Angelica

A/N: Hi!

Tome Raider’s still the best beta in the world. And my LJ F-List is the reason this is on Portkey.

Standard disclaimers apply

PART ONE – Angels and Demons

Chapter One: Seeking Paradise

The sound of crackling fire echoed in the cave like the clap of thunder, breaking the unbearable silence.

Hermione jumped, barely able to stifle a whimper of surprise, and in spite of the fire felt very little warmth. She didn’t know if it was the cold that chilled her or if it was the gaping hollow at the pit of her stomach still roiling within, threatening to raise her gorge and send it spilling to her sleeping bag.

She looked apprehensively towards the cave entrance. The darkness outside was intimidating, and she wished for a brief moment that she could conjure a door with locks.

Many locks.

That would do no good, of course, but it was the same principle as a blanket pulled to one’s neck, so that Dracula wouldn’t be able to bite one’s neck and suck one’s blood, as if the Count would let a thin sheet of bed linens get in between him and his dinner after going through all the trouble of breaking and entering the room.

“They’re gone, Hermione.”

She jerked in surprise again and immediately chastised herself for being so jumpy. She turned at the sound of his voice. Its tone was tired, even exasperated, but there was no fear, and that at least was reassuring.

Harry had, of late, been a constant pillar of…

Something.

He was always so sure and determined, so focused and unfailing, so relentless and fierce, so brave and almost ruthless. She didn’t know whether to admire him or slap him. She felt equal parts inspired and frustrated. She was capable and confident, yet there were times she felt there was no pleasing him.

“They’re not going to follow us,” he continued.

Something in what he said drew from the cold reaches of her body and unearthed a smoldering pit of coals. A flash of anger momentarily filled her. “They never do, yes? But one day they will, and what are we going to do then, Harry? We always come off these confrontations drained and exhausted. We can only cast so many Patronuses at a time, so what are we going to do when we’re spent and they come after us? I don’t exactly fancy a snog session with a Dementor!”

He was silent for a moment, seemingly unaffected by her anger. He glanced briefly at Ron’s pallid, sleeping form by the fire, watching Ron breathe for what seemed like a long time, long enough for her anger to recede and the cold to settle back in. She struggled with her emotions. She wanted to stay angry. She wanted to be stirred and furious. It was better than the freezing void.

“They won’t come after us,” Harry said quietly. “I won’t ever let them. I’ll always be here to protect—“

“Oh, well, since the Great Harry Potter will always protect us!” Her tone was shrill and sharp, and she became acutely aware of this fact in an instant.

Her hand clamped down on her mouth with a pert slap, shocked at her own words. A soft gasp escaped her before she slinked away from him, shoulders collapsing upon itself, and she began to cry. She hadn’t cried like this since Dumbledore’s funeral. She hadn’t cried, period. Not when other deaths befell members of the Order. Not when she broke her arm and Harry had to set it. Not when Ron Splinched her foot when he Side-Alonged her against her will (Splinching hurt worse than the broken arm).

And the secrets… so many secrets…

It was during these funerals, bone fusings, damning secrets, and Splinch-repair that she learned the endurance. She’d grown quite tough over the last year searching for Horcruxes and fighting Death Eaters. She’d numbed herself to all sorts of pain, and the fact that Harry and Ron seemed to have done the same only made it seem like the right thing to do. The difference between her and them was that she could never completely keep a cool exterior, because she did feel things, and when she thought it appropriate, she showed it. Only, her boys were always very reluctant to make any kind of reciprocal response. Sometimes, she hated it. Most times she just let it be. She thought she was getting used to it—until two weeks ago.

Over the fortnight, she had begun to feel the dark and dank world pressing down on her from all sides. They were finding the Horcruxes and destroying them, but at what cost? They were on a mission that they had to accomplish, and it was a state of mind they seemed to have taken with frightening resolve, even while she dared to believe that things could still turn out alright.

This evening, before they found this cave, they’d followed a lead and came face to face with half a dozen Dementors. It was in their unfeeling, phantasmal gazes that Hermione saw all the pain, loneliness, and fear she’d suppressed these past few months. By feeding on what vestiges of happiness she thought pulled her through this dismal panorama she called her life, she felt that even she had been numbing too many things for her own good, and it awakened in her everything she hadn’t allowed herself to feel.

Now she truly did feel separate from Ron and Harry, and she was lonely for it.

The tears washed what remained of her barriers away. She asked herself what had become of them, and when they’d decided to put their friendship on indefinite suspension.

She missed the laughter and goofing around. She missed Ron and Harry, even if the former was lying just a few feet away and the latter sat right across the fire from her.

They never talked anymore. Everything was just about Horcruxes, the Order, Death Eaters, and Voldemort. It made the secret-keeping both difficult and easy. That was depressing. Everything was so bleak. She and Ron didn’t even fight anymore, and she never thought she’d ever miss that.

Strong arms enfolded her, and she relinquished herself, the rawness of her emotions bleeding into Harry’s shirt as she clung to it in near desperation.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to say that. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean it…”

He hushed her and his breath was warm against the skin of her ear. It spread through her, and she recognized that gentle, comforting tone that Harry used to use. She closed her eyes, nestling into his embrace. His hold on her tightened and she relaxed, leaning against him.

She must have drifted off, because when next she opened her eyes, the fire had receded from its roaring flame to flickering embers. She shifted and found that she was still in Harry’s arms, that even asleep, he kept his hold on her, though lightly, because he was breathing evenly in his own dreams, his back against the cold cave wall.

Gingerly, she glanced at Ron, still pale, still asleep. That last Dementor attack had drained him worse than any of them, but he would recover in a few hours, and of the three of them, he was warmest in his sleeping bag.

She watched Harry in his troubled dreams, the gray light of the moon seeping through the cave entrance and overwhelming their dying fire. She touched his face and he leaned his cheek against her palm then nuzzled the center of it with his nose. His lips, only slightly chapped and pale from the cold, brushed the heel of her hand and warmth shot down her spine.

Her gaze waited for those lips to part, her hand obeying the rogue voice inside her that sought to run her thumb against the soft skin of his lip. He shifted sleepily, his hand stroking the small of her back like an idle caress before he settled back down again, completely unaware of the dying fire at the center of the cave and the fire igniting within the center of her.

Her face grew hot with embarrassment, chastising herself for the barrage of unplatonic thoughts that were suddenly whirling through her mind.

Scarlet woman!

She groaned, rubbing at her eyes.

I don’t even know why I listen to anything Ron says.

It was all very ridiculous, that she could even think of fancying anyone at a time like this, especially if it was Harry.

Such notions seemed silly and useless. There were bigger things to worry about.

And yet, it wasn’t really a repulsive thought. She’d given it a bit of thought before—had thought of Harry in the most unplantonic ways…

A soft laugh escaped her. Scarlet woman… it made her laugh a bit louder just before her laughter dwindled into a sigh. She motioned to leave Harry’s warmth to substitute it with her sleeping bag.

She shifted, but she felt the grip on her arm tighten. She turned, startled. She was even more astonished when she saw him smiling, even while he blinked drowsily as he stared at her.

“What’s so funny?” he asked softly.

She was too mortified of the truth to tell him.

“Nothing,” she breathed, her cheeks hot with embarrassment. “Just thinking. Go back to sleep.” She shifted again, preparing to stand, but his grip tightened again. “What?”

“Nothing seems to be funny anymore, yeah?”

She eyed him carefully and she realized that he missed those days as much as she did. He needed something to laugh about.

Swallowing her embarrassment, she told him some of the truth. “I was just remembering how Ron called me a Scarlet Woman. I thought it was the funniest thing.”

His eyebrow arched, just before he began to grin. “You, me, and your Bulgarian Bonbon.”

That made her giggle. She had almost forgotten about that nickname. She didn’t know which nickname was funnier, hers or Viktor’s. “So that would make me the Swotty Scarlet Woman.” She tried to think of another name, but the only thing that went with Know-It-All was Nymphomaniac. That wasn’t very funny.

He laughed at this even as his gaze on her began to feel more intense.

She was aware of the idle caress of his finger against the pulse of her wrist, but she could also see that he was thinking.

“He asked me about you,” he said, much to her surprise.

‘Viktor?”

Harry nodded. “He wanted to know if you and I were together.”

Something lodged in her throat. “What did you tell him?”

“That we were just friends.”

Her disappointment was vastly astonishing. “Yes, well we were—are.” The blood-rush to her face was palpable and she hastened to explain herself. “What I meant to say—it was just a mistake in syntax—“

“I know what you meant.” He was frowning, but he hadn’t stopped caressing her wrist.

She blushed even more, thinking that she had betrayed herself and the privacy of her thoughts by that little slip-up. There were many things she could keep from Harry these days, but when she let her guard down, she often wondered if Harry didn’t know more than he let on.

Sometimes she wished he would suspect—just so he would ask the right questions and she wouldn’t have to lie to him anymore, but he never did ask, and perhaps he didn’t even suspect. She was always very careful. It was for everyone’s good, after all.

Damn you, Snape…

“I haven’t been much of a friend this past year, have I?” he said.

The realization that he hadn’t figured out her unplatonic feelings was jarring. She felt relief, yet she was also pained by the truth of his words. “I won’t point fingers. We had—have things to do.”

He didn’t seem comforted by this in the least.

“I know it isn’t easy,” she said, making her tone as soothing as possible.

He gave a mild scoff.

Of course she couldn’t know completely. She didn’t have the scar on her forehead. She didn’t have a prophecy hanging off her back. She didn’t have an entire world of wizards depending on her. But she didn’t let these facts deter her from what she had to say. “There are a precious few who actually care for you for your own sake, Harry, but we’re here, and we’re not going anywhere. Sometimes I wonder why I do this and I actually think that I’m doing this for no one but you, you know? I just—I just want you to be alright. Is that selfish?”

He seemed surprised, then his expression softened, and the appreciation she saw in his eyes was almost overwhelming.

She smiled and shifted her hand so that their fingers would be interlaced.

He brought her hand up, pressing it over his heart. “No. I don’t think it is. I’m very—I’m very lucky to have someone like you, Hermione. Thank you. That means a lot to me. You—You have no idea…”

“Don’t ever think you have no one,” she said. She reached out and brushed some of his wild hair from off his forehead, laughing softly as it refused to cooperate.

He didn’t laugh with her, but he seemed transfixed, his gaze never wavering from her face.

He leaned over and she prepared for an embrace, glad that she had comforted him somehow. She was astonished when she found his lips pressed upon hers, his arms wrapping around her to pull her close.

She stiffened in shock, wondering what in the world was happening, but the reality of the situation began to settle upon her. She realized how much warmer she felt, and just how soft his lips were. His body, lean and firm, felt powerful in spite of its scrawny appearance, and that thrilled her to the core, making her wonder what other things were hidden beneath his loose clothes.

Her shock waned, giving way to sheer desire. She relaxed, limbs and body molding against him as she closed her eyes and kissed back. Their tongues danced to a soothing cadence against each other, the pressing of their lips gentle but insistent.

Hermione felt all her senses begin to spiral out of control: It was too hot. She wanted to take off her jacket, then her shirt. She wanted to touch his skin, but his clothes were getting in the way. She wanted to get as close to him as possible, but she didn’t know how.

Every nerve in her body wanted something, and his kiss was fueling it. His hands were stoking it. His body wanted it.

Nothing could possibly feel more consuming than this.

Finally, they had to stop for breath, and it was that moment, burned into her brain, that they met eyes and realized what they had done.

Her yearning for his touch suddenly imploded with her confusion. Mouth hanging open in shock, she stared at him, and his expression mirrored hers. She knew, without a shred of doubt, that they were both suddenly confused about what had just happened.

Her thoughts were still jumbled when something in his eyes dawned, like certainty, and she knew he was going to lean in for another kiss. She was just deciding that this was something she wanted to happen again when Ron stirred in his cot.

It wasn’t so much that she was afraid of what Ron would say if he caught them. There was a bit of that fear, but she felt an inherent obligation to see to him, now that he was waking from his sleep of exhaustion.

She turned to look at Ron; so did Harry. They were both of them concerned for him, even if moments before nothing mattered but the two of them.

Ron mumbled something and then he seemed to call to her, which was quite surprising.

Stifling her astonishment, she went to Ron, telling him she was there, and that everything was going to be alright.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Awkward, Hermione thought as she sat primly eating her packed sandwich with Ron and Harry.

Every time she looked at Harry and he looked back, everything she remembered of their kiss would flare to life all over her body. Her cheeks would grow hot, and she’d glance uneasily at Ron, sure that he would figure out what had happened and—

What? She didn’t know what, but it was making her feel extremely uneasy. But the idea that she would tell Ron what happened felt even worse. What would she say? How would she say it? Ron, Harry and I snogged? Please don’t be…what? Angry? It sounded ridiculous. Why would he be angry? It made absolutely no sense.

Besides that, she hadn’t even gotten the chance to speak to Harry about it. She wasn’t so sure if he wanted to. They couldn’t seem to find a moment to speak privately, not even at night. She usually waited for Ron to fall asleep, but she’d drift off, or else Harry would drift off first. Each time she went searching for firewood, she hoped Harry would show up behind her, telling her they had to talk, but he never showed, and when she went back to camp, she’d find him speaking to Ron about nonsensical things, like Quidditch, or the weather, or something completely boring to her.

Naturally, her insecurities mounted. Did he realize that he’d just rather ignore what had happened? Did he, under the light of the sun, think that the moonlight had played tricks on him that night and that now he didn’t find her… kissable? Did he realize that he’d only kissed her because he missed Ginny?

Then there was Ron’s strangely changed attitude towards her. He kept asking her if she was alright, or if she needed an extra blanket when it was time to sleep, or if the fire was lit enough for her, or if she wanted some of his mince pie. It was very confusing to her, and at first all she could do was wonder about it, asking herself when he was going to strike with a big fat argument. Even before their cold spell, he hadn’t treated her with any extraordinary tenderness, much less consideration. When Ron had held her during Dumbledore’s funeral, it was pretty much because she gave him no choice.

She was wondering if maybe that last Dementor attack had affected him, too, and that because the Dementors had come so close, perhaps he…

Resolved to be nice to me from now on?

Perhaps the three of them weren’t the same for it…

She had been mulling his solicitous behavior all week, and finally, giving up on trying to figure it out, she had acted on instinct and told him, scathingly, when he asked after her again, that if he didn’t stop asking her if she was alright, she was going to jump off a cliff and really give him something to ask about. He then responded with a snappish, “Fine! I’m sorry for caring! You obviously don’t need looking after!” And so she asked him what that was supposed to mean, and it all deteriorated from there.

So they were fighting again, and except for that first time, all the rest of the fights had been started by Ron, but as mad as it made her, she sometimes thought that fighting was better than the uncomfortable silences that preceded it.

Her mother used to say that uncomfortable silences meant than an angel was passing through.

Hermione didn’t think these awkward pauses particularly heavenly.

She stifled a sigh and reached over the fire to stir the pot of chocolate, checking its consistency. “I think it’s been overcooked.”

“You can make Polyjuice potion but you can’t make hot chocolate?” Ron asked.

She scowled. She was in no mood for this. The tension she’d been suffering all week with Harry, Ron’s odd behavior, and the constant bickering, was really trying her patience. “Not the way mummy makes ‘em, ickle-Ronniekins,” she replied with a vicious smile.

From the corner of her eye, she could see Harry’s eyes rolling.

Ron’s ears reddened. “Keep my mum out of this.”

She frowned. “Then get off my back. You’ve been at me all week.”

“Well, you started it!”

She gave an exasperated sigh. “Oh, for goodness sake. What are you—six?”

That seemed to stop him short and he finally looked chastised.

She shot him a glare just before she held her hand out for his cup. He slapped it into her palm without looking her in the eyes and she filled his cup with the chocolate. She handed his cup back to him.

Still fuming at what he said about her cooking, she grabbed the bag of marshmallows from her pack and flung it at him rather forcefully. The pack hit Ron square in the face and he sputtered in surprise.

Harry choked on a laugh and Ron frowned, hitting Harry’s shoulder.

“What are you laughing at?” Ron demanded.

It looked as if Harry was actually going to answer but something seemed to have caught his eye behind her, and she turned, curious.

It was an owl, flying erratically through the air. Even from that distance, Hermione already knew it was Pig and she was instantly worried. Nobody sent them owls unless it was bad news, and knowing that this one came straight from the Burrow…

Pig crash-landed several feet from Hermione and she anxiously sought the tiny owl. She found it staggering behind some brush and she scooped him into her arms. He held a letter and a small package. Taking both from the owl, she hastily handed them over to Ron.

They waited as Ron read the message and Hermione watched him pale.

“Bill’s house was attacked,” Ron said dazedly as he tore off the wrapper from the accompanying package.

Hermione stared at him, horrified.

Fleur and the baby!

Her eyes stung at the mere thought of little Julien hurt from the attack. “Julien--?”

“He’s fine. Fleur’s hurt, but she’ll be okay. Bill’s in serious condition,” Ron said mechanically, pulling a broken watch from inside the box.

Hermione knew without asking that it was a Portkey. She felt a pang, torn between wanting to go with Ron to see his brother and knowing there was a grave need to keep their mission in operation. “Oh, Ron… I’m so sorr—“

“I’ll go by myself,” Ron continued, crouching over his rucksack and putting things in it. “You and Harry have to keep going.”

Her brow pinched with worry. “Are you sure, Ron? We can go for a bit then—“

“Do it for Bill,” Ron said abruptly.

Hermione didn’t say anything else after that. They helped Ron pack, and Hermione found herself inanely thinking that she hadn’t even thought about knitting Julien anything for the coming winter, like she had thought months before when she first laid eyes on the beautiful little baby.

Harry hadn’t said anything at all.

Hermione thought with some disdain that he probably felt guilty about the whole thing.

Blaming himself, likely.

Ron was ready to leave very quickly, and when he was all packed and prepared, he and Harry shook hands, nodding at one another as Harry gave Ron an encouraging pat on the shoulder. It was the first flash of their true friendship that Hermione had seen in months.

Ron turned to her and it looked like he didn’t know what to do. He held out his hand and she rolled her eyes, throwing her arms around him and planting a kiss on his cheek.

“Take care, Ron,” she said. “Bill will get better. I know it.”

She felt Ron’s embrace tighten, like he didn’t want to let go, his face buried against her shoulder. She wasn’t sure if he was crying. He could have been, but when he pulled away, he gave her the same odd look he’d been giving her all week, just before he began to pick a fight with her. She half expected he’d start bickering with her again, but he didn’t, and he backed away towards the clearing while his gaze never left her face.

She cocked him a questioning frown.

He shook his head and held the broken watch. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

She raised a hand to wave but he’d activated the Portkey and he was gone.

A little confused, she turned to Harry. Perhaps he had answers. But Harry’s gaze was nowhere near where Ron had departed. He had his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans and he was looking at his trainers while one foot was digging grooves into the dirt.

They had both gone mad.

She sighed and turned back to their camp. It was on the way back she realized that she and Harry were finally alone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It did not turn out as she expected.

