no way I’m going to lose you now.”

More kissing helped convince him that he really could do anything – even slay the dark lord.
Then he remembered the other problem with them being together and broke off the kiss. “Hermione,
what about Ron?”

“What about him?”

“Well, I think he fancies you. He’s not going to be happy about, you know, this,” Harry
fumbled.

Hermione sighed, “No, he probably won’t be. I don’t want to hurt him, but I won’t stop loving
you just to make him feel better. I can’t. I could no more pretend this never happened than I could
capture a room full of Cornish Pixies without a wand.”

Harry chuckled at the image as he remembered the catastrophic encounter they’d had with the
little beasts years previously. His smile turned a bit grim as he replied, “I feel the same way.
We’ll have to find a good way to tell him, though.”

“I’ll do it,” Hermione volunteered immediately. “I’m the one he fancies, after all.”

“No.” Harry said determinedly. “He may lash out when he finds out and I’d much rather have him
punch me than you.”

“I suppose,” Hermione agreed reluctantly, “I don’t think he’d become violent, though…”

She started to kiss Harry again, but they were interrupted by the smoke alarm. They rushed into
the kitchen to find that when Hermione had pre-heated the oven, something had been on the bottom of
it and had caught fire. They grabbed towels and attempted to fan the smoke out of the house.
Eventually, they managed to get the smoke alarm quieted.

They quickly realized that it wasn’t the only claxon in the area. There was still an alarm
coming from somewhere else in the neighborhood. Harry headed to the door to investigate and ran
headlong into Tonks, who was laden with Diagon Alley bags.

“Wotcher, Harry, Hermione,” she said, passing them the bags. “There are Muggle Bobbies all over
the place and Mad-eye went to investigate. I’m to make sure you two stay here where you’re safe.”
Her eyes fall on the mess they’d left in the kitchen, “Oh dear, what happened here?”

Harry and Hermione blushed guiltily, which Tonks pretended not to notice. “No worries, I can
clean it up in no time.” She cast several cleaning spells and magically repaired Hermione’s
mother’s bowl.

Just as the kitchen was put to rights, Moody came through the front door. “Bad news. A girl was
murdered a block over – at #7 Oakridge Court.”

Hermione gasped, “That’s awful! Do they know who did it?”

“Yes,” Moody answered grimly, “It was a Muggle ne’er-do-well, but the police were baffled
because he had galleons in his possession.”

“No!” cried Tonks.

“I’m afraid so,” Moody continued, “The girl was about the same age as Miss Granger here, had
brown hair, and was only a block away. I think we can safely assume that he hit the wrong target.
They stabbed her in the stomach and carved a lightning bolt into her forehead.”

“Oh this is terrible,” Hermione looked like she was in shock. “It must have been Carlotta. And
it was meant for me,” she finished quietly as a single tear ran down her cheek.

“No, it’s me they’re after. They wanted to hurt you to demoralize me,” Harry growled, hugging
Hermione protectively.

“This is exactly the reason I was upset to find out you two were involved,” Moody snarled. “It
makes Miss Granger even more of a target. You will have to go to Grimmauld Place for the rest of
the summer; they could try this Muggle hit-man thing on you too, Harry.”

Harry nodded, mutely, still holding Hermione as she cried.

Meanwhile, Tonks went to the telephone and called the Grangers’ office. “Penelope? There’s been
an attack in the neighborhood and we’re pretty sure they were after Hermione. Mr. and Mrs. Granger
are going to have to go into hiding as we discussed.” She listened for a moment, “Yes, Hermione is
safe, but you’ll have to tell them about the danger they and she are in. Are you and Oliver
prepared to accompany her parents into hiding in France? Good. We’ll send their belongings along
soon.”

When she got off the phone she turned to Hermione and said, “Your parents will be fine, but you
won’t be able to see them for a while.” Hermione nodded, tears spilling over afresh. “They’ll be
safe with Penelope and Oliver, I promise. Now, Mad Eye, I need you to go to the Burrow; the
Weasleys are likely targets for being close to Harry as well.”