When she got back to camp and nervously began to put things to rights, she had thought Harry would finally begin to speak to her about what happened. She waited patiently for his return, keeping herself busy putting things away and removing all traces of camp from her end.

After a bit, when he still hadn’t returned, she pulled out a book and began to read, making notes as she found what appeared to be useful references that she could look up when next they got themselves to a library.

When Harry still hadn’t returned after she’d filled two pages of notes, she became worried, and setting her things down, she hastened to begin looking for him. It was at that time he reappeared through the bushes looking none the worse from wear.

He caught her gaze briefly before he hastily looked away, shuffling to his things. “Ready to find Avalon?”

She laughed in spite of herself. “Sounds prophetic, when you say it like that.”

“I’m quite over-tired of prophecies, thanks.”

She fidgeted uneasily, wishing she hadn’t said what she said.

He showed no other sign of wanting to talk.

Taking a deep breath, she went to help him. After a brief debate on whether she should bring up the subject of their kiss, she decided she wasn’t going to. Harry had many things on his mind, and she felt he didn’t have to deal with his needy best friend who happened to be dying a thousand deaths every time he looked at her and said nothing.

Of course, he didn’t bring it up. He brought up the Horcruxes, and her research, and her notes. He even brought up Quidditch, and she wondered blithely if she would survive the day without pulling all her hair off in frustration.

They reached a rocky hill, and while she’d gotten used to hiking all kinds of terrain, the inclines were always difficult for her.

Harry got ahead of her and held out his hand for her to hold.

She took it, telling herself not to be so self-conscious about having physical contact with him. She’d held his hand more times than she could ever remember, so this shouldn’t be any different.

But of course it was. In the last week since their kiss, they hadn’t touched. She hadn’t thought about it then. She hadn’t had the opportunity to wonder whether he had avoided her on purpose. She’d been so busy obsessing about other things, and besides that, Ron had supplied every helping hand she needed, which just made it seem even stranger.

Now she had her hand in Harry’s, and she had a ridiculous urge not to let him go.

He loosened his hold and she clung to it desperately, the hysterical words, “I’m not going to let you get away this time!” poised at her lips.

“I won’t let you fall,” he said softly, reaching for her arm instead and pulling her closer to him.

She was flustered by it. Of course, she hadn’t been afraid of falling. She just wanted to hold his hand. Now he held her close as they climbed and all his focus was on keeping their balance.

She tried to bring up the subject of the kiss twice, but whenever she began with a very benign, “Um, Harry?” He’d respond with such a distracted, “Yeah?” that she didn’t bother to go on.

Besides, each time she thought about it, it seemed silly to bring it up.

Darkness began to fall and the coldness in the air was unmoving.

Hermione looked up at the murky Irish sky. It was going to rain. “We need to find cover and set up the tent.”

He followed her gaze and nodded. “You’re right. Come on, then. Into the woodland.”

He led the way, and weaving through the trees as quickly as they could, they soon found a fairly secure spot. He put up the wards while she began to set up the tent. He finished before she did and he helped her with her task. They had the tent up just before the first drops began to fall and shrieking slightly, Hermione hastened into the magical tent, Harry diving right after her as the rain overhead pelted the tent’s canvass material.

It was, by no means, as big as the Weasley tent during the Quidditch World cup, but it was at least high enough for Harry, five feet and eleven inches, to stand in and spacious enough to put two sleeping bags side by side comfortably, three when Ron was there. They set up a cramped changing station towards the back. They couldn’t have a regular fire, but Hermione’s bluebell flames dancing in a handy clay pot generated considerable heat to fill their compact tent, and while the ground was uneven beneath them, there was at least a sewn sheet of canvas between them and the woodland floor.

She at least felt secure that there would be no flood crawling into their hidey-hole.

Harry pulled out two cans of hearty soup, his eyebrow quirking at her questioningly.

It made him look roguish and her heart thumped a bit faster. She nodded as she let the knowledge of her and Harry being in an enclosed space sink in.

They didn’t usually have canned Muggle meals because Ron kicked up an awful fuss about how it tasted like regular food that had something die in it. Harry and Hermione, used to it, didn’t think it was that bad. With Ron absent, they couldn’t be bothered to cook something up. The cans of soup would do just fine.

They heated their soup with a bit of handy magic and ate it straight from the can. Hermione curled and uncurled her toes as she itched to bring up the subject while they ate.

She didn’t. He didn’t. The only sound was the pelting of the rain.

She had to stifle a sigh several times through the course of their meal.

After dinner, they got ready for bed and as she stood behind the changing station, she swore several oaths the entire time she was cleaning up, brushing her teeth, and changing into her clothes for the next day’s hike.

Then it was Harry’s turn in the changing station, and she muttered awful things about him under her breath as she slipped into her sleeping bag and pulled the covers up to her neck. She was exhausted. Sleep should come easy.

Behind closed eyes, she listened to him come out of the changing station and slip into his bag. She was terribly aware that his bag had been placed right beside hers. He could have taken the other end of the tent, and the thought that he chose to sleep beside her excited her briefly, then again, she recalled how she had told them it was best to sleep as close together as possible since body heat would do well to keep them warm. She couldn’t believe she was able to say that with a straight face.

And then there was nothing but the sound of rain and a bit of thunder.

Several minutes later, she wasn’t feeling as sleepy as she thought she’d be.

This time, she let loose her exasperated sigh as she turned over in bed to find a better position.

She was astonished to meet Harry’s gaze. He didn’t have his glasses on, which was expected since he always removed them when he went to bed, but still. The nakedness of his eyes was always astonishing. He had such striking eyes. Beautiful, even, but she thought maybe she liked the glasses. It was such a part of him that it was always difficult to picture him without them.

So how long had he been staring at her like that? She hadn’t heard him shift since he got in. Had he been watching her all this time?

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked. Or said. She wasn’t sure.

“Too many things on my mind,” she replied.

He was silent for a bit. “Bill’s going to be alright.”

She was loath to admit that she hadn’t thought of Bill once since Ron left them. “I hope so.”

“Do you miss him already?”

She thought that a supremely odd question. “Ron?”

“Yeah.”

She frowned. “Well, I don’t know, Harry… maybe. Er, do you miss Ron?”

He frowned right back. “Um, I don’t know. Am I supposed to miss him? It’s only been a day…”

“So you can assume I miss him but I can’t assume that you do?”

“It’s not—but you’re…”

Her frown became fiercer. “I’m what?”

He hesitated, his gaze on her wary. “You two have been fighting again.”

Her lips pursed. “Yes. I know that all too well. What’s your point?”

Harry fidgeted, his gaze roaming everywhere but at her. “Nothing, just… d’you fancy him?”

Her eyes widened in surprise and outrage. She was feeling splotches of warmth on her face. She was both indignant and embarrassed. “I’m going to sleep. This is nonsense. I didn’t even talk to Lavender and Parvati of such things when we roomed together all those years. You are being such an idiot, Harry!”

It was the culmination of her frustration. All day, she had wished he would initiate conversation with her regarding their private moment a week ago, and now he speaks to her of this rubbish. She was generally a patient person, but she couldn’t stand nonsense. It was just the kind of thing she got into fights with Ron for.

Irritated, she motioned to turn around in her sleeping bag and show Harry her back.

He sighed, his hand poking out of his sleeping bag to hold her by the shoulder. “Sorry, sorry… it was stupid. I didn’t—“

She shot him a glare and tried to shove his hand off.

“Hermione…” he whined soothingly. “Don’t be like that. I said I was sorry. I didn’t mean for it to sound so casual. I just—seriously… I need to know.”

She stared at him, blinking in surprise. “Why?”

Red spread across his cheeks and atop his nose. He looked like he’d rather clean Blast-Ended Skrewt pens than answer her question. “I just do… so do you?”

“What kind of person would I be if I fought with someone I fancied? I’m not six years old, Harry.”

Something settled on his expression. It looked like relief, but she was too annoyed to process it.

She clenched her teeth. “This is ridiculous. I need sleep so leave me alone.” She turned over, pulling the covers to her neck and shutting her eyes, grumbling unsavory words under her breath.

She felt fingers gently combing through her hair and supremely peeved, she rolled her eyes and looked over her shoulder. “What—“

His lips cut her words off.

She sheepishly realized that it took about two seconds for her to forget that she was annoyed with him and start responding to his kiss.

His tongue ran along her lower lip and she opened her mouth to accept it. She had craved for his kiss every day of the week, even as she obsessed about whether or not he wanted it just as much, but remembering was never quite as soft or stimulating as the real thing.

She turned, slipping her arms over his shoulders to pull him closer.

He made a sound, like a happy sigh, and his sleeping bag must have unraveled at the zippers, because he was draped over her, and the weight of his body on hers was pleasant.

His hair was soft and thick between her fingers. His shoulders were firm and felt broader than they looked. All of it was sending wonderful pulses through her, but when he sucked on her tongue, her heartbeat increased in tempo and she moaned in response. She had never made such a sound before, and she felt herself blush, especially when Harry pulled away and looked at her with panicked eyes.

“Sorry!” he cried.

What in heavens name is he apologizing for? she wondered. She didn’t bother to respond to it. She just pulled him close so they could keep doing what they were doing. She sucked on his tongue, and he moaned, and that seemed to settle his fears with respect to that.

She noticed that his breathing had gotten rather heavy and that got her both excited and apprehensive. As inexperienced as she was in the matter of sex, she knew what heavy breathing meant.

Her anxiety increased momentarily when Harry’s lips began to travel along her jaw then her anxiety diminished when his tongue began to make lazy circles on her neck.

She never realized how heinously good it felt to be kissed that way. His tongue and lips were warm and velvety, and all she could do was close her eyes and savor it with a soft sound of pleasure. She must have slipped off her sleeping blanket, because Harry suddenly had access to the edge of her shirt and jumper.

She felt the rough pads of his fingers caressing her skin just above the waist of her jeans. Heat flared when his fingers brushed over the skin beneath her bellybutton and she bucked slightly, making a soft surprised sound.

His lips were nursing hers again, but his hand had traveled to the back of her thigh, slowly hitching it around his own hips. Sighing into his kiss and lost to the sensations, she didn’t realize she was pressing her hips against his until he thrust gently back and she felt how hard he was.

Her anxiety spiked, scattering the pleasure she had gotten lulled into. She pulled away in a bit of a panic. “W-Wait…”

Her protest momentarily died under the renewed intensity of his kiss, but she struggled to keep her focus.

“S-stop,” she whispered, even while she stared back into his dazed, droopy gaze.

He blinked. His breathing was still deep, but his gaze was slowly regaining sobriety. “What is it?” His voice was soft, but she noted pure confusion, as if he was asking if he’d done something wrong.

She wanted to tell him that he seemed to be doing everything right, which was exactly the problem. She wasn’t ready. She’d never done this before. She—quite frankly, didn’t know what to do.

“I’m a virgin, see,” she blurted out. She was mortified the instant she said it, and judging by the look on his face, so was he.

His eyes widened, and she felt him begin to struggle to remove himself from her.

Suddenly driven by pride and sheer stubbornness, she refused to be the cause of his embarrassment, and she refused to delve on the fact that she was humiliated by her admittance. She held him to her, lips pursed.

“I wasn’t—“ he stammered helplessly before pursing his own lips and turning even redder. Whatever his protest was, he wasn’t going to pursue it. “I’m sorry.”

She frowned. “No apologies. I wasn’t asking for one. Just—Just go slow.” She blushed. She couldn’t help it.

He appeared to gulp. He was blinking, too. She had made him very uncomfortable.

Way to ruin a moment, Granger, she thought with great disdain. She didn’t want it ruined. She wanted to keep kissing him, but she didn’t know how to tell him that she didn’t want it all to happen so fast. It felt good, and it was pleasurable. She wanted it to matter, or at least make it seem like it mattered, so that whatever happened, she could look back and say her first time was special.

Special is good, yes? Special with Harry is even better.

She had a feeling that Harry hadn’t gone all the way with Ginny, because really, it was only logical. He hadn’t had the time—not that the shower-room telling in the Gryffindor dorms implied that it took a lot of time, but still, Harry didn’t seem to possess that “experienced” swagger, nor did he seem to have the savvy, to have gotten to that point in his short relationship with Ginny.

That thought that they were both inexperienced made her less embarrassed about speaking out about their current situation.

She smiled shyly, touching his face lightly with the pads of her fingers. “I’ve never gotten kissed like that by anybody before,” she whispered, almost apologetically.

There was a hint of surprise in his gaze. “Never?”

She sniffed. “Who did you think I made out with? Viktor? McLaggen?”

He looked away, shamefaced.

She gently led his gaze back to her. “I’m not quite sure how it goes from there. I’ve heard about it. And I’ve even read about it. But I’ve never…”

He still looked uncomfortable, and he seemed to be at a loss at what to do next.

Well, she thought pragmatically, I always say that experience is the best teacher.

With inexperienced uncertainty, she slipped her arms back over his shoulders and pulled him into a kiss. She noted his brief surprise before he began to respond.

The tension in his shoulders waned, and when his weight began to feel pleasant again, she gently pulled away.

Whatever discomfort he felt earlier seemed to have dissipated, and as he stared down at her, his lips red and swollen from their kiss, she could see the slightest hint of a smile.

They kissed several times after that, each time more intense than the last, but when she felt his hand cup her breast, and the gentle squeeze he gave it sent desire shooting down her body, she got nervous again.

He might have felt it. He could have, because he pulled away, though he did so gently, and he didn’t look the least bit uncomfortable about it.

“It’s late,” he said, the intensity of his gaze unspeakably exciting.

She felt his fingers brushing lightly to push back some hair from her face. The tenderness of the gesture and how much it affected her shook her. She didn’t realize she could develop such strong feelings for someone after sharing so few intimate moments.

“It is,” she whispered back, for lack of anything better to say.

He leaned over, burying his nose in the crook of her neck and shoulder. She could feel his breath on her skin, and the warmth of his lips, though he wasn’t kissing her. He was just settled there, and she found that she liked this closeness almost as much as snogging. “We should sleep.”

His breath tickled, and she squirmed, laughing softly as she shied away. “Yes, we should.”

He looked up, and there was a smile on his lips. He shifted back to his sleeping bag, but he gathered her against him in a half-spoon of sorts.

Her bluebell flames couldn’t ever make her feel this toasty, she thought, smiling as she snuggled back against him, keeping the cold away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning dawned and Hermione crawled out of Harry’s arms, got ready for the day, and checked the weather outside. The rains had long stopped, but everything was still soaked and dripping. The ground was soft and muddy. The soil clung to the bottom of her boots like thick icing as she walked about, assessing the newly bathed terrain.

There was a very thin fog. Nothing to be concerned about, and she could still see a fair distance, even through the trees. She pulled out her map and compass, comparing the compass with the ley lines she marked on the map. After a few more minutes, she decided to head back to the tent.

She Scourgified the mess away from her boots before she stepped over the tent’s threshold.

Harry was just then coming out of the changing station and putting his glasses back on. He blinked up at her with mild surprise. For a moment, she was afraid he would go about the day again as if nothing had happened the night before, but then he flashed this smile—it was very small, and somewhat wearied, but it was there, and in some strange fashion, she used it to convince herself that he was thinking it.

She didn’t need to push, for the moment. She could delude herself into thinking that he remembered it, and she thought maybe she could use that to get her through the day without obsessing about it.

“I think Avalon’s not a long way away,” she said, beginning to put her things away. They never sat for breakfast. Breakfast could be consumed as they walked. “We’ll find the mists in a few hours and the priestesses will let us through.”

“Why does it have to move around, anyway?” Harry finally said. “Why doesn’t it stay in one place?”

She chuckled. “Because Avalon is far more mystical than anything we know, and it would seem mundane to have it stay in one place. It must move. And I think the priestesses prefer it that way. Less tourists.”

He cocked a smile at this. “And when we find Avalon…”

“You can destroy the last Horcrux.” She looked a bit apprehensively at the extra pack they were dragging around with them. Inside it was Slytherin’s locket. None of their usual methods to destroy Horcruxes affected Slytherin’s locket in any way. It could have been because it was the last. It could have been because it was made to be stronger. But just because a thing seemed indestructible, it didn’t mean that it wasn’t. Magic could make things impenetrable, but there was always magic to counter it. The abbey of Avalon kept in their vaults a sword that made kings; a weapon that brought peace; a blade that destroyed evil when wielded by a righteous hand. The sword had many names, but it was best known as Excalibur. The last king that wielded it held paradise, known as Camelot, for twenty years before discontent, treachery, and betrayal defeated him.

“Doesn’t the sword choose its wielder?” Harry asked, his skepticism still evident.

Hermione shrugged. “Yes, but I’m quite confident you’ll be given the honor.”

He didn’t laugh, but he didn’t much look like he believed her, either. Still, she knew he didn’t think her idea very bad. He was, after all, there with her, looking as eagerly as she was.

“So where do we go from here?” he asked.

She was quite sure that he meant that in the literal sense, rather than the romantic one. Still, it was nice to daydream. “We head further up the mountains. We can make it just before nightfall if we don’t waste time.”

“What could we possibly waste time on?”

Hermione reddened at the answers that popped into her mind, and from the look on his face, it looked like he had answered his own question.

He looked frantically about him before he dropped to his knees and, hastily, began to fold his things.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They traveled diligently up the rocky mountain paths, talking every once in a while of mundane things, like Professor Binns, who had just recently, they heard, retired. And then they spoke of classmates, those who finished Hogwarts and those who chose to leave school early and join the cause against Voldemort. They spoke of Percy, and then the twins.

The moment they finished with the subject of Molly, Hermione was fretting over the thought of Ginny, and just how much she meant to Harry.

Even with the events of the previous night, Hermione couldn’t get it out of her head that things would have been different if Ginny were with them. It was different enough having Ron. Perhaps if Ginny were around, Harry would never have thought to kiss her in the first place.

It was very frustrating, Hermione thought. When she had her books, and her quills, or when she was in class, she felt invincible. Absolutely powerful and in control. In the face of knowledge, she felt supremely untouchable, and nothing anybody could say would ever bring her down. But the very moment she laid eyes on the likes of Ginny and Cho, she forgot that she was Hogwarts’ brightest student and could only think that if she was only half as pretty; only half as athletic; perhaps half as interesting…

She found herself glancing at her hands. They were soft enough, and delicate enough, but then she remembered Ginny’s hands, how they were strong and sure, yet delicate still in spite of all the Quidditch.

Hermione thought of her arms, and how limp they were, so bereft of proper muscle and tone. They were just a tiny bit plump from inactivity, so unlike the shapely limbs of Harry’s ex-girlfriends.

I’m not the least bit his type.

Her obsessing made her slightly depressed.

“You alright?” Harry asked after a while.

It would be most embarrassing to tell him. “Yes. Just thinking.”

“About what?”

She couldn’t bear to speak her insecurities out loud. “Silly things. I was—erm, remembering Ginny, and how she said she had this potion she applied to her shampoo so that weather like this wouldn’t crinkle her hair. I supposed I could use some of that now. This fog is making my hair poofier than ever.”

He said nothing, and the moment she turned away from him, she wanted to hang herself, wondering how she ever got up the nerve to say such things.

“Your hair looks fine,” he muttered. She barely heard it, and she wasn’t even sure if she was imagining things. “It looks nice that way.”

Red faced and a bit humiliated by the fact that she had seemed like she was fishing for compliments—worse, that Harry had decided to throw her a line—she hastened her stride. “I wonder how she’s doing. Ginny, I mean.”

Harry shrugged. “Ron’s with her, and they’re close, so Ron’ll make sure she’ll be alright.”

“Hmm. You still think about Ginny?”

He didn’t quite jump to answer. “Once or twice,” he finally said.

Hermione struggled to stamp back her jealousy. Why was she doing this to herself? If she found this conversation so unbearable, why did she have an uncontrollable urge to talk about it? “Did you think about her last night?”

He stopped in his tracks, and Hermione whirled to face him, her facial expression neutral.

She was astonished to find his gaze stony. Almost angry. And then he was walking again, and he wasn’t looking at her.

It was only when he passed her that she realized how horrible her question had been.

She motioned to speak, but she was too embarrassed by what she had done, yet she couldn’t help thinking that she had needed to get that out of her system, and she knew no other way except to come out and say it.

They walked on, and this time, the silence was so heavy that Hermione was afraid that she would buckle under the pressure.

Minutes turned to hours, and still Harry hadn’t spoken beyond asking her which way and how much farther. When half the day was gone, they reached the foot of yet another rise, but the mist was thick and there was a presence in the air around them.

She took out her map and noted the intersecting ley lines on their approximate location. There was a red circle around that part of the map, and she knew that somewhere nearby would be Avalon.

Hermione looked up at the thick fog ahead, at first uncertainly, and then surely. She walked on, taking Harry by the hand.

“Is that—“

She nodded. “Avalon should be around here. Don’t let go of my hand, Harry. Legend says that only a woman can lead a man to Avalon. I don’t know if it’s true, but I’m not going to risk losing you in this fog. We can’t be separated.”

He didn’t respond, but his grip on her hand tightened, and soon, if not for that contact, she wouldn’t have known that Harry was there at all.

She walked cautiously, careful that she wouldn’t fall off the mountain. She didn’t know where she was going at this point, but she had to go on faith, and what felt right. Things were getting very hazy.

They’d been walking for what felt like an hour when Hermione saw it. A glow. Like candlelight.

It pierced through the thick soup of clouds, and Hermione was lured to it.

Holding Harry’s hand firmly, she pulled him with her, frantically making for that light.

They approached it, and slowly, as they got closer, the mists began to part.

When Hermione’s vision cleared, she found herself transplanted, reality diminishing in the face of a mystical paradise.

TBC

A/N: I'd like to give credit to Marion Zimmer Bradley's The Mists of Avalon, the book that made me think of Morgaine differently. ^_^

On that note, there might be a slight twisting of known Arthurian legend here and there. So if you spot something that's different from the Arthurian legend you know, that's mostly because I am evil and I bow to Zod.

Thanks to Tome Raider's exceptional advice and mad beta-skills, this story reads much better than it first did. Like loads better.

Standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter Two: Women of Avalon

A temperate breeze blew, taking with it the cold in Hermione's bones and perfuming the air around her with the smell of sweet berries and vanilla.

She closed her eyes to savor the scent before taking in the sights of this mystical paradise.

Avalon was a vast garden of exotic blooms and charming greens, crawling vines and shaped hedges. Birds of vibrant colors and varied songs flew and perched about in trees and bush, crisscrossing with merrily fluttering butterflies of yellow buttercup and crimson.

The garden spanned several kilometers on all sides, but nestled in the middle of the expanse were two structures, like two thick spires pointing to the heavens.

One was a massive tower made of jeweled stone. It was the only way Hermione could describe it. The thick slabs of rock shimmered, like a thousand tiny stars were embedded on its face. The monolith had windows, but it was hard to say, under the light of day and shadowed windows, whether anyone was inside it. Beside the tower was a smaller structure made of dark marble, like tektite. Inscribed on its face were ancient runes that Hermione couldn't read. She recognized the symbols, but she couldn't figure the syntax out.

The presence of Harry washed over her as he stepped closer, his aura surprisingly ascertainable to her.

“Wicked,” he breathed, eyes transfixed to the two towers.

“Hello there.”

Hermione whirled to face the unexpected voice, shocked astonishment rocking her backwards and against Harry. He grasped her arm to keep her steady, but he too looked anxiously at the stranger that approached them.

The lady, holding a scepter twice her length, smiled at them serenely, never minding their surprise. At the tip of her staff sat what appeared to be a crystal, and it seemed to be on fire. The woman didn't seem to think this unsettling. She did, in fact, lower the scepter and place her hand around the crystal, extinguishing the flame without getting scorched.

Hermione stared at her a moment before letting her thoughts drift to logic.

The magical flame had to have been the light that led them to where they were now, and this lady, whoever she was, certainly looked non-threatening.

The woman looked to be a bit older then them; probably in her mid-twenties. She had dark brown hair that fell in perfect ringlets down her shoulders. She wasn't beautiful, but she looked so calm and undisturbed that she was easy on the eyes. She wore dark blue robes, a crystal pendulum pendant around her neck and over her modestly covered bosom, and she appeared, for all intents and purposes, to be pregnant.

Hermione blinked. “Oh… erm, hello. H-How do you do?” It was all she could think of to say.

The woman smirked, first at her, then at Harry, then at their joined hands. She arched an eyebrow, but Hermione couldn't tell if it was one of pleasure or disdain. “Welcome, daughter of Eve. I am Brigit.”

Daughter of Eve? thought Hermione with a slight frown. What the hell is that supposed to mean?

When the silence stretched, Harry nudged her gently and Hermione pulled herself from her thoughts.

“I'm Hermione Granger,” she said. “And this is Harry Potter.”

Brigit looked them both up and down with barely veiled boredom. “Yes. I know. Come along then. Mind the Azaleas.”

It hardly surprised her, really, that Brigit seemed so unsurprised by them. Hermione did, in fact, believe that they had been expected, because after all, there was no reason for Brigit to be waiting so far into the edge of Avalon carrying a glowing crystal in the mists, unless of course she was expecting someone to see it and use its light as a beacon.

The priestesses of Avalon were rumored to be seers in their own right, and while Hermione's idea of Divination was still “history repeats itself,” she was most willing to give these ladies the benefit of the doubt.

Brigit turned to walk and Hermione hastily followed, dragging Harry with her. She wasn't going to risk letting go of his hand.

“You needn't worry about Harry getting lost,” Brigit said after a while. “He's in Avalon now, and so long as you want him to be here, he's not going anywhere.”

Hermione shot Harry a shamefaced look, and she let his hand go.

Harry frowned but said nothing. He merely sighed and tore his gaze from her, his eyes looking straight ahead.

Their walk wasn't long, and as they neared the towers, Hermione realized that there was a whole expanse of small cottages and walkways surrounding the foot of the tower where women and a few children roamed free.

Several women, dressed like Brigit except for the pregnant cut of her robes, greeted her hello, passing glances at Harry in a most nonchalant fashion. Some wore a pendant similar to Brigit, but most did not. All the women were engaged in some productive preoccupation, like sewing, knitting, reading, writing, playing an instrument, or drawing. In the background, Hermione could hear a very faint sound, like music. It was pleasant, and it sounded like real voices, not a recording.

A child squealed with laughter and spilled on their path, followed by the handful of children in the yard who were giggling delightedly. Most of them were girls, and there appeared to be only one boy.

Brigit dodged the children without a care, letting them play as if they bothered no one.

A girld child looked and stared at Harry. “Oooh. A big boy.”

She couldn't have been older than five, but her voice carried out through the yard.

The children began to gather and Hermione had to hustle Harry forward. She didn't want to get delayed.

Brigit led them into the towers, and it was even bigger on the inside than it seemed on the outside. There were more women walking about, but they all seemed to be engrossed in reading, walking, and praying. None of them looked up to pay them attention.

They were led up a flight of stairs, and then through a mostly empty hallway where there appeared to be doors alternating the walls on both sides.

Brigit stopped midway through the long hall. She gestured to one door. “That shall be your chamber, Hermione.” She gestured to a door on the opposite side. “That shall be yours, Harry.”

And that seemed to be it. Brigit began to walk away.

Hermione was a bit flustered. “Erm, ma'am—um, priestess—“

Brigit turned to look at her patiently.

Hermione barreled on. “We're not planning on staying very long. We're in a bit of a hurry, you see…”

Brigit nodded. “Oh, I know.” Then she turned to leave, as if the matter were settled.

Hermione pursed her lips. She honestly wanted to stamp her foot and say, “You're not listening!” but she restrained herself. She turned to Harry, thinking that he would share her frustration. It threw her off to see him opening the door to his room and walking in.

She frowned, following him, and she found him looking around the clean chamber, with the soft bed and the smart writing table, the walls with a moderate shelf of books, and a view on the balcony outside the French doors.

“Nice,” said Harry, as if they'd just arrived in a resort. He set his pack down and fell back on the bed.

“Harry!”

His eyebrow arched questioningly.

She motioned to begin her rant, but she supposed he had the right of it. There was no point in complaining. They were in a comfortable place that appeared to be safe. They hadn't been thrown into any dungeons and Brigit appeared to know everything. Even if they wanted to, they weren't going anywhere.

Her shoulders slumped. “Never mind.” She walked wearily to the bookshelves and saw books about Quidditch and defensive spells. There were a few works of fiction, as well, mostly mystery novels. They were the kinds of books Harry would be interested in.

Just how long do they expect us to stay here?

“Where do you think all those children came from?” Harry asked.

She looked over her shoulder at him, shooting him a look.

He reddened. “Oh, you know what I mean. You can't tell me that these women got pregnant by themselves.”

“Of course they didn't get pregnant by themselves. You aren't the first man to step into Avalon, Harry.”

“Yeah, and they just come here to impregnate the women then leave. Is that what you mean?”

She had to admit that he had a point, twisted as it was. “I'm sure that's not the case.” She tried not to think about whether Harry was contemplating that scenario more than he ought to. “Anyway, I'm sure I'll be able to find out all about this place when I get to my room. My bookshelves ought to have more information about that. You can take a kip while I—“

“Hermione, can you just please settle down for a bit? We've been hiking all day and I really just want to sit and—and do nothing for a while.”

She felt the slightest bit impatient. “That's fine, Harry. You don't have to do anything, but for my part, I'd rather—“

He sat up in bed and sighed. “Why did you ask me if I was thinking about Ginny last night? Honestly? It really pissed me off. Do you think I'd do that sort of thing?”

That was severely rattling. She blinked, like a deer caught in headlights, and she almost expected the bone-crunching collision of a car.

If he was angry at her earlier, he didn't seem to be, anymore.

She fidgeted and tried to organize her thoughts. How to begin?

Perhaps sensing that he couldn't ambush her for an explanation, he tiredly motioned for her to come closer, patting the space on the bed in front of him.

Hesitantly, she sat. His gaze was penetrating, and she actually began to feel guilty. She hadn't meant to be mean to him, but she supposed she shouldn't have spoken so hastily. She shouldn't have given into the impulse that had been so driven by her insecurities.

“Well?” Harry asked. He wasn't going to make it easy for her.

She reddened. “I'm really sorry, Harry. I didn't—I wasn't thinking—well I was. Too much, I suppose. I shouldn't have said anything.”

He frowned. “But you'd still be thinking it—that I'd—I'd kiss you like that and I'd be thinking about some other girl. I can't believe you even thought I was capable of such a thing!”

Her eyes widened, horrified that he was thinking it was him that was the problem. “It's not like that at all! I'm just—Harry, I've been dealing with—with this all week. I couldn't quite understand where you're coming from. Last week you kissed me, and then you pretended nothing happened, and I really couldn't bring it up. I was just so afraid you decided to ignore it—hope it would go away. And then last night—it was really wonderful, and this morning we didn't talk about it again. At first I was fine with it, but I got to thinking, and thinking, and… it just went down hill from there. The more I thought about it, the more I—“ She smirked somewhat bitterly. “I'm not even your type, Harry. I don't like Quidditch, I don't have exotic eyes, or exotic hair. I like to study, and read, and if I can, I'd rather stay indoors. I'm bossy and I'm not popular with the boys… I just couldn't figure it out, is all. And honest, I really didn't think you were thinking of some other girl while you were kissing me. That was—that just came out at the last minute.”

He was still scowling. “Merlin, Hermione, why do you have to make everything so complicated?”

She didn't deny it, and she had spent most of her life cultivating dignity in the face of her many quirks. “It's my nature. I couldn't help it.”

He remained unmoving for a few heartbeats before his scowl waned and he gave a defeated sigh. Then he smiled, again with its weary undertones. “So explain it to me, then, how you can know my type more than I do?”

It wasn't the kind of thing she had expected, and really, she almost thought Harry was being absurd, asking that, but then he had a point, didn't he?

“I like your hair,” he continued, tugging gently at a lock, “and I like your eyes. I like Quidditch, but it's a sport, Hermione. It's not as important as fancying someone who doesn't care for it as much. Besides, you show up for all my games. And since I know you don't like it, I think it's the sweetest thing anybody has ever done for me…”

She stared at him, mesmerized. “Fancying?”

Hermione, that was the stupidest question on the face of this earth.

He reddened, looking bashful all of a sudden. “That's usually the case… you know, when you snog someone.”

“Well, of course…” She wished she could run and hide. She was so embarrassed.

“I'm sorry you thought you had to ask me about Ginny,” he said in an even softer tone. “I wasn't—I wasn't thinking about her when I—it just wasn't like that. You believe me, don't you?”

She nodded. Of course she believed him. She had already decided she had been a great big berk for asking him that question, but it didn't change the fact that she had a reason for being neurotic. His brooding silence was driving her crazy, and perhaps it worked for him, but it was terribly hard for her to cope with that.

“I'm going to ask you another terrible question,” she said. “Please don't get angry.”

He sighed and gestured for her to go on.

“Did you regret it at some point? Kissing me last week? And last night?”

He shot her a frown, but he answered definitively. “No. Never. Merlin, Hermione!”

“I'm sorry!” she cried. “It's just—why don't you want to talk about it—“

“Everything's just a bit complicated right now, you know? Things are happening and—“ He sighed again, running his hands through his hair.

Hermione's mind understood, but her feelings were making her aggravatingly confused.

“Fine then,” she said evenly, getting to her feet. “I suppose I'm making too much of a big deal out of this, and I suppose I should be worrying about more important things. After all, I'm just the swotty Know-It-All; the bossy nag who knows nothing about Quidditch—“

“It isn't like that at all and you know it…” he said quietly, holding her by the hand. “Some things… they just happen and you can't always explain the hows and whys, at least not immediately.”

She knew this, but she didn't know if she could deal with it now. Some of her anger waned, but she needed some time to process his refusal to discuss what she felt needed discussing. She was a bit tired at the moment to “understand.”

“And you say I complicate things,” she muttered. “Look, I'm going to try to get some reading done. You get some rest, Harry. If you need anything, I'll just be in my chamber, alright?”

She turned to leave and she ignored the weary sigh he expelled as she wrenched her hand from his grip. If he didn't have any patience for her itty-bitty dramas, as opposed to the humungous angst he was liberally dumping on her shoulders, he could take his broody self and stew on it alone.

She marched out of his chamber and into her own where she found the selection of books to be more to her liking. There was a reading chair by her balcony and she made herself comfortable, curling up with a book, pad, and quills.

It was difficult to concentrate at first, but soon enough she was well-focused on her text.

It was almost dark by the time she looked up, and pushing back her anxieties about the amount of time they might have already wasted in Avalon, she resolved to try to find something to eat.

Wonder if Harry would like… oh, yes, I'm supposed to be angry at him now.

But she couldn't find it in herself to be so cold.

Grumbling, she freshened up and resolved to fetch him before she looked for the kitchens.

Swinging her chamber door open, she was greatly surprised to find Harry struggling to hold up a tray laden with food while appearing to try to knock on her door.

They stared at one another in clear astonishment for several seconds before Harry began to redden frightfully.

“Erm, thought you might be hungry… found the kitchen and, um, raided it…”

Whatever bitterness remained in her heart evaporated completely.

He is so…

“Thoughtful,” she said, more charmed that she was willing to admit. “I was just about to get you to hunt up the kitchens. Here. Let me get that for you.”

He cocked a smile, looking quite pleased with himself. He evaded her attempt to try to take the tray from him and led himself in, setting the tray down on the desk and dragging the desk by the bed.

“How come you have a fancy reading chair and I don't?” he asked, glancing at the chair and the mess of books around it.

“Because,” she began, climbing the bed and sitting cross-legged on the covers, “I was lucky and you weren't. The shelves, however, are spelled like the Room of Requirement. I've been reading up on Avalon—“

“Of course.”

She dealt him a glare but her heart wasn't in it. She was too endeared by his thoughtfulness to be snappish. “I read that while the entire island is basically enchanted, like Hogwarts, it's still just like any Wizarding castle. It has its secret passages and rooms, but it's really the people in it that matter. Are you listening, Harry?”

He was busily spreading jelly on some bread as she spoke and didn't appear to hear her, but he replied. “At every word. Keep talking.”

She smiled. “Avalon is basically a priory in worship of a Goddess. It's not clear to me who this Goddess is, but my research indicates that it is the same Goddess Arthur Pendragon worshipped dancing naked before the Beltane fires before he had to convert to Christianity.”

“Dancing? Naked?”

“Just checking to see if you're paying attention,” she said with a sly grin.

He laughed. “I said I was! Stick to the facts, Hermione! So same Goddess. Who is it, then?”

“Celtic Goddess. She takes many shapes and forms, and therefore has many names: Bel, Rhiannon, Cerridwen, Branwyn, Gwynn ap Nod… just some among many, but as one Goddess, they often call her Great Mother, or Creator of All. Anyway, that's hardly important. What matters is that priestesses come here with a common calling: To serve the will of the Great Mother. Some priestesses have special callings, and this is why priestesses, once they join Avalon, take a Goddess name that corresponds with their abilities.” She reached over the edge of the bed and grabbed a book from the floor. She was getting into this big time, but Harry seemed interested enough. She hauled the heavy book up with a grunt and was about to sarcastically comment on how helpful he was when she saw him staring at her backside with clear appreciation and a hint of smoldering desire.

She felt her face grow hot and her stomach fluttered with excitement.

She let on that she didn't notice and cracked the book open to the page with the list of Goddess names. She pointed to it. “See here? There's Brigit and it's the name the Great Mother uses when she's the Goddess of agriculture, arts and crafts, divination, enchantments, fertility, fire, healing, knowledge, love, motherhood, spells, psychic ability, witchcraft… almost everything. And see, Brigit, from earlier, seemed to be quite a few of these things. She is pregnant, therefore she's fertile and is about to become a mother; she seemed unsurprised about many things, implying that she knew of them beforehand, and she was there, carrying a beacon, to lead us through the mist, so she knew we were arriving before we came.”