Moody nodded and clumped his way out the door to where he could Apparate. Tonks looked at Harry
and Hermione, still locked in an embrace. All humor had gone out of her face. “Now I need to talk
to the two of you seriously before we set off to Grimmauld Place. Let’s go sit down in the living
room.”

They followed her mutely and sat down together on the sofa. She faced them in an easy chair. “I
was thrilled to find out that you two were in love, but I shouldn’t have been. It’s too soon, and
it’s what Lord Voldemort would see as a weakness he could exploit.”

Hermione started to protest, but Tonks continued unsmilingly, “I have to ask the two of you to
do something to keep each other safe. It’s a huge sacrifice, but I think it’s necessary.”

“What do you want?” Harry asked, “I’d do anything to keep Hermione safe.”

“I’m glad you feel that way, Harry,” Tonks replied sadly. “I’m going to need to Obliviate your
memories of your love for each other.”

“No!” Hermione cried. “Never! I wouldn’t be myself if I didn’t love Harry. I wouldn’t give it up
to save Ron’s feelings, I won’t give it up for my own safety.”

“But, love,” Harry said, hugging her, “If it’s the only way to keep you safe, I think we should
do it. Don’t get me wrong – I want to feel the way I’ve felt about you today forever, but I
couldn’t live with myself if that had been you instead of Carlotta.”

“I’m already a target, Harry,” she argued, “They didn’t know we were romantically involved when
they sent that Muggle nutter after me. I won’t give up my love for you, Harry, I just
**won’t**!”

“It’s not forever, Hermione,” Tonks broke in quietly. “I would enchant the memories into an item
– something dear to you. Then the love would be released at the right moment for it to help Harry
defeat Voldemort. It would be the power that he’s not expecting that way, rather than being
something he can exploit.”

“I hate this,” Hermione cried. “But if you really think it will save Harry in the long run, I’ll
do it.” She turned to Harry, “Before we forget, I want you to know that I love you more than
anything in this world. I don’t think I’ll be myself again until the love is released – I’ve loved
you for too long. It’s too big a part of who I am.”

He hugged her closer, his own tears mixing with hers. “I didn’t realize how much I loved you
until the other night, Hermione. Even though I won’t know it, I’ll be waiting to love you again
with baited breath. Something might happen with someone else, but there’s no way I’ll know real
love without you.”

“All right, now,” said Tonks gently, “What object would you like me to use to store the memories
in?”

“How about this necklace,” Hermione answered immediately. “I wear it constantly to remind me of
my sister. That way it would be with us whenever the love needs to be released.”

“Good idea,” Tonks replied. “Now, I need you to sit slightly apart from each other.” They
complied reluctantly and she cast “*Obliviate*” at each of them in turn. Silver threads like
those in a pensieve spun before her until she cast “*Coacervare* *Recordatio*” at
Hermione’s necklace.

Nothing visible happened except that Harry and Hermione did not return to their embrace. Tonks
put on false cheerfulness and said, “Now that that’s all sorted out, let’s go to Grimmauld Place
and give Harry a birthday celebration he’ll remember, shall we? Then we’ll send Harry back to
Privet Drive, but I think Dumbledore said something about sending him a letter and taking him away
from there soon anyway.”

The teens nodded and went out to the street to catch the Knight Bus. They didn’t notice Tonks
wiping away a tear as they left.

The End.

Author’s Note: I hadn’t originally intended for this to end so sadly. However, after HBP came
out I saw this as a way to make the story not completely AU. It also makes sense to me that losing
her love for Harry (and not knowing about it) could have caused the personality transplant I saw in
Hermione in HBP. As for Harry’s chest monster, well, all I can say is, that’s lust, not love.
“Soulmates,” my foot, Jo, if you don’t mind my saying so (or frankly, even if you do).

As for what happens now, it’s rather up to you. I am writing a follow-up and need a beta for it,
but you can imagine in the meantime... Maybe they never find out what happened because Tonks died
during the war. Maybe Hermione’s necklace activates while they’re on the Horcrux hunt or sometime
later when she really needs it to happen. Maybe Tonks writes a letter telling them how to release
the spell from the necklace, but Teddy doesn’t find it for, oh, let’s say twenty years. Vote for
your favorite option or suggest something else if you wish.