“That's actually quite interesting.”

She nodded. “It is. The head of the priory is named Morgana le Faye. All Head Priestesses since Morgana le Faye's time took her name in honor of her legacy. Unlike the legends, they don't think Morgana le Faye is an evil, opportunistic, incestuous hag. The history of Avalon clearly states that Morgana was a woman of great compassion, power, and femininity. She wasn't evil, and she certainly didn't want to take her half-brother's throne. She did, however, sleep with him.”

Harry made a face. “Ew…”

“By accident. They were separated at birth, met at the Beltane fires and sired Mordred. Even Mordred didn't want to take Arthur's throne. Mordred loved Arthur, but something happened—and Morgana herself couldn't explain how it happened that Arthur died by Mordred's sword. Anyway, Morgana lived the rest of her days here leading the priory, and she was beloved by everyone.”

“Did the books say anything about Excalibur?”

“I found many things about it. The books say that the Lady of the Lake is its keeper, and that she chose to give it to Arthur. Before Arthur died, he told Sir Bedivere to throw the sword back into the water and the Lady of the Lake took it back. There's some reference to Arthur some day returning with the sword to save Britain from a terrible threat, but there's nothing in the books to indicate how we'd be able to coax the sword back from the Lady. I might try to ask the Head Priestess once she sends for us. She might know something…”

Frustrated, Hermione took a handful of grapes and began eating them while immersing herself in deep thought.

“I'm worried,” she said after a bit. “I just want to destroy Slytherin's locket, because that will mean Voldemort would be mortal, which means we can… make him go away.”

His eyebrow arched. “We… can make him go away?”

She reddened. “Seems bloodthirsty to say `destroy,' and I know that if it wasn't for that bloody prophecy, you'd rather not be destroying anybody.”

He sniffed. “Oh, I'll destroy him, alright. We won't. I will.”

She frowned. “Harry—“

“You're not part of the prophecy.”

“Harry!”

“It's not that I want to do it alone,” he said with quiet conviction. “I wish—I don't know. If I can bring an entire army with me when I have to fight him, I would, but even if I wanted to, I don't think fate would let me have it so easy.”

“I already told you that you don't have to be alone.”

“Yeah, I remember. I can never—I won't ever forget that you said that. When you did…” A fond smile spread his lips and he looked bashfully at his hands. “Well, I kissed you, didn't I? I just felt… I don't know what I felt, but it felt good, and I wanted to kiss you really badly, so I did.”

She was feeling so many things for him at that moment. She felt an overwhelming sense of compassion—a need to hold him close so that he didn't have to feel so burdened. But she wanted him to hold her too, just so some of her anxieties could melt away at his embrace. Most of all, the lost look in his eyes, the way he smiled, and her remembrance of how he had looked at her just a few minutes before made a potent mix.

Resistance was most assuredly futile.

Leaning over on her hands and knees, she sought his lips and kissed him. She felt no resistance from him in the least, and almost immediately, he had gathered her in his arms and pulled her in for a deeper kiss.

Responding came so easily for her that she figured there was absolutely no reason for them to go on talking. She removed his glasses with almost expert ease and he let her, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, and didn't even look to find out where she set it down.

Fingers raking through his hair, she let her tongue slide against his while they pressed lips upon lips. He made a maddeningly wonderful sound from the back of his throat, and suddenly the feel of his hands on the small of her back felt inadequate. She squirmed, adjusting herself to straddle him. His hands traveled lower to her bum, and she conveyed her approval with a soft moan.

He was breathing heavily again, but she found that it didn't alarm her the way it had the night before, and she pressed her body closer to him, her hips flush against his, his head cradled in her hands while they kissed.

Her fingertips tingled to touch more of him, and she experimented with one hand dipping down the hem of his shirt and lifting it to trace the contours of the skin on his back.

By the sound of his moan, he approved, and she felt his back muscles bunch briefly while he tipped them over, her back against the soft bed.

Her heart raced, but she felt no anxiety, even as his hardness pressed firmly against her; even as his hips thrust ever so slightly, almost cautiously. Her hand kept exploring the dips and ridges of his skin, his shirt lifting higher as she did so. Her own boldness excited her, and she found that other parts of her body were useful for touching him, like her socked foot, which was sliding slowly up and down the back of his thigh. He moaned again, and she realized that everything Harry was doing was in response to her touch. She was leading him, and that gave her a sense of power.

Harry pulled away with a gasp, and she watched him—feeling intoxicated with her new discovery—as he pulled off his shirt and fell upon her again, his lips over hers and his tongue sweeping in her mouth, almost hungrily.

She couldn't help the tiny smile that lifted the corners of her lips, even as she kissed him back. Her hands, perhaps realizing the new liberties it had, traveled down his spine and found the loose waist of his trousers. Her fingertips hit boxer, and perhaps drunk with whatever it was they were generating between them, her hands pushed the garter aside and slipped beneath his pants.

Hermione had never held a man's bare arse against her palms before, and she hadn't the slightest clue about what a good one felt like, but she was amazed how something so smooth to the touch could feel quite solid.

Harry gasped again. “Oh, damn.”

For a moment, she considered apologizing, but the completely powerless look in his eyes filled her with accomplishment.

“D-Don't—“

She felt an inkling of embarrassment as she slowly realized what she had done. “I-I'm sorry,” she whispered, her panic going on a slow climb. “I just wanted to know what it felt like.”

He blinked a bit, obviously not expecting that. But he seemed to recover quickly, as Harry was apt to do when he stumbled, and he leaned over, likely to continue on from where they left off. “Don't stop,” he whispered, just before their lips met again.

She didn't, and she kept exploring her newfound patch of skin, the occasional thrusting of their hips increasing in frequency.

His hand slipped over the front of her, cupping her breast and squeezing before lowering further to the hem of her shirt. Her stomach fluttered, and when his hand slipped beneath her shirt, brushing against her ribs and then the lace of her bra, that moan of approval escaped her throat again, just before the sensation of Harry's bare hand on her breasts sent her senses reeling.

It felt wonderful, but in a few seconds, her enjoyment began to get tainted by her insecurities. She suddenly wasn't very sure about the shape of her, of whether he thought her breasts nice enough to touch. She had seen other breasts, of course. In the dorm rooms, all but her wore skimpy, showy nightdresses when they weren't starkers in the shower rooms. She was always very shy about her body, or as she liked to say, she kept herself reasonably decent the moment she stepped out of the privacy of a shower stall. She had tried not to stare at the other girls, but of course she couldn't help it when they walked around in nothing but their knickers, gossiping and laughing as casually as they did walking fully clothed down the hallways.

She had spent many of her years comparing, and of course hers were never as nice, never as perky, never as round, or never as pretty.

It was while she was lost in these thoughts that Harry, oblivious to her musings, began to unbutton her jumper.

By the time she realized it, her bra was fully exposed and Harry's tongue was dipping between the valley of her breasts.

Her thoughts scattered as her back arched and her arms wrapping around his neck. She was acting on instinct, and all she knew was that it felt good.

He made a sound of approval, just before he pushed himself up and away from her.

Her brain felt too addled to process his actions the first few seconds, but then she realized he was staring down at her, watching her as she breathed to catch up on her desire. His eyes rested on her bound breasts, and she felt horribly self-conscious.

The blush that settled on her cheeks spread all over and she attempted to cover up, tugging at her jumper.

Harry's brows knotted in confusion, just before he gently pried her hands away by their wrists. His eyes seemed to take her in and she swore that he was admiring her. There was nothing in his expression to justify her earlier fears of inadequacy, and gradually, she relaxed under his gaze. She grew so comfortable that she wouldn't have minded in the least if he asked to remove her bra, but he didn't, and so she asked him, still a bit shyly, but with inner certainty, if he wanted to see all of it.

He swallowed, looking a bit nervous, but he nodded, and she arched a bit, preparing to remove the rest of her jumper and then reach behind her awkwardly to undo the clasps. She was surprised when Harry helped peel her jumper off and then reached behind to undo the clasp himself. She giggled softly when he fumbled, unable to undo the clasps with one hand.

“I'm a right klutz,” he muttered sheepishly.

She pushed herself up by one elbow and used her other hand to twist the clasps loose. The bra sprung free and her heartbeat increasing in tempo. She became all too aware that the moment that small garment was removed, she would relinquish a great part of her self-control and entrust it to him.

The bra slipped off and she had to toss it lightly aside, and for a moment, it looked as if he could stare at her all day, but then his lips fell upon her with arousing enthusiasm, and his open-mouthed kisses on her neck caused a pleasant ache to blossom down below, just beneath the zipper of her jeans.

She wanted that ache satisfied, but she wasn't sure if she was ready to go that far.

When his mouth began, unhesitatingly, to taste her breasts, the ache intensified, and out of sheer instinct, she began to thrust her hips against him, pressing the ache against his hardness. The pressure felt good and a moan escaped her.

He groaned in response and it almost sounded tortured. He pushed back more intensely, almost painfully, and his shoulders tensed, his loud moan muffled as he sucked on the skin of her shoulder. He shuddered then went perfectly still.

Slightly confused, and still aching with desire, she asked, “What's wrong?”

He looked up from her shoulder, utterly red in the face, and he couldn't look her in the eyes. “I—um… oh, God…”

The mortification in his gaze only confused her for an instant. She knew in the next second what had happened, but instead of feeling annoyed by it, which was probably what he expected, it made her feel so terribly good about herself. She was, after all, a woman driven by success.

“It's alright,” she whispered. She felt rather wanton, and her desire was still raging. She paused briefly, thinking about her options, and was, in the next second, surprised to realize that she was wholly unashamed of her unwholesome thoughts. There was absolutely no way she could turn back and let her desire go unsatisfied, and while she had never ever experienced touching herself, Lavender and Parvati had joked about it many times, how they'd needed to “polish themselves” off once a while. This lead to the inevitable discussion that sometimes, a man could help this process along in about the same manner.

Still swimming in her haze of desire, she unbuttoned her jeans, and with her trousers loosened, she took his hand and guided it into her knickers.

Harry looked like he was going to pass out from shock, but when she felt his fingers on her clit and she guided him just so to move it in a certain way, she found her neck arching and a moan escaping her throat at the wonderful sensations.

Harry didn't seem to need that much prompting after that. He pushed her jeans and knickers off part way to give his hand more access as he began to press circles against her. She gasped as waves of pleasure assaulted her. He got a bit excited and pressed too hard for a few heartbeats and she told him to go easier in a voice so sultry that she wasn't sure if it was still her talking, or if she was suddenly possessed.

The circling motion of his hand continued, but when she felt his fingers slip gently into her, she thought her head would explode.

“Oh—Oh, Harry! Oh—“

She came, and her hips bucked off the bed as she pressed her legs together, neck arching. She didn't know how she managed the acrobatics of it. All she knew was that it felt so good, and the sense of release was amazingly explosive.

It was nothing like she'd ever felt before.

She collapsed on the bed, panting. She felt so utterly liberated, and she liked it exceedingly.

“Wow,” Harry breathed. “That—you—looked amazing.”

Even bathed in these excitingly new feelings, she was surprised by his words, and she wasn't quite sure how to respond. As she began to wind down from her high, she began to feel self-conscious, and then quite shocked with herself.

She shimmied back into her clothes as casually as she could, because Harry was still watching her with barely veiled amazement, even scrambling to put his glasses on, and he still seemed completely enamored of her body. It was a bit unnerving, but she didn't want to make the situation awkward for him, even if it felt a bit awkward for her.

Sitting up, she buttoned her jumper back on and ran her fingers through her hair to settle it. She figured she looked a fright, but Harry didn't seem inclined to complain in the least.

She decided to stare right back, seeing as he still had his shirt off. He was a bit thin. That—she knew—would never change, but he was no longer painfully skinny, and the lines of his muscles were exquisitely defined. Their constant hiking, the relatively healthy diet they had on the road, and the supposed free time he had spent training with spells and hand-to-hand combat with the Aurors had kept him in shape.

He looked downright sexy shirtless.

Now she wasn't quite sure what to do next. Neither did he, for that matter.

A knock on the door jolted them both, and almost by rote, Harry hastened to the door.

“Harry!” she hissed, grabbing his shirt frantically from the floor and holding it out.

Cursing softly, he shrugged it back on, raked his hand through his hair (as if it wasn't tousled enough), and opened the door.

It took a moment, and from behind Harry, Hermione could see no one, but Harry shifted slightly and she saw a child—a boy, it seemed, and he was looking up at Harry in awe.

“Erm, hullo,” Harry said.

“Mum said you're to come to dinner in a bit. I'll come get you and the lady in fifteen minutes to show you where the dinner hall is.”

Harry fidgeted unsurely. “O-Okay.”

The child grinned. “I'm Ezekiel. Everyone calls me Zeke. Are you—are you older than thirteen?”

Hermione was too astounded by the oddness of the question to do anything but stare at the child in wonder.

“Um, I'm going on eighteen, actually.”

“Whoa… wicked. I'll see you later, then. Almost eighteen… wow.” He turned and sped off, probably to tell all his friends that he had spoken to an eighteen-year-old boy—someone so much older than thirteen.

When Harry shut the door, Hermione gathered her bearings.

“We'll have to get ready for this dinner,” she said, the blush on her cheeks only now making itself known to her. She reached for her rucksack and began to ruffle through it. “I think perhaps I could put something together that's half-decent for dinner with a High Priestess.”

Harry's hand was suddenly on her shoulder and when she looked up at him, he pressed a kiss to her lips. She could only close her eyes and let him.

When they pulled apart, he said, “I'll see you later, alright?” He said it softly, but it held a world of meaning, all of them wonderful to her.

She nodded, watching him fondly as he left the room.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dinner, it appeared, was not a communal affair.

Hermione had expected they'd be led to a hall, much like the Hogwarts Great Hall, where all the women and children they saw in the courtyard would be gathered to have a hearty meal.

It turned out the dinner she and Harry had been invited to was exclusive and somewhat formal, if not for her and Harry's awfully rugged dinner wear.

The women that sat on the table were as old as, if not older than Brigit appeared to be, and at the head of the table sat a woman elder than everyone else, though she was by no means nearly as old as McGonagall. They all had on the robes of blue. Only the varying shades and textures of their hair offered a break from the uniformity. If it weren't for that, Hermione believed that they all looked alike, different shades of skin and all that.

The same calm and serenity sat on their features, and Hermione found that oddly alluring. To be so much at peace that it showed? She couldn't help but be a bit jealous.

Zeke left them in the dinner hall and Harry sat awkwardly beside her, just one seat away from the woman at the head.

She smiled approvingly at Hermione. At Harry appraisingly. She introduced herself as Morgana, Head Priestess, just as Hermione expected.

Avalon was known as the “Isle of Death,” for indeed, it was the burial ground for kings, but the grandeur of its grave's occupants eclipsed the fact that a priory, very much alive, guarded its hallowed earth. It did not bother the priestesses. They rather liked their privacy, and Morgana, after introducing the half-dozen other priestesses on the table, made clear note of this fact.

“It is not everyday that we let ourselves be found Hermione,” said Morgana. “Most of the time, we evade discovery. We take in strangers in need of assistance, usually when they find themselves collapsed and weakened from traveling so far into the forests, but that's not so much a regular occurrence, either.”

Hermione felt for a moment that she had intruded and perhaps seeing this in her expression, Morgana smiled.

“You and Harry are no trouble to us, dear, which is precisely why we did not resist your discovery. Brigit did, in fact, offer a beacon through the mist, yes? She knew you were coming and advised that we should welcome you. She's an excellent seer.”

Hermione nodded, overwhelmed by the honor.

“Though I must admit,” Morgana continued. “We seem only too eager to show ourselves when there's a man involved, yes?” Her eyes twinkled as they shifted to Harry, and the other priestesses on the table laughed softly in their own fashion.

Hermione blushed with him, and remembered how history told of the boy who would be King of Camelot. Harry wasn't going to be king of anything, but she did say, even if teasingly, that he was way up there with King Arthur.

“You need the sword,” said Morgana.

Hermione was beginning to wonder whether they needed to say anything at all, with Morgana knowing everything. “Yes, ma'am.” She nudged Harry underfoot.

He stammered with a “Yes, ma'am,” of his own.

Morgana smirked, gaze falling upon Harry. “You'll have to hope the Lady of the Lake would give it to you.”

Hermione could absolutely tell that Harry didn't know what to say to that. Neither did she.

“Is there any way,” Hermione began, “that Harry could… convince the Lady to give it to him?”

“Probably, but we never know what her motivations are until they happen. She lent the sword to Arthur, the boy who would be king, and it seemed to make sense that he had need of Excalibur before and during his reign, but we only knew that after the fact. When Arthur returned the sword to the Lady, it hadn't made a reappearance since. Perhaps Harry here would like to be king?”

Harry's eyes widened in horror.

Morgana chuckled. “No? Then I do not know what could convince the Lady to lend him the sword. Do not despair, though. It's not an impossible thing, for the Lady to decide to give the sword over. It has happened once and it may very well happen again.”

Harry motioned to speak, but hesitated. Hermione had to nudge him encouragingly to go on.

“S-Sorry,” he said. “But how does one know she—you know, wouldn't?”

Morgana shrugged. “We don't, but Hermione found us when we haven't let anyone else find us in one thousand five hundred years. That has to count for something, yes? I suppose I have a good feeling about you two. The Lady may favor you in the same way. Stick around. It's not a bad place to be, anyway.”

Hermione pursed her lips. This was beyond the realm of foreseeable logic, and there was absolutely no way they could stick around and wait for something that might not happen.

“You like it here, don't you, Harry?” Morgana asked.

Harry blinked in surprise, glancing cautiously at Hermione.

She dealt him a glare, as if to warn him that the wrong answer would get him in trouble with her. She didn't need these priestesses thinking that she could be won over through Harry. He shouldn't even think of encouraging them.

He swallowed but replied. “It's peaceful. I feel safe.”

Wrong answer.

Yet Hermione couldn't entirely blame him for it. It was nice to feel safe and at peace, especially since what awaited them out there was a power-hungry mad man who wanted to kill him. Still, she wasn't entirely pleased with his answer and she made him know it through the exasperated release of her breath.

He gave her a small shrug of resignation.

“Of course you do, dear,” Morgana said. “This is a wonderful place. We've brought many outsiders into these walls, and often it's because we know they need our help. We're a refuge. We heal the sick and give ease to those in pain. You have nothing to worry about when you're in Avalon.”

Hermione frowned. “Yes, we understand that, and we are very, very grateful for the hospitality you have shown us, but please understand also that we cannot stay here longer than—“

“Avalon is a strange place. It can do many things. Things that, you might find, work to your benefit. There are, in fact, many things that Avalon would do for you if you need it bad enough, but you'll have to trust in its wisdom. It doesn't always go the way you expect. Be at ease. There are books aplenty for you to learn from. Harry may spend his days contemplating the favor of the Lady of the Lake if he so wishes.”

“Can the island make time beyond it stand still?”

Morgana's eyes twitched a bit, as if Hermione had completely missed the point. “If the island so decides for you, it might. It's not unheard of, is it? There are Time Turners that manipulate the past and future, and we've had priestesses who swear that time, for them, had stood still outside of Avalon.”

Hermione refused to be sidetracked. She had to make them understand their situation. “We need to destroy a Horcrux.”

“Of course you do. It's an abomination of life. Only women can make life, and share it. It's why we're so powerful.”

It was an interruption, but Hermione patiently let it go unnoticed. “We need to do it as soon as possible. I don't know how to make the Lady understand this. Can you help us?”

“Other than accommodating you, giving you advice about life and love, spiritual development… I cannot help you in anything else. I'm sorry, Hermione, but while the Lady of the Lake favors us, she does not take us into her confidence. Her reasons have always ever been her own.”

Hermione did not ask more after that. She was a bit too upset, and everyone else went on with dinner as if all things were settled.

She ate in silence, and perhaps sensing her mood, no one addressed her. They all spoke to Harry, asking him questions about the state of Quidditch, and the Ministry, and other everyday things. Harry answered them all politely as he ate. By the end of dinner, all the women have decided to take Harry into their special care, as was often the case with Harry and mothers.

Everyone left dinner together, but before Hermione could completely retire with Harry, Morgana stopped her briefly and said, “Do not fret, Hermione. There was a reason you were brought here, and those reasons are always good. If the sword is not given to you or to Harry in three days, you can go, and I shall send for you if the Lady decides to bequeath the sword after that.”

Hermione appreciated this offer and she smiled gratefully at the priestess. It was not an ideal plan, but what can she do?

She and Harry walked up the chambers together, and she was lost in pensive silence.

As they approached their chambers, Harry sighed. “You know there's nothing we could do about it, right? It's out of our hands.”

Hermione wasn't as surprised as she should be when Harry knew exactly what she was thinking. “But—“

“You have to let it go, and you have to take things as they come. Don't get stuck on what you can't do.”

She gave an exasperated sigh. “That's your thing. You thrive on split second thinking and `winging' things. I have a plan. I need for it to work, because if it doesn't, we'd have to start from square one, and I don't know if we have time for that. There has to be a way for the Lady to—to cough up that sword!”

He shook his head, seemingly completely frustrated with her, but he didn't contradict her. It would be pointless, anyway. They'd just be arguing in circles.

She took a deep, calming breath. “I'm going to keep reading. There's bound to be something I can find in those books. Perhaps if I read through some of Merlin's texts… there's some scripture to prove that Merlin prepared Arthur to be worthy of that sword…”

Harry placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. She looked up at him questioningly.

“Get some rest, Hermione,” he said. “The books will be there when you wake up tomorrow, I promise.”

At first she considered being stubborn, but after seeing the concern on his face, she could only give him a contrite smile. “I just need to do something.”

An amused smile cocked his lips. “Oh, you've done loads.”

She had to wonder what he meant by that, exactly. His words warmed her, but whether it was because she appreciated the praise, or because she might have imagined the surge of desire in his gaze, she couldn't quite pin point why.

She couldn't promise him that she'd get some rest, but she did relish the concern he had for her. “I'll see you in the morning then. Bright and early.”

There was disappointment in his eyes in spite of his grin, and she wondered—amazed, if he hadn't been hoping to get invited back into her room. For a brief moment, she wanted to take what she just said back; telling him instead that she might like some company before turning in for sleep, but then some of the snogging-haze cleared and she became thoroughly shocked with herself—or else she tried to be.

In some corner of her logical brain, she heard a tiny voice demanding what manner of thoughts she was having, enticing a boy to do ungodly things to her, but it was rather half-hearted, more of by rote. It was like someone had switched on a recording, which she may or may not pay attention to. For the most part, she was perfectly conscious of the fact that she wanted Harry.

And those ungodly things? Felt quite heavenly earlier.

She shut her eyes tight and gave her head a slight shake. When she looked up, Harry was staring at her oddly.

“Are you alright?” he asked, sounding truly concerned.

She cleared her throat, just to make sure she wouldn't squeak. “Yes. Just a bit of a headache is all…”

Lovely… aren't the headache-excuses supposed to come AFTER the proposition…?

Oh heavens… PROPOSITION!

She seriously needed to get away from him. If she stuck around any longer, she was in grave danger of grabbing him and dragging him through her bedroom door.

He began to look even more concerned. “Do you want me to hunt up a painkiller? They're bound to have a potion—“

“It's alright, Harry. I'll just get some sleep. Thank you for offering, anyway. You—You go get some sleep, too.”

This seemed to calm him down. “I will. Tomorrow, then?”

She nodded, and just when she was turning away, he tugged on her hand.

She looked, he kissed her, and she felt completely taken by the wonderful sensations of it.

When he pulled away, she thought maybe she couldn't feel her legs.

“Goodnight,” he whispered.

She couldn't trust herself to speak quite yet. Turning, she hurried into her room and closed the door well and surely behind her.

TBC

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A/N: Thanks a whole lot to Tome Raider, my beta, and to my LJ FList who put up with a lot of my shit. `-_-

::clings to FList::

Standard disclaimers apply

Chapter Three: The Most Ancient Language

She turned over on the bed and encountered his bright green eyes.

How long has he been awake?

“Good morning,” she said.

“Good morning,” he replied.

“Slept well?”

He reached for her hand, entwining his fingers with hers. “Slept very well.” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles.

She instantly felt a flutter in her stomach and seriously contemplated jumping him, mostly convincing herself that she had a scholarly interest in finding out whether all the dorm gossip about the desirability of certain positions relative to others were true, but the world shook, and she heard the gentle, but insistent tone of another voice.

~~

Hermione opened her bleary eyes and tried to puzzle out just who had dared to wake her from a potentially pleasant dream. It was greatly disorienting to find out that the object of her dream was most assuredly there on her bed looking as handsome as ever.

She paused to make sure if he was fully clothed, half-expecting that she hadn't actually been dreaming.

His clothes were well-worn. They'd been on him for quite some time now by the looks of the bit of dirt on the knees of his cargos.

“Good morning.” He paused, surveyed her bed spread, and shook his head, chuckling.

“What are you laughing at?” she grumbled, self-conscious about her morning breath and stumbling out of the covers sluggishly.

He gestured to the books spread out all over the bed.

She had drifted off to sleep some time in the night with opened tomes. She probably had an imprint of a Gaelic poem on her cheek, seeing as she'd slept on a copy of Irish Folk Rhymes.

“You said you'd get some rest,” he said. “You didn't. You read all night.”

“I couldn't sleep.”

“You should have come over, then. We could have been not-sleeping together.”

Hermione adamantly refused to wonder about whether he meant what she thought he meant.

She was too grumpy to be fit to socialize with anyone, so she went straight to the bath chamber and took a quick shower, dressing within the confines of the locked door and being overly aware that she was naked while Harry was outside her bathroom, waiting for her.

It was almost embarrassing how her body and consciousness was suddenly so responsive to him. When before his kiss seemed enough for her, everything seemed ten times magnified now that he had touched her in her most womanly parts.

She was beginning to understand why Lavender and Parvati wouldn't shut up about it. If heavy petting with one's boyfriend generated this much restlessness and yearning for more, she couldn't imagine what actual sex would do to her.

Only one way to find out.

“Hermione, don't be a slag,” she muttered at her reflection as she brushed her teeth, counting the strokes to a hundred in such a precise manner that her parents would have been proud.

And boyfriend, now? Is he? We haven't talked about that, either. Brooding heroes are quite sexy, but goodness, sometimes I wish they would stop brooding and try talking for once.

She lost count and had to start again. When she was done, she hurriedly put the finishing touches to her look and hurried out of the bath.

“I think maybe I've finished reading this book. It's actually very interesting,” Harry said, holding up one of the thicker tomes.

“Oh, shut it, you. I didn't take that long. Have you had breakfast yet?”

“No. Thought I'd wake you first.”

She obliged him a smile. “Nice of you. Well, then we should hurry along. We'll have a quick breakfast and then do some research, yeah?”

She led them out of her chamber, but she had a distinct feeling he was smirking. She caught him trying to stifle his grin. “Oh, what's funny this time?”

“It's not really funny, see, but do you honestly think you'd be able to find out more about the Lady of the Lake? This is the one place in the universe where all the information about that should be, yet there was nothing on your bookshelves. Don't you think its—I don't know, a sign that there's nothing about it on print?”

“First of all,” she began with martyr-like patience. “Just because it doesn't seem to be in a book, it doesn't mean the book doesn't exist. Secondly, if I were the sort to give up so easily, I'd have already suffered death by troll-trampling—and, oh Harry, don't think I don't know you're going to make an Expelled Joke again. Honestly, it's getting old. Will you and Ron never let me hear the end of it?”

“Never. It's too perfect, but I'll let it go for now. Do you have a third point?”

“Yes. If the information isn't in a book, it doesn't mean we couldn't find it anywhere else.”

His eyes twinkled. “Like Muggle Internet?”

Oh, the ideas Harry, not to mention Ron, sometimes come up with… “As much as I love it when you think outside the box, Harry…”

He stifled a grin and attempted to grab her by the waist, possibly to tickle her into submission. “Oy…”

She sashayed out of his reach. “I was talking about runes—on walls. We already saw a set of them on the huge monolith outside. Maybe there's more around the priory. Besides, it's not as if I can go on Google and find answers to the ancient secrets of Avalon, you know.”

He shot her a dangerous leer. “So snarky to me today.”

It was futile to stifle a laugh. “Well, you started it!”

“This from the woman who said she wasn't six years old. You are asking for a spanking, Granger. You're this close to getting punished.”

Hermione could've sworn her toes wiggled with anticipation, but she wasn't about to let on that she found the prospect more enticing that it ought to be for a supposedly uptight swot like her. “Really, Harry. This is no time to be clowning around. We have work to do. Now, after breakfast, we should try to find the library…”

“Now, why did I expect you to say that?”

“Because you know me too well.”

“You say that like it's a bad thing…”

Sometimes, Harry was just so utterly lovable, but she wasn't going to let him charm her this time. “Library after breakfast.”

“I'm just saying… it's a beautiful day out.”

“Your observation is duly noted.” She cast him a smug look and crossed her arms over her chest stubbornly.

He rolled his eyes as he sighed, though he was smiling—vastly amused. “Come on then. The breakfast hall is this way…”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Breakfast in Avalon was more like Hogwarts, but quieter. Occasionally, one of the children would laugh and shriek, but most of the time, the priestesses seemed engaged in quiet, unhurried conversation.

Zeke came by to ask Harry if he wanted to see his turtle pond.

“Sounds interesting,” Harry said, at which Hermione dealt him a warning glare. He would not be intimidated. He never was like Ron in that respect. “I'll go see it after breakfast.”

Zeke's eyes lit up and he cast Hermione a shy glance. “You can bring the lady too, if she'd like to come.”

Harry turned to her for her answer.

Hermione's lips pursed, her refusal forestalled by the terribly adorable expression on Zeke's expectant face. She managed a passable smile, speaking through her grit teeth. “I'll be glad to see your turtle pond.”

Zeke looked overwhelmed. He grinned, happily told them that he'd go tidy up the pond a bit, and ran off with a jubilant skip.

“There. That wasn't so hard, was it?” Harry said, smirking.

She shot him a frown. “Oh, you evil man. You did that on purpose.”

He chuckled. “It will only take a minute. And really, Hermione, can you find it in your heart to disappoint the boy? He was asking so earnestly.”

“It's no wonder you and Ron abuse my good nature. I'm a complete pushover, apparently.”

“Good Lord, Hermione. You're many things, but a pushover you're not.”

Harry always did know what to say to her.

After breakfast, they went to see Zeke's turtles. They were brought to a mini garden to one side of the tower where there appeared to be an artificial pond. Water trickled gently from a bamboo spout while another out-pipe kept the water regulated to a certain level. The pond had tiny clay and ceramic structures decorating its surface, and on some of it, turtles sat beached, moving with painstaking slowness.

Zeke was refilling crude food dispensers and some of the turtles had already swum towards them. They were bog turtles, roughly 4 inches in size, but most interesting of all was that they were native to the United States, which made her wonder how the turtles got to Avalon.

Really, Hermione… as if you didn't know magic.

The other children stood around Zeke, giggling and teasing him, and Hermione wondered just when Zeke would start appreciating the fact that he was the only male in an island full of women.

“Did you know,” Hermione began, “that the top domed part of the turtle shell is called the carapace while the underlying part is called the plastron?”

The children fell silent, looking up at her all at the same time. They seemed hopelessly confused by the fact that this lecture-making person was invading their playtime.

How typical of you, Hermione, she thought contritely. She always spouted out such uninteresting facts whenever faced with a situation she was yet unfamiliar with. It was like her Know-It-All button got activated as some kind of fail-safe against being mistakenly considered an air-headed miscreant for the more accurate description of brainy social reject.

“I didn't know that,” Harry said, doing quite a good job pretending he was really interested.

She felt that she had to salvage the situation by saying something a bit more radical. “They can live to be over a hundred fifty years old, too,” she added desperately.

The children seemed more enthused by this fact.

“Wow, that's old,” said one of the girls.

Encouraged, Hermione went on. “Yes. And the oldest documented turtle to live was an Indian Ocean Giant Tortoise, which was captured when it was around fifty but lived 152 years more after that in captivity.”

“Wicked!” Zeke cried.

The children then seemed to surge towards her and Hermione found herself scrambling back in panic—in dire danger of yelling, “Fall in line first years! I'm Head Girl!” But she felt Harry hold her in place, preventing her escape, and she could've sworn she heard him smothering a laugh.

Zeke shoved one of his turtles in her face and she yelped in surprise. “Can mine live that long?”

Hermione gently pushed the turtle away from her nose. “Erm, no. It's a Bog turtle, see, and they only live up to a little over 40 years… goodness, Zeke… dear, I see it. There is no need to shove it in my—“

“40 years! That's a long time! That's way older than you, Harry!”

“Yes it is, Zeke,” said Harry, urging Hermione to sit with him on one of the bigger sized rocks. “Tell us more, Hermione.”

Hermione felt the gentle yank and she plopped right on Harry's lap. She dealt him a most vicious glare over her shoulder but was quite unable to prevent the tilted grin from forming on her lips. “Oh, you're enjoying this, aren't you?”

“Every minute.”

She tried to stare him down, which wasn't possible, of course, then she looked at the eager faces of the children around her. It was a lost cause. “Fine. I know when I'm beat.”

Taking the bog turtle from Zeke's hands, she held it primly on her palm and began to tell them more. “They're good friends with Spotted turtles, so they don't really mind hibernating together during the winter months…”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As was expected, most of the children easily tired of talking about turtles. Zeke was genuinely interested in listening to more of what Hermione had to say on the subject, but the girls had already decided that they wanted to play Hide and Go Seek.

Naturally, Harry and Hermione were most vehemently invited to join the game.

Hermione thought it was a splendid idea and resolved to get some work in while the children thought she was playing.

Zeke was It, and as soon as he began to count, everyone sped off.

Just before Harry ran off, he pressed his lips to her ear. “Now, don't you be running off to the library.”

“Wouldn't dream of it,” she said, straight-faced.

As soon as Harry left for his hiding place, she sped to her room, grabbed a book, a notepad, and the quill set, and marched off to find a hiding place that would give her a perfect view of the monument face.

She sat inside her hollow and sketched the monolith, paying careful attention to the runes. She used her book as a reference for the runes, to make sure she got the shapes right. She resolved that she would examine the monolith more closely later, to see if there were smaller runes that she had to copy.

She was so absorbed in her work that she failed to notice Harry sneaking up on her until he jumped up from behind the tree with a “Boo!”

Hermione yelped and almost ruined her sketch. “Harry! Don't do that!”

He laughed, leaning his shoulder against the mouth of her hollow. “See, I knew you would do this.”

“Yes, well, I was born with a stick up my arse. Too bad.”

He cocked a smile, staring at her for several seconds.

It was a bit unnerving. “What?”

“You always say that; that you're uptight, or ascetic, or born with a stick up your arse, but you know what? I've long since stopped believing you. You're immensely fun to be with when you decide to pen it into your schedule.”

“Har, har. Very funny. Where's Zeke? Left him to the tender mercies of his playmates?”

“He'll be fine. He hates the attention they give him now, but in a few years, he'll consider himself the luckiest bloke in the world.” He reached into her tree and took her notebook and quill.

“Hey! That's not funny, Harry. Give it back!”

He ignored her protests, pushing her hands gently away as he flipped the page she was writing on for a fresh one. “It was nice of you to oblige the children this morning.”

Slightly disgruntled that Harry never could be bossed into doing things her way, she got a bit snitty. “Yes, well, you and Zeke didn't exactly give me a choice.”

“You'd make an excellent professor. Ever thought about doing that? Teach at Hogwarts?”

She scoffed. “And put up with dunderheads like you and Ron?”

He laughed. “You sounded like Snape just now…” His tone dwindled and his expression darkened a bit.

Hermione said nothing. As far as she was concerned, this was dangerous ground for her. She'd let Harry broach the subject and she'd only respond accordingly, but instead of going on about Snape, the dark cloud seemed to clear and Harry smiled, holding up his finished sketch.

She couldn't help but laugh at the stick figures with its crude castle in the background.

The one with the hair standing in all directions was definitely Harry. The figure wore glasses and had a lightning shaped scar right smack across his face, as if to cleave it in half. A second stick figure with big lips stood beside him. This one had frizzy hair and she held a book. The third stick figure was the tallest one. He held a broken wand and he had on what appeared to be a wizard's hat. The castle in the background was no doubt Hogwarts. There was a snitch over the Harry stick figure's head, supposedly in the act of whizzing by. It looked like his stick figure was dizzy.

“Why is Ron the only one with a wizard's hat?” she asked.

“That's not a wizard's hat. That's a Dun's cap.”

She laughed. “That's mean!”

“I tried to draw a chessboard, but that meant I had to draw a table, and there just wasn't enough space.”

“How about those wonky things on me? What are those? Are those S.P.E.W. buttons?”

He actually reddened. “Well, I thought your stick figure should look more like a girl…”

“Harry Potter! Are those my breasts?”

“They're evenly round, I swear!”

She laughed. Senseless as all their morning activities were, she had to admit that she did like the notion of having Harry so relaxed. She remembered a time when he was like this more times than not, and she really liked those memories.

It was reassuring to know that they hadn't forgotten how to laugh—really laugh.

A bell tolled, repeatedly, and Hermione had to wonder what it was for.

“Verspers of sorts,” Harry said, perhaps noticing the questioning look in her eyes. “I've been asking around since this morning, while you were asleep, about how they run things here… thought I'd get a head start on things. I also happened to ask if anyone has actually seen the Lady of the Lake.”

Harry never ceases to surprise her.

“Well, did you find anything out?”

“Yes, actually. I spoke to the kids. Didn't get much at first, but Zeke spoke to me in private; said he had a secret: He's seen her. Zeke's been called to the lake and had spoken to the Lady.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I cannot understand why you did not tell me about this earlier,” Hermione said in a clipped tone as she hurriedly made her way across the courtyard in brisk, purposeful strides. The priestesses that saw them watched them go by with arched eyebrows, but Hermione paid them no heed.

Harry trailed after her, carrying her book and quill set, and laughed. “Because I knew you'd get this way—all obsessed and wound up. If I, Boy Fated to Brood His Entire Life, can find the time to relax, then so should you—“

She turned to him, inadvertently swatting his shoulder with her notepad. “Do you find this funny, Harry? Because honestly, the humor is completely lost to me! I am busting my arse trying to find answers, because in case you haven't figured it out, my singular purpose in life these days is to save yours! I can't do that if you randomly decide to keep important information from me! Really, I'd expect this sort of behavior from Ron, but not from you!”

His grin wilted and his expression darkened. He wasn't just frowning; he seemed genuinely offended.

She didn't really care at the moment. She was quite teed-off herself. She could match his mood just fine, right now.

“Look back on the past year, Hermione,” he said, his gaze intense and piercing. “Look back and think if we're better friends for it—you, me, and Ron. I know you understand what I'm saying, because you thought it, too. Hell, you were thinking it when Ron and I refused to. Our friendship was crumbling bit by bit, yeah? You felt it, and I saw how you tried to keep it together for the three of us, but you had your own barriers, which is why you couldn't completely fix the gaps. You had secrets to keep.”

Her eyes widened and she felt her stomach clench anxiously.

“You think I don't know? I've known you were hiding things since you began keeping them, but I trust you—I trust you unconditionally, and I know you wouldn't have kept them from me if you thought it wise to tell. So I won't even ask you about them now, and I'll wait until you're good and ready to tell, but at least admit that since the Dementor attack, the three of us have been painfully aware of what we've lost chasing those Horcruxes all year. This morning it was there. This morning it was back, and I realized just how much it meant to me… I wasn't in much of a hurry to put it off again, even for the Lady of the Lake…”

She didn't quite know what to say as she let his words sink in. She was dumbstruck. Many of the things he said touched her deeply, especially the part about knowing she had secrets. She had thought all this time that he had been too consumed by their mission to notice, but he'd been paying attention—watching her, and trusting her.

Truly, was it so bad that he had kept something from her now—with the sincere intention of telling her about it later—because he had rediscovered just how much their friendship meant to him? He who had spent eleven miserable years friendless and loveless being at the cruel mercies of his relatives?

“Oh, Harry…” she whispered. “I-I'm sorry. I didn't mean—I didn't mean to be so horrible…”

The hard lines of his face softened. “It's alright. I wasn't—I wasn't looking for an apology. I just need for you to understand why, eh? I'm not skiving work. I know you're always worried about me so I wanted to help by asking around while you were still asleep, but this morning… it was just so nice spending time with you again. I figured a bit of time just being us would be even better than telling you what I'd found out.”

It was almost heartbreaking, the earnestness in his eyes, and she was a bit ashamed of herself. She had always thought that in the last year, she was the only one out of the three of them who seemed to care about holding on to their friendship. She had tried, so many times, to rekindle the camaraderie in her own little way. Yet now, when it had come so naturally, she just had to step on it and become neurotic on him.

The irony was amazing.

She flung her arms around his shoulders and it caused him to drop the book and quill, but she didn't care. She held him tight, and he seemed to appreciate it, because he clung just as fiercely.

They stayed that way for a bit until she pulled away.

“Sorry I went off on you like that,” she whispered. “I never would've stayed angry at you, you know.”

“I know. I suppose I should've told you…”

“I understand why you didn't. The important thing is that we're in this together, and that you told me anyway. So… think we can go see Zeke now?” She was nothing if not determined.

He chuckled, shaking his head in resignation. “Yes. We should. Let's go.”

Taking her hand, he led them back to Zeke's turtle pond.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sure enough, Zeke was there and he was carefully chopping up bits of worm to feed more of it to his turtles.

Upon seeing Harry, Zeke's eyes lit up. “Hullo!”

“Hi Zeke. You're feeding your turtles again?”

He nodded. “Found these worms by the swamps. Didn't want to waste them.”

“Those seem like nice worms—“

Hermione nudged Harry before he got carried away again and Harry dutifully clamped his lips shut. He let her lead.

She stepped forward. “Zeke, think you can help us with something?”

Zeke seemed genuinely eager to please. “That depends. Will my mum be alright with it?”

Hermione looked to Harry for assistance. She didn't want to force Zeke into doing something he didn't feel comfortable doing.

Harry nodded. “It's about that stuff we were talking about this morning. You know, about the Lady?”

“Oh, that! Well, I think mum don't have to know about it, then. Like we agreed, yeah, Harry? You promised I can keep my secret and that you'd only tell Hermione.”

“Yeah. I haven't broken that promise, so your secret's still yours, but Hermione has some questions about it. Is that alright?”

“I s'pose. What sorter questions do you have?”

Hermione sat on the rock she and Harry were perched on earlier so that she could level eyes with Zeke. “Did you actually see her, Zeke? The Lady of the Lake?”

Zeke grinned. “Yeah. She was pretty, but she looked a bit like a ghost. She called me to the lake at midnight and I went. Mum didn't know. She thought I was asleep.”

“Did you speak to the lady?”

Zeke nodded.

“What did she say?”

“Sowilo.”

Hermione blinked. “What?”

“Soooowiiiiloooo. Not sure what it means. She didn't say much more than that. She disappeared in a bit and she hadn't called me back. S'okay. I reckon mum won't like it if she found out I left my room at midnight more than once.”

Her eye brow arched and she looked at Harry.

He shrugged, utterly clueless.

She took a stick from the ground and drew a lightning bolt on the soil.

Harry frowned when he saw it. “Hermione, why are you drawing my scar—“

“It's not your scar—or rather it is.” She looked at him thoughtfully. “This is Sowilo. It's an ancient rune. It means wholeness, light, energy, and discovery. It's got characteristics, too, like a person. A Sowilo's characteristics include the spirit of life, boundless energy, strength of character, also the victory of light over darkness, and it demands that we use goodness to overcome evil. Its element is air and its polarity is… male.”

“Fascinating.”

She grinned. “Yes, it is. Yet, more interesting still is the suggestion, through this rune, that the Lady… was expecting you.”

He looked doubtful. “The Lady was expecting me.”

She waved her hand to dismiss his expression. “Oh, of course it's just a theory Harry, and I'd sooner dismiss it than take it as truth, but if I were to be open-minded, the connection of Sowilo to you in this instance seems compelling. The shape of the rune, its characteristics, its element, its polarity… it might as well be called the Harry rune, yeah? And then why Zeke? Why not someone else, like Brigit, or Morgana—someone who might be able to interpret it? Well, I have this theory… I think the Lady of the Lake can only communicate with men.”

“Excuse me?”

“I think only men can hear her calling or speaking. Think about it. Throughout history, there were only three documented people who have established contact with her: Merlin, Arthur, and Sir Bedivere. And now we have Zeke. Or perhaps the Lady of the Lake is just like the priestesses of Avalon—willing to make themselves known only when there's a man involved.”

“So she summons Zeke because he's the only one who would hear her?”

“Yes. If I were really crazy like Trelawney, I could say that the Lady knew Zeke would bring the message to you, and that you would have someone who understood it explain it to you, but that would be reaching, I suppose. Anyway, the important thing is…” She paused. What was the important thing?

Harry waited for her to go on, possibly just as eager to find out what the important thing was.

She counted the days they've been here and she realized that tomorrow would be their third day. If on the third day of their stay Excalibur still remains with the Lady, Hermione would take Harry with her and leave. When she thought about it, Zeke's revelation came at a most opportune time.

She shrugged. “Perhaps we should stick around a bit longer. Just a little bit. If she was expecting you, then perhaps she does have plans of making herself known to you, whether or not she gives you the sword.”

He seemed mildly surprised. “Well, I'm fine with that. But will you be?”

She shrugged. “I'd have to be. I don't think it will be long, anyway. At least I hope not.”

“This from the woman who walked out of Divinations.”

“The subject is whooly, yes. It's not an exact science, but I've listened to Firenze, and to some degree I can understand the patterns of it. Besides that, we know that the future can be told, whether it's because you speak prophecies into a bottle or because you've gone back in time with a Time Turner… I don't think I find Divinations as laughable as I used to—at least when it's not under Trelawney's tutelage.”

“Well, that settles that, then. We'll wait, and according to you, we won't be waiting long.”

“That's just an educated guess. Give it another two days. If nothing happens, we have to leave, and I'd have to think of another way to destroy that locket.” She sighed at the prospect. She was weary just thinking about it.

He settled beside her on the rock and cocked a smile. “No matter what happens, I think we'll be fine. You'll have answers. You always do.”

She took his hand and squeezed. “Thanks. Avalon isn't a bad place to wait, anyway.”

“No. Not a bad place in the least.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione did believe that she was right in the way only Know-It-Alls like her could be when it came to their well-founded theories. It enabled her to relax most of the day, and spend time with Harry that would have otherwise been spent obsessing in the library over information she might never find.

In Harry's part, he seemed quite relaxed himself.

Zeke stayed with them, and Hermione could tell that the boy was starving for male company. She could see how his eyes lit up when he did or said something that Harry asked no explanation for, because Harry understood what he meant instantly, in the way boys seemed to have a secret language.

She wondered briefly what it would be like having Ron there.

Well, there would be no snogging with Harry, for one.

She sighed. She had, at times, worried about Bill, but it only made her feel guilty that Bill might have been in grave peril, or worse, that his entire family might already be grieving for his loss, yet there she was in Avalon, with Harry, wondering when she could get him alone long enough to steal a snog.

Harry plopped beside her after sending Zeke off on some search through the thicket of greens. “Something wrong?”

“Just wondering if Bill's alright,” she said. “I hope he is.”

“He'll be alright. He's a Weasley.”

She had to smile at this. “They are a tough lot, aren't they?”

“The toughest.”

“I feel a bit guilty… that we're not with Ron.”

He paused then fidgeted. “Y-Yeah… sometimes I think about it, too, but I keep telling myself that they don't really need us over there right now. What they need is for us to be working towards the completion of this mission so that we can put a stop to all this. Ron said it, didn't he? Do it for Bill.”

She nodded. “Yes, but I couldn't help but think that we aren't exactly toiling for a solution.” She gestured to their beautiful surroundings.

“What are you talking about? It's not easy to amuse an eight-year-old boy. I've spent the last few hours just trying to think of a game that would tire him into sitting still, but Zeke's just a bundle of energy. It's work, I tell you.”

She grinned. “Well, he seems busy enough right now. What did you tell him to do?”

He smirked. “Nothing, really. He fancies someone. I told him how he might win her over.”

She gasped, laughing. “Oh, but he's so little! And you giving him advice!”

“And what's wrong with that?”

She blushed, reconsidering. “Nothing, really. Just teasing. I think he couldn't have asked advice from anyone better.”

He reddened but seemed terribly pleased.

Zeke shot out of the foliage carrying with him a bouquet of the prettiest flowers. He came running to them and upon closer inspection, Hermione saw that he had tied a mangy old ribbon around the stems to hold them together.

He gave the flowers to her. “Here, Hermione. Wanted to give `em to you.”

Hermione took a moment to be surprised, and then realizing it was the most adorable thing in the world, she smiled brightly as she took the flowers. “It's very sweet, Zeke. Thank you.” She kissed his cheek.

Zeke looked like he was going to die. He grumbled a “You're welcome,” and ran away as fast as he could back to the tower.

Harry, mouth agape, finally laughed. “That little beast, he didn't tell me it was you!”

“Well, I was right then, wasn't I? No better advice than yours.”

He appeared more smug this time. “Yeah? I must be doing things right, then?”

She walked right into that one, but it wouldn't do to give him a sweeping victory. “Oh, I don't know. Unlike some people, he gave me flowers.”

He moved closer, and he practically had to whisper in her ear. “Well, I can't compete with that, now can I?”

She could feel his breath tickling the tiny hairs down the crook of her neck. “Giving up so soon? Thought you were made of… firmer stuff.”

You did not just say that, Hermione.

Harry stared at her, then swallowed.

You did. Oh, Hermione, now you've done it! He's going to run just like Zeke did.

But Harry didn't run. He did, in fact, begin to press kisses on her shoulder, then her neck. She felt tongue, and she dropped her bouquet just so she could run her hands through his hair, clutching at the dark locks ever so gently when his touch sent tingling ripples down her back.

All her early-morning yearnings flared back to life with all-consuming need. She shifted so she could wrap her arms over his shoulders and kiss him back. The intensity of his response had her sighing happily into the kiss.

His hands were only slightly less tentative than they first were. His fingers skirted the edges of her shirt before they slipped underneath the fabric to touch skin. Hermione felt heat blossoming from the contact.

She slipped her hand from his shoulder and down the front of his shirt. Her heart hammered momentarily when she realized how bold she was being, but having Harry suck on her tongue didn't leave much time to agonize and hesitate about her intentions.

Pushing back his shirt, she slipped her fingers down the front of his jeans and sought to touch him.

She felt that tantalizing patch of hair on her fingertips and he gasped, moaning. “Oh, damn.”

She remembered him saying the same thing when she grabbed his bottom, and being the fast learner that she was, she knew his saying it now wasn't a bad thing, either.

Encouraged, she undid his jeans with both hands, engaging Harry in a kiss just to distract them both from what she was doing, or perhaps it was just to distract her, because there was absolutely no way in Avalon that Harry wasn't completely focused on the workings of her hands right now.

She tugged so she could undo the zipper and Harry gave a yelp of surprise that didn't sound entirely sexy.

“Oh, dear, I'm sorry,” she whispered hastily. “Did I hurt—“

“N-No… but I think my boxers got caught—“

She could feel her face getting terribly hot from mortification. When did she become such a klutz?

Since your brain's been addled by sex, Know It All.

A melodious bell chimed in the background, coming from the distant tower.

“It's fine,” he said, appearing to have fixed things quite easily. “It wasn't badly tangled. Just—it's fine.” He pulled her close, and Hermione was just so glad he wasn't laughing at her that she quite gladly started snogging him again. She didn't, however, try to feel him up again at once. She let herself melt into his kiss, just so she could regain her momentum and try again, but a distant voice pierced the background, and it seemed to wrench Harry away from her.

“Shite,” he hissed, frantically righting himself. “It's Zeke…”

Hermione instantly tried to smooth her hair, checking to see if her clothes were in place. She grabbed the flowers and sat them across her lap, looking over her shoulder to see the minute figure of Zeke heading towards them in a sprint.

“Harry! Hermione! It's dinner time!” Zeke cried. “Mum told me to come get you!”

“Great,” Harry said, not sounding very enthusiastic. “Thank you, Zeke. We'll be right over.”

Zeke wasn't going to leave them. He went to Harry and took him by the hand, pulling to get Harry to his feet. “You have to hurry. They have custard pie, and if we don't get there on time, we'll run out.”

“Well, we don't want that, now do we?” said Harry, getting to his feet. He held his hand out for Hermione.

She smirked, more amused by their situation than she was willing to admit. She took Harry's hand and let him pull her up.

Together, all three of them made their way to the castle, with Harry tossing longing glances in her direction.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dinner was mostly uneventful. Zeke, for the most part, kept telling stories of his day with Harry and Hermione to his mother.

Harry was Zeke's hero already, and every time Zeke spoke of Hermione, he'd blush and look at her bashfully.

This got delighted responses from the priestesses who teased and petted him for having a crush, which was perhaps why no one noticed how Harry seemed so intently fixated on her.

She secretly reveled in his attention, pretending she didn't notice how he watched her eat and laugh with the rest of their company. It was empowering, and Hermione began to wonder if Avalon's magic didn't favor women more than Hermione cared to think about.

Shaking the notion out of her head, she met Harry's eyes beside her. His gaze didn't waver, and it sent a thrill down her back.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he replied with just a hint of something.

Stifling a grin, she crossed her legs and felt his pants leg against her foot. Her first instinct was to apologize, but in a flash of awareness, she rubbed her foot against him. She heard his breath catch and she took a moment to enjoy her success before she gave herself the obligatory scolding of, Shame on you for playing footsy in the dinner hall of a priory!

As soon as dinner was done, they bade everyone good night and headed up to their chambers.

Hermione was distinctly conscious of the fact that she and Harry hadn't quite ended what they started out in the fields of Avalon.

She hadn't intended more than heavy petting when she was undoing his trousers earlier, but that was because they weren't exactly in a private setting. Right now, standing in front of her chamber door, there would be walls and doors. It would be very private.

Casting a cautious glance at Harry, she wondered briefly at what he was expecting. The thought that he might expect more than petting surprisingly didn't scare her in the least. It did, in fact, seem like a wonderful prospect.

“Um, I think I'll do some reading,” she said nonsensically. “So—um, I'll be up for a while.”

She cursed herself inwardly. She wished she were better at this. Why didn't she just come out and say it?

Harry seemed very uncertain. He shoved his hands into his jeans and fidgeted. “Oh? Can I—um, read with you?”

“Sure,” she replied, almost too quickly. She turned to push her door open, rolling her eyes at her own ridiculous need to do this awkward dance.

She prayed for some kind of distraction—anything to put her at ease in this strange situation. She was just about to spout off something horribly unsubtle, like, “Harry, would you like to read on the bed?”

Her blabbering was forestalled by Harry's smirk as he pulled out a tome from her shelves. “Arithmancy and the Quantum Magiks of Numerological Hypothesis… fascinating.”

She blushed. “I need light reading just as much as any person!”

He laughed. “Light reading? Lord… you're brilliant.” He kept his eyes on her shelves, but Hermione didn't think he was looking at the books anymore. Moments later, he tore his gaze from the shelves and regarded her with a tiny smile. “You're just… leagues ahead of everyone else.”

Her blush deepened. “Well, not everyone, and not about everything, either. There are some things other people know more about than I do.”

He reddened in turn. “But you're a quick study.”

She wasn't sure if they were still talking about knowledge.

Daughter of Eve…

She wondered in slight horror if Brigit knew exactly what she was talking about when she called Hermione that.

Hermione recalled their afternoon tryst; how wonderful it felt and how delicious the sensations were.

Especially when Harry was… and he… oh, dear.

She wasn't sure if the hot flush she felt on her cheeks was a result of embarrassment or something else.

She fidgeted awkwardly for a moment, wondering again if it would be too much for her to just come out and say it without having to actually say, “I really liked the heavy snogging we did this afternoon, Harry, and I would very much like to continue it.”

Besides that, the prospect of how far their snogging within closed doors could get them was turning her on more than she believed was reasonably proper, and she knew that he was thinking it too.

She didn't want to seem grossly forward—

Oh, to hell with it. Enough with the double talk!

“Harry, I don't think I'll be getting much sleep anyway, so if you can—you know, keep me company—“

It was like that was all he needed. “Be back in a flash. I'll just change—you know, more comfortable—“

“Don't take long.”

“Wouldn't dream of it.”

He was gone, and the moment her door shut, she looked frantically about her, wishing she had packed something—

What in heaven's name should I have packed? A nighty? Something sexy? You're a complete fool, Hermione!

She went to the cabinets and threw it open. There was nothing but ugly flannel gowns that would cover her from neck to toe.

Argh! How can a castle full of women have no revealing nightgowns for their guests?

She moaned at her own musings. “Hermione, you're in a priory, not a whorehouse,” she muttered, diving into her pack. She pulled out a tank top. It wasn't meant to be revealing, but it was better than any of her jumpers. She contemplated wearing a bra, but thought it pointless and stifling. There was nothing else in her bag she could wear to a proper bed, and she was absolutely not going to sit and wait for him in her knickers. Even if he was going to take everything off later—

Oh, goodness, what in the world am I thinking?

--she'd rather keep up some sort of pretense.

She remembered that there were unflattering pajamas in the closets and she hastily grabbed one of those. They were quite big and made of a worn material, but it didn't look bad with her tank top.

She had to wonder momentarily about the most embarrassing reality of contraceptives.

Where in the world am I going to get rubbers—oh, bollocks, there's a SPELL…

Diving into her rucksack, she brought out her not-so-standard book of spells and sought out the little paper note that Lavender wrote for her (for purely academic reasons, Hermione remembered saying) and which Hermione had sticky-spelled to the back flap of the book. She found the note and sheepishly began applying the spell to herself.

Not that I'd need it for sure, but you never know…

Oh, hang it, you randy swot, of course you're expecting it!

Hermione did have a vague idea of how mental she was being, but she figured she'd rather go mad conversing with herself in her mind than risk the more common disasters of premarital sex.

A knock sounded at her door and she had to bite her lip from yipping in surprise. She grabbed a book from her shelf, jumped on her bed and laid the book down in front of her, opening it to a page. The book was upside down and she had to turn it over while she composed herself as she sat cross-legged on her bed.

“Come in,” she said as calmly as she could.

Harry probably didn't have any sleep clothes, either. To her relief, he didn't prance into her room wearing only boxers. He had on a starched undershirt and his old jeans that he'd accidentally ripped at the knee. She'd seen him wear it to sleep a few times, and he sometimes even wore it when they traveled by the road, free of scratchy woodland bramble. It was evidently his most comfortable pair, and he would wear it everywhere if it wasn't shredded, but Hermione had never looked at him in them until now, and seeing him look so loosened up had her heart racing so fast she was afraid she wouldn't be able to speak clearly.

He stood fidgeting by her bed, perhaps wondering what he should do.

With perfect dignity that hid the chaos of emotions roiling inside her, she primly moved the book aside and patted the space it vacated. “Come sit.”

He did, and they sat there, both cross-legged and face-to-face.

She struggled to find a subject and cursed herself for being so lame-brained at a time like this. She was baffled by the sudden awkwardness they were feeling. They'd done the snogging and touching part over the last few days. They should have at least gotten the first-base thing perfected by now.

“What are you reading?” he asked, much to her relief.

Her relief, however, was short-lived when she realized that she had no idea what she was reading about. For sure it was a subject she was highly interested in. It was her bookshelf after all. But she couldn't think of a thing to say, and lying to Harry seemed so ridiculous.

The truth, though embarrassing, was so much easier.

“Harry,” she said. “I haven't the slightest clue. I just picked it off the shelf and pretended to read. It's stupid, I know, but I'm—“

“Nervous.”

She was so glad she wasn't the only one. “Yes!”

“So much easier when it's not premeditated.”

“You are so right. Harry, I am so glad we can talk—“

“God, you're sexy…” he breathed, his gaze taking her in.

That caught her off guard and she momentarily lost the ability to speak. His eyes rested briefly on the slight cleavage peeking from the top of her tank.

Completely aware that he knew there wasn't a bra underneath, she had a momentary flash of embarrassment. Did he think worse of her for it? That she would be so presumptuous as to forego the usual underclothes?

Well, Hermione, you practically invited him to a shag. It's a little too late to be worrying about propriety.

But in the next second, it didn't matter, because he had leaned in to kiss her and she wanted to feel his lips with fierce resolve.

So their heads bumped—painfully.

They pulled apart, both of them holding their foreheads as they muttered, “Ow…” under their breaths.

Hermione began to laugh and he joined her.

“This is awful,” she said through her giggling.

“Not nearly as smooth and suave as I'd hoped… ouch. That really smarts, doesn't it?”

She was, at that moment, struck by a rather naughty inspiration. She leaned over, gently pried his hand off his head and the glasses off his face, and kissed his forehead, her lips a loving caress. “Better?”

He was looking up at her in awed surprise, but she definitely hadn't lost him.

“I think so,” he replied. “Best do it again just to make sure.”

The fact that he had caught on so quickly made her feel tingly. She kissed him again, moving up against him this time. “How about that?”

He shook his head. “Try here,” he whispered, pointing to his cheek.

She resisted the urge to giggle with delight. She had started the game and as usual, Harry had taken to it with expert ease.

She kissed his cheek.

“Nope,” he breathed. “That didn't help,”

“Maybe here?” she whispered, pressing her lips to the underside of his jaw.

“Close, but not quite.”

She stifled an impish grin. “Then I'm at a complete loss, Harry. Perhaps I'm not cut out for this.” She began to move away with an exaggerated, miserable sigh, only to feel herself being pulled back into his embrace and getting kissed with utmost enthusiasm, an enthusiasm she was most willing to return.

She felt completely at ease. This part, she knew, and Harry seemed wholly sure about this phase of the foreplay.

Foreplay. Oh, God!

She wrapped herself around him, and she was amazed that so early on, she could feel that ache inside of her.

His hips pressed down in response, and even through the haze of their kiss, Hermione was quite aware of the hardness in his trousers.

It amazed her how they hadn't even gotten to the real touching, yet there they were, both utterly aroused of one another.

She felt a desperate need to feel his skin upon hers.

Her hands sought the edges of his shirt and she quickly found it. She splayed her hands over the skin of his back, familiarizing herself to his warmth and reacquainting herself to the bumps and dips of his body.

His lips left hers to make their way down her throat and she gasped as the sensation of his lips on her skin stoked the intensity of her need.

He pushed the strap of her tanktop aside, tasting the skin underneath it and following the edge of it to her breasts.

Gently, so as not to be misunderstood, she coaxed him a bit away from her so she could peel her top off completely. He seemed to think this was a good idea, because he helped her just before he did the same with his shirt, and again, she admired the planes of his body.

They're so nice to look at, she sighed with dreamy satisfaction.

Her gaze roved to his face, and she saw something entirely new in his eyes. Where the other day, he had gazed at her in rapt wonder and amazement, he now had an intensely smoldering look. He had already seen her naked, so the wonder was gone and was replaced by sheer possessiveness.

Hermione's insides fluttered. She had never, in her life, ever contemplated being a “something” that could be possessed, especially not when it came to men, but right now, with Harry kneeling between her legs and being in this situation of complete surrender, she wanted it.

Oh, heavens, is it like it this when it comes to sex? You become a completely different person, even so far as abandoning your most basic principles…?

Her thoughts trailed to nothing when he fell upon her, his lips suckling and his hands kneading, and then her thoughts were all about him. All things Harry. How good he made her feel, and how amazing he was. At that precise moment, melting in his arms and letting him make love to her, he was everything.

She might have said his name. Her memory was getting fuzzy on the seemingly unimportant detail of spoken words. But then he said her name, and she would never forget how it sounded, his voice hoarse and his breathing ragged. It spiked her desire, and she would remember her name spoken just like that whenever she felt unwanted and alone. She would tell herself that at some point in her life, someone she would give her life for wanted her just as much, with unbridled desire and need.

Harry's kisses traveled lower, down the line of her stomach and then her bellybutton. When he kissed that hollow, dipping his tongue in it, she thought she would die.

She might have thrown back her head, and made some kind of indecent sound that he liked, because he did it again.

He began to tug at her trousers, and by instinct, she lifted her hips off the bed to make it easier for him. She was mildly surprised when he pulled her knickers with it. She thought maybe he would do stages, like removing her trousers first and then removing her knickers, but then when one thought about it, it was pointless, wasn't it?

And so she found herself completely naked while Harry seemed to find her completely fascinating.

She wasn't expecting the feeling of pure vulnerability. He'd seen her naked, yes, but not like this. Not completely bare, legs spread, with him looking over her, full-frontal. Even as the yearning between her legs intensified, she began to contemplate pulling the bedcovers over her, but then Harry was suddenly right above her, his tongue seeking hers, and his hands, so seemingly eager to please, slipped—at first hesitantly—and then more surely, between her thighs to give his fingers access to that burning ache inside her.

Her thoughts became completely focused on the feel of him gently rubbing that bundle of nerves. Whatever their first bedroom encounter had taught him, he was ace in reapplying it. His gentle inquiries, “Is this alright?” or “Did you like that,” spoken low and breathily in her ear was immensely arousing. She didn't know if it was his eagerness to please or the sexy tone of his voice, but she liked this pillow-talk very much.

Then his touch was suddenly gone and she opened her eyes, her gaze questioning. She wondered if she had done something wrong, but the look in his gaze showed no displeasure.

He pressed his lips on her throat, then down her chest. He traveled lower, until he was tasting the skin just beneath her belly-button.

The sensations of him kissing her body was scattering her thoughts, but the thought that his lips would go even lower was greatly unfamiliar. Even in her haze of desire, she fidgeted. “Harry, what—“

“I want to try something,” he said softly. “I won't hurt you.”

Of course he wouldn't. She found the very idea of such a thing preposterous, and she smiled down at him, running her fingers lightly through his hair, trying to convey perfect trust. He smiled back appreciatively, just before his smile turned intensely provocative.

She was greatly shocked when she felt his tongue against the very center of her. The velvety warmth that touched and then dipped inside her caught her completely off-guard. She lost clarity of thought, and everything was just a haze of blind desire. Eyes rolling to the back of her head, she moaned, and she could do nothing but let Harry “try” this “something” that was making her feel all sorts of wonderful sensations.

When the initial onrush waned, she realized that he was more tentative about it than she first noticed, but then she also realized that he did things in response to her. She was more than willing to help him along, letting her own body tell her what she liked and letting Harry know of it.

The amazing sensations his touch was pulsing through her seemed to free her of her inhibitions and she felt, not long into his ministrations, her release coming on.

“D-Don't stop,” she breathed helplessly.

Their eye met, and his twinkled much the same way they did when he had perfected the Accio spell, or when he spotted the snitch.

In his gaze, she found pure accomplishment. It was exactly the kind of thing that triggered her basest desires.

She climaxed, feeling herself implode, and then explode. It came upon her in waves of wonderful sensations, and it had to be the most amazing feeling in the world. She let herself get swept with it until the waves calmed to a lulling pulse.

The tremors waned as she caught her breath, and slowly, her clouded mind began to process things. She stared at Harry, his eyes affixed upon her face, his breathing ragged, and his expression filled with desperate want.

Her logical mind, mingling with her desires, decided that she desperately wanted to touch him back. Before she could think twice about it, she had coaxed him back above her and her fingers were fumbling for his fly. Relinquishing control to her, he let her.

He wore boxers, and given that they were lying side by side, it was difficult to remove his trappings, so she pushing the garter aside, reached in, and grasped.

He gave an unintelligible moan, just as he pressed his lips upon hers and began another torrid kiss.

Hermione thought maybe he was applying some sort of magic. It had to be that, or else he could so easily sweep her back within the realm of aching need as if she hadn't just been sated.

Her hand gently explored him, feeling the texture of his skin, velvety to the touch, while her fingertips traced the shape of him. Her thumb made a tentative pass over his tip just before she slid her grip down his length, and he whispered her name with such tender approval that she did it again, and his head fell forward, burying against her shoulder with a moan.

She felt his hand join hers in her boxers, coaxing her grip to tighten around him. He began to slowly thrust against it, and it was then she felt—inexorably—that she wanted so much to please him in the best way she can. Her arousal spiked anew. The thought that he would be inside her filled her with both dread and excitement.

Gently, she eased her hand from him and motioned for him to push the rest of his clothes off.

He looked up, his glazed and questioning eyes only making her more determined.

“I'm ready, Harry,” she told him gently. “I want you inside me.”

At first she thought he didn't understand her, unmoving as he was, but then he was suddenly pushing his trousers and boxers off, and she finally saw him.

It wasn't without a bit of curiosity that she stared at him, fully erect and most decidedly fascinating. She'd never seen another one, but his seemed to fit all indications of it being of normal appearance. She had no way of knowing what his “size” was, so she wasn't sure if his was daunting or if she was just quite nervous about the entire thing.

She reached out and grasped it again, repeating her earlier motions, and his arms seem to buckle, bringing him directly above her.

“Slow down, Hermione,” he breathed in her ear. “Or I'll—“ He gave another moan, even as she did as he asked and loosened her grip.

His breath rasped for several seconds before he pressed his lips to her ear and whispered, “Guide me.”

She didn't even have to ask him what he meant by that. Carefully, she let him settle against her, coaxing him closer.

Their foreheads touched, and for a moment, Harry remained unmoving.

She was grateful for his consideration, cupping his face in her hands and whispering his name.

He pushed, and she felt him enter. There wasn't any pain at first, but then Harry pressed his lips to her forehead, like a kiss for apology, before he leaned in some more and she felt that stab of pain.

She couldn't help the cry that escaped her, even as she bit her lip.

Harry stayed still, the heavy breathing of his chest pressing against hers.

Seconds later, his hand smoothed back the hair from her face, and she met his gaze, appreciating his tender thoughtfulness.

She pulled him close for a kiss, and while their tongues tangled, she linked her arms over his back and coaxed him to move. He did, slowly; his movements seemingly attuned to her reactions.

She tried her best to stamp back any sound of pain, but as Harry moved to a slow cadence, she found that the pain was receding. She listened to Harry's voice, heard his faint groans of pleasure.

Bracing her hands on his shoulders and moving her legs further up his hips, she began to push back.

That seemed to unleash something in him, and his thrusts gained speed. She could feel him against her, a pleasant force within and beyond her. It was only beginning to feel pleasurable when he pushed deep into her, stiffening as he made a low-sounding moan, his lips against her ear.

He settled against her, his weight surprisingly comfortable. He was panting, and a thin film of sweat had broken from the skin of his back. She felt strangely replete, and loving the fact that she had done this to him.

After a bit, she ran her fingers lightly through his tousled hair. She wondered if he was asleep. She'd heard about men doing that, too, and while she had thought it crude when the others talked about it, she didn't think it was all that unpleasant now.

But then Harry stirred, and he looked up to meet her gaze. He was a bit droopy-eyed, but the small smile he wore endeared her to him and she smiled back.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey.”

He seemed completely content just staring at her.

A minute later, he shifted off her and settled on her side, gathering her in his arms. She snuggled against him. She felt a little sore, but his warmth was reassuring and she closed her eyes, drifting off to sleep in his embrace.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione awoke in the dead of night. Or perhaps it wasn't night. Maybe very early morning.

In spite of the blankets covering her, she felt cold. She was alone in bed.

He's gone and left to sleep in his room, so that he wouldn't have to deal with me in the morning.

Her lips pursed as she stifled her tears.

Perhaps she shouldn't feel too terrible about it. Given his reluctance to discuss any of their nocturnal activities the last few times, she should have been inclined to think that he would be evasive about this, too. She should have expected it. He always came around the next day, anyway…

Anger stirred with her feelings of wounded pride, rejection, and plain heartbreak.

Why the hell should I always have to be the one to wait? she thought bitterly. I am Hermione Granger! I am the brightest witch of my age and I am a Know-It-All who will not stand by and WAIT.

She decided to barge into his room and make him listen. She didn't care if he was asleep or if he didn't feel like discussing anything. He was going to listen to her and she wasn't going to give him a choice.

She grabbed the edge of her blanket and was just about to throw it back when she saw, through the faint light of the moon, Harry's silhouette. He was standing on the balcony in his jeans and leaning on the railing, his eyes affixed at the cloudless sky.

It caught her short, and she had to reel in her feelings of anger, especially finding out that they were completely unfounded. She grappled with the momentary guilt, and she chastised herself for her constant feelings of insecurity.

Sitting up in bed, she held the sheet to herself, watching Harry stare at the sky.

For the first time since she began to really know Harry, she couldn't guess at what he was thinking. She couldn't see his face, but standing outside in the dark of night, alone—he looked so lonely and lost. She wanted to go to him and keep him company, but she didn't know if he'd welcome it.

He stirred, and she didn't know why, but she didn't want him finding out she'd been watching him. She shot back into bed, turning over to pretend that she'd been asleep all along.

She felt the mattress compress on his side as he slipped back under the covers.

His warmth returned, and his arms wrapped around her from behind, pulling her close against him. He pressed his nose to the crook of her neck, kissing the skin there once or twice. The sigh of contentment that followed went straight to her heart. His simple, gentle caresses made her feel wanted and treasured. She wanted to turn and throw her arms around him, wrapping him in her embrace, but she was supposed to be asleep. Maybe that's what made it even more special.

She wanted to stay awake, savoring these moments that felt even more intimate than making love to him, but it was too comfortable; too warm, and slowly, she drifted back into her dreams.

-->

A/N: Many, many thanks again to Tome Raider. You all know I love her, but I can't say it enough times. She just makes everything better.

Standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter Four: Sword and Sorcerer

Harry was not there when she woke up to the bright morning rays of the sun and she touched the empty space beside her, wondering if the lingering warmth there was real or in her imagination. She also asked herself whether she should feel any kind of anger, at all.

She remembered what he had done, when he thought she was asleep, and it had affected her so deeply that she couldn't quite feel like he had abandoned her in the morning after.

He did, though—technically. So she had to wonder if she should be angry because it was the principle of the thing.

She sighed and rolled over, her back to the bed's canopy.

I've heard of this phenomenon. How sex complicates things.

Add that to the brooding hero and everything's double the angst.

She pushed herself out of bed to get ready for the day. She showered, examining what her previous night's activities had wrought on her body. Aside from the slight soreness, she didn't see anything different.

When she was done showering, she found herself paying a bit more attention to what she was going to wear and what her hair was going to look like.

That's it. My brain's turned into cotton.

Hermione Granger had never, since the Yule Ball (and that was a great exception, having felt that international relations were at stake), tried to pretty up for anybody. She considered dropping everything; wand, lip-gloss, and her good shirt, just to make an effort not to make an effort, because it was the principle of the thing.

She groaned. It was too early for all these principles. She just wanted to have her morning tea, breakfast, and Harry.

That sounded a bit skewed to her, too, but she'd already decided that Harry wasn't doing much for her brainpowers this morning.

She did dress with relative care, and she did dry her hair. The lip-gloss was administered, but that was it. Grabbing a book from her rucksack, she trudged out of her room and almost ran into Harry on her way down the winding stairs.

Her book spilled from her hands and fell with a splat on the stone steps. Some sticky-notes fell out and Hermione gave a shriek of dismay.

Diving for her notes was the perfect excuse to be distracted and not deal with the tension between her and Harry.

She dropped to her knees, gathering the scattered notes.

Harry began to help her gather the notes that had fluttered farther down the stairs. “Sorry.”

“It's fine. Harry, if you'll be so kind, there's one over there—thanks.”

She sat on one of the steps and tried to reorganize the mess right there.

Harry hadn't sat, but he was on a lower step, and she tried not to be too conscious of the fact that he was standing there, just watching her.

After several seconds of her flipping through the pages of her book, he finally spoke.

“I was going to fetch you for breakfast. It's ready.”

She looked up briefly, avoiding his gaze. She nodded. It was the only response she could think of.

It felt a bit awkward, but the notes kept her occupied, which was a relief.

Thank goodness I'm a swot.

When he sat on the lower step, she lost her concentration as her heart beat faster. She began sticking her notes in the wrong places. She would fix it later. Right now she was too flustered to care.

“I didn't want to wake you this morning,” he said.

Oh, Merlin, what does he expect me to say to that? “That's fine, Harry.”

It wasn't. It seemed like a wholly inadequate, bordering on horrible, thing to say.

She saw his brows knot and realized she wasn't equipped to deal with this kind of drama. She stuffed what remained of the sticky notes to the back of the book and closed it as she got to her feet. “I'm famished. We should go.” She tried to walk past him, but he held her by the arm.

“I didn't want to leave you alone,” he said uneasily. “But Priestess Morgana sent for me. She wanted to talk.”

Her surprise at this piece of information over-shadowed the other issues. “About what?”

He reddened. “Different things. Personal matters, like family and friends. I really don't know why it was so important that she'd send for me, but I—I didn't mind talking to her. She reminds me a lot of Dumbledore…”

The confusion clouding her emotions receded and she felt a deep sense of compassion for him.

“And she asked about mum, too,” Harry continued. “She didn't know mum, and really, I don't know much about her, either, but it was nice to talk to someone about it. I've never talked about my mother. People always seemed to talk to me about her.”

She was able to muster a smile and finally, she took his hand, holding it firmly. “Come on, then. You can tell me all about it at breakfast.”

He smiled faintly in return, the relief in his eyes at her acceptance palpable.

They headed down the steps to the breakfast hall.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry spoke lightly about his conversation with Priestess Morgana, and Hermione listened intently to every word.

There were many times she wanted to touch him with intimate familiarity, to brush back some of that hair that had fallen over his forehead, or to pick the little crumb of bread that had fallen on his track jacket, or even just to give him an idle caress. How he held her and touched her, early morning, when he thought she was asleep, was a stark, cherished memory. She wanted to give back now when she couldn't this morning, but he had always seemed so uneasy about public displays of affection, so she held off. When they were alone, he'd be more at ease.

He was just telling her how he found out that Avalon had a stable of Thestrals when Brigit walked by with a plate heaping with food.

She stopped by them and smirked. “Slept well?”

Hermione felt herself blush. Harry was completely red in the face.

Brigit left.

Hermione watched Brigit saunter off and wondered if it was even in the realm of human to be so irked by a pregnant woman.

“I slept relatively well, thanks,” Harry muttered. “No bad dreams…”

She noted how he had used the word “relatively,” as in, “When he was asleep, it was good.” She didn't let on that she completely understood what he meant, though, and decided that the blush that had crept anew on her face was so intense that it merited an oblique explanation.

“I feel well-rested, myself,” she said, straight-faced.

He only gave the slightest hint of catching on to her meaning.

They finished the rest of their breakfast in silence, and when they were done, she urged Harry to show her where the Thestrals were. It wouldn't hurt to get a bit of outdoor exercise before she began to read again. She would bring her book with her in the off chance that they found a nice little spot they could sit and lounge.

She was surprised when her suggestion prompted Harry to grab her hand and drag her eagerly—presumably—to the stables.

They crossed the courtyard of women and children who gave him cheery greetings of the morning. He waved right back, as if it was something he did on a regular basis, and Hermione was awed by how Harry had made so many friends in such a short time.

They rounded a corner of the tower, isolated from everyone. Hermione assumed the stables would be around the bend. She walked on, almost passing him, but then he turned and caught her in his arms, kissing her.

It left her breathless, and when he pulled away, he said, “Good morning.”

Indeed, he got that right.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione couldn't see the Thestrals. For all the things that have made the past year horrible, she hadn't had to watch someone die. Harry saw them plain as day and of course, so could the stable hands who encouraged them not to be afraid of the creatures.

“These ones are very sweet tempered,” said Epona, an elder and rather robust woman. “Come on, then. Would you like to touch?”

The woman had, of course, taken the Celtic Goddess name for horses. The other stable hand was named Manannan and Rhiannon. All those names horse-aspects of the Goddess.

Hermione cast Epona an embarrassed look. “I—I couldn't see them. Harry can, though.” She couldn't help it. She had wanted the attention driven from her. She shot him an apologetic smile.

He didn't seem to mind. He stepped forward and it appeared to Hermione that he was touching air. His hands moved over what appeared to be something quite solid, and he was smiling one of his small smiles that didn't quite reach his eyes, but was true nonetheless.

“It's a pity these beauties can only be seen under the saddest of circumstances,” Epona said. “But I suppose it takes death to open your eyes to many things.”

Hermione shuddered.

“Can I ride them?” asked Harry, much to Hermione's disapproval.

Her eyes widened and she was about to protest, but she was cut off by Epona who very eagerly said that wasn't going to be a problem.

Hermione was on the verge of full-nag. She could feel the words poised on her lips. “Harry Potter, it's bad enough that you put yourself in constant danger of splattering your brains riding a broom, and it's even worse riding Hippogriffs and Thestrals—and that's because we had to! But for leisure!”

Her nagging was forestalled when he shot her an expectant look.

She refused to seem predictable. She pursed her lips and stepped back, letting him do as he pleased.

“And where are you going, standing way over there?” Harry asked. He spoke quietly, but she could see the twinkle in his eyes. “Come here.”

Anxiety twisted her insides. “What? What for?”

“Don't you want to ride?”

“Not particularly,” she squeaked.

He smiled. “But you've ridden one before.”

She fidgeted. “That was different. We had no choice, and I had many, many things to worry about…”

“I'm driving. We'll be fine, and you'll like it.”

Hermione looked to Epona. For support, maybe, but Epona just crossed her arms over her chest looking much too amused for Hermione's liking.

“I'm fine right here, thanks,” was all she could say.

He smirked and grabbed her by the wrist, dragging her closer.

She was torn between turning and running, and just letting him. On the one hand, she didn't want to seem like a complete coward, yet on another hand, she really was quite uneasy at the thought. She'd seen Thestrals in pictures. They were not “beauties” no matter what Epona or Hagrid said. They were skeletal and frightening and of course, they had wings. Wings were never good. Wings meant she would be brought up high into the air—higher than any broom on a pickup game of Quidditch could take her, and she just knew she'd be forced to swallow zero-gravity while Harry whooped and laughed. Worst than that, these things didn't come with air-sickness bags. She had barely been able to keep her gorge from rising with Buckbeak in third year and riding those Thestrals in fifth year, and the truth was, the fact that both times had been necessary to get from point A to point B helped a lot in motivating her to do it with courage, but looking at Harry now, his eyes alight, she was half certain it would be from point A to point loop-de-loop and twist to point B. Thestrals were far more agile than hippogriffs. She'd throw up for sure, and humiliate herself.

What if I throw up on Harry? Oh, how mortifying!

“No,” she said in a firm, crisp tone. “I won't do it. I'll get sick, and I'll embarrass myself, and—“

He wasn't intimidated by her tone in the least. “You won't get sick. Just relax and it will be fun. Come on. It will do you good, eh?”

“But—“

“If you want, you can ride side-saddle in front of me.”

Her face reddened with indignation and her back stiffened. “I most certainly will not. Do I look like a dainty little princess to you? How can you even suggest—“

He grinned and she realized he had been teasing. She really was an uptight little snot, uninhibited nocturnal activities notwithstanding.

“Come on, then.” He pulled her to him, and she so-very-reluctantly let him lead her to a Thestral.

Epona helped him put on the saddle, and when Epona asked, “D'you know how to buckle these things on?” Hermione took the opportunity to be helpful.

“I do,” she replied none too enthusiastically. “I took riding lessons in the summer when I was thirteen.”

“Well, then you'd be quite the equestrian, won't you?” Epona said.

“Horses don't have wings,” Hermione muttered, taking the buckles and directing Harry how to fasten them all, from bridle to stirrup.

Harry flashed a grin every once in a while, and Hermione spent most of her time figuring out if it annoyed her more than it turned her on.

Humph. So smug.

When the saddle seemed secure around their invisible beast, Hermione had to admit that she felt a bit better about riding it. With the saddle hanging on to something, it seemed more real and wasn't likely to dissipate when they were up in the air.

Harry got on first, and holding his hand out to Hermione, she hopped on with ease. She recalled her riding lessons and it helped a bit.

So sucking in her disdain of damsels in distress, she had no choice but to cling to Harry for dear life.

It was all fine when Harry kicked the Thestral into a gallop on the ground. Hermione wasn't afraid of riding horses, but when the Thestral kicked itself into the air, she felt her stomach drop, and she swore she was going to hurl when the ground got farther and farther away from her feet with a rising corkscrew motion.

“This was a mistake!” she moaned, squeezing her eyes shut.

He laughed, and it was the kind of laugh she hadn't heard from him in a long time. It was filled with mirth and joy. It would have been lovely if she didn't feel like throwing up.

“You aren't closing your eyes, are you?” he yelled over his shoulder.

“What do you think?” she growled. Heights had a tendency to put her in ill-temper.

“You're missing everything! The view is fantastic. Come on, Hermione, just one peek.”

She wanted to refuse. She wanted to rail and scream. This wasn't romantic or enjoyable. It was cold and dangerous.

But for him, she opened her eyes. The expanse swooped and twisted below her. It would have been pretty. Gorgeous, even. The view was spectacular and the gardens were a splash of lovely colors. She could admit that, but the swooping.

Vertigo hit her hard.

She shut her eyes, but she could hear Harry's laughter. She supposed a little white lie wouldn't hurt. “It's pretty!” she shrieked. It didn't come out as well as she hoped, but the wind was so loud and Harry seemed so happy that he didn't seem to notice just how un-happy she was.

Mercifully, their flight didn't last much longer. Soon enough, Harry was landing the Thestral back on the open field and Hermione felt solid earth beneath the Thestral's hooves.

When they got back to the stables, Hermione didn't wait another minute. She scrambled off its back and promptly discovered how wobbly her legs were when she gracelessly fell to the floor.

“Hermione!”

She decided she didn't really care how it looked. She was on her hands and knees taking great gulps of air to settle her gorge. She felt instantly better, and it was only when her vision stopped spinning did she realize that Harry was there, holding her by the shoulders.

He looked worried, and he looked very apologetic. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Hermione.”

No, she was sorry, because she couldn't seem to share in something he loved doing so much. He loved to fly high and soar, turning and swooping and rising…

Ugh… makes me ill just thinking about it.

Whether it was on a broom, a Hippogriff, or a Thestral, he liked the speed. It filled him with unbridled joy. She wished she could enjoy that, too. Unfortunately, she'd sooner barf her breakfast.

Breathe, Granger. Breathe. One, one thousand. Two, one thousand. Three, one thousand…

“It's fine,” she managed to say through her deep breathing exercises. “Not your fault that I'm aeronautically challenged. If you—if you wish to fly… like that a bit more, I have no problem staying here. I'll just read while I wait down here. The ground is good and solid for reading. No vertigo. Convenient.”

He sighed, giving her shoulders a comforting squeeze. “I'm really sorry. I shouldn't have forced you. I thought that once you saw how nice it was, you'd like it.”

“There are some of the Goddess' creatures that aren't made for flight, but She loves us all the same,” Epona said, crouching beside her and holding out a polished apple and a paring knife. “Alright there, now? Eat this bit by bit. It will make you feel better.”

Hermione took the apple appreciatively and cut into it, sitting herself down on the hay-strewn floor. “Th-thank you. Harry, you go on ahead. I'll be fine here.”

He sat down with her. “It's alright. I'm done flying for the day.”

“Then I'll leave you two to your business,” said Epona, getting to her feet. “I have to see to the other Thestrals.” She took with her the Thestral they'd ridden, pulling the beast by the reigns. The saddle floated in the air, bobbing to the Thestral's gait.

Hermione was finding the apple comforting in its sweetness. She cut a piece and offered some to Harry. He shook his head.

“I wish I was better at this thing,” she muttered, casting him a shamefaced look. “It's something you like to do.” She couldn't help but think of Cho and Ginny, how either of them would've loved going up in the air like that with Harry to cling to. Better yet, they'd take their own Thestral and turn circles in the air with him.

Some sort of Seeker thing, no doubt. The lot of them think they're indestructible. Viktor, Harry, Ginny, Cho…

He shook his head, reaching to idly play with a few locks of her hair. “You don't have to be better at `this thing.' If you were, you'd be good at everything, and it wouldn't do for you to be perfect, now, would it?”

She shot him a look, thinking that he ought to be ashamed of himself for flattering her like so.

He smiled guilelessly.

When she was feeling much better, he invited her to walk the grounds. She thought on it a moment, knowing that if she agreed to Harry, she might not get any reading in, but she took one look at him and realized that she'd rather spend time with him than with her books. That had to count for something very special.

She gave her assent. She was going to enjoy the rest of the day with him. She was bound to catch some reading sometime soon.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The grass around the lake was green and lush. The woodland enclosing most of the lake was thick with wildlife.

Hermione sat staring at the calm waters, leaning back on the heels of her hands. Harry stood a few feet away, tossing flat rocks and trying to make them skip. He'd succeeded a few times but he wasn't consistent.

A book sat on the grass beside Hermione, unopened.

“To tell you the truth, you actually did get me wondering about the Weasleys,” Harry said, tossing another rock. It skipped well and far, and that seemed enough for him, because he sat beside her after that. “I really hope Bill's doing okay.”

She nodded absentmindedly. “It would be so very sad if Julien grew up without a father.”

Harry fell quiet and Hermione realized how thoughtless she had been.

“I'm sorry,” she said softly. “That was insensitive of me.”

He shook his head. “Don't worry about it. It doesn't hurt me as much as everyone thinks. And you always look out for me, anyway, so you get a free pass to say stuff like that.” He gave a tiny smile.

She remembered a time when she hadn't looked out for him, and she felt that perhaps she played a small part in Dumbledore's death at the end of their sixth year. She often felt that she had failed Harry that year, so intent she was on forgetting the horrors of war; so terrified she was of how real things were that she wanted to run away from it by trying to be just like all the other girls.

It didn't turn out well, obviously, and every moment, since Dumbledore's death, had felt like she was making up for her folly, and for what she hadn't been for Harry.

She had looked after Harry in the last year, but not the year before that.

“I wasn't always looking out for you,” she said morosely, pulling her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. “I screwed up that one time. You asked me to help you catch Draco and I didn't. Told you that you were being paranoid.”

He sighed, hunching over on his seat to lean his elbows on his knees. “Yes, well, I was paranoid with Sirius, wasn't I? And look where that got him…”

“That wasn't your fault, Harry.”

“Wasn't it?”

She turned to face him. “Harry, do you really want to know why I didn't help you catch Malfoy? I said you were being paranoid, but that was really only a part of it. The truth was, what happened in the Department of Mysteries scared—terrified me. I got hit by that curse, and it was really painful. The danger became very real, not only for me, but for everyone else. It finally sunk in that people around me could die… that you could die. At first I thought I could handle it. I swear I thought I could, but then you told us about the prophecy, and it was like it just hit me that I didn't want to do this anymore, and—and—“

An expression of complete understanding befell his face. “And you just wanted to be a normal, teenage Witch…”

Hermione was glad he understood, but she went on. “I just wanted to act my age. I was seventeen and I figured the only things I ought to be worried about are grades and boys. The grades were easy, but the boys part really… threw me off. You probably noticed how stupid I acted all year. Getting all frustrated when my plans didn't work out.” She saw the mild surprise in his face. “Yes, Harry, I had a plan. We've talked about me and plans, remember? The plan was I would get noticed by boys and I'd date while I got to spend time with my best friends, but when you and Ron spent time with other people, both of whom didn't like me—“

“Didn't like you?”

“Lavender and Ginny… well, maybe Ginny wasn't that mean to me, even if she had no qualms telling me how annoyed she was of me… anyway, both of them got snitty with me at a certain point when I was around, and I couldn't compete, Harry. I just couldn't. They're both so pretty and popular, and the two of you fancied them. And when they were mean to me, you and Ron just thought it was funny. Well, it wasn't funny to me, and it just made me more frustrated.”

He looked horribly shamefaced. “I'm sorry. I didn't—I should have—“

She waved his apologies off. “What's done is done, and I'm not completely blind to the fact that I could be spectacularly bossy, nosy, and a Know-It-All. To be fair to Ginny and Lavender, I had it coming, if not from them, then from you and Ron. But it stung a bit that I was called on my failings after I began to make an effort to be less neurotic—supposedly more normal, and as was obvious, I was being a complete failure at being normal. I was horrible to both you and Ron, but I was in a stubborn frame of mind, so if you didn't want me, then I didn't want either of you. The problem being, of course, was that I cared and you didn't.”

“Hermione! Of course we cared!”

“That's debatable.” She cut off whatever protest he was going to make. “And either way, I've already concluded that wasn't your fault. I still wanted my plan for normalcy to work. I'd failed at everything else, so I ignored you when you came to me for help about Malfoy. You realize it served a double purpose. I was punishing you, too. I felt that it was all well and good for you and Ron when you needed my help, so I was going to be difficult and teach you both a lesson. Well, it backfired, didn't it? All of this culminated into the disaster that was the attack on Hogwarts. We all share the blame on that one, but I've come clean to you about my part in it, so there. Don't be thinking I'm `perfect.' I'm a complete and utter witch, and I don't mean that in a good way, either.”

“Is that how you felt? That we took you for granted?”

“Perhaps, but I was seventeen and neurotic. Now I'm eighteen and still neurotic, but I think I've loosened up a bit. Just a bit. Anyway, the point is, we can't always be heroes of the world and one another. We want to be, but we can't be, because we're human and we make mistakes. I've realized all that since Dumbledore's funeral, and I try to understand what kind of pressure people's expectations of you have affected you.”

He stared at her, seemingly awed by what she said.

She went on. “I know you have responsibilities. And I know you know it, too. I realize that doesn't make things easier, so I constantly draw the line between letting you know I'm aware of your responsibilities and remembering—always—that you are my best friend first. It's a fine line, especially this past year. You and Ron had somehow mastered the art of being of a single-minded focus. You're living up to the reputations of your sex—that men focus on their ultimate goals and set everything else aside. You can compartmentalize thoughts and feelings, bring one or the other out only when necessary. I tried to keep up with you and Ron, and I'd like to think I've made a fair effort of it. I think, or at least I hope, I've been tolerable in the last year. I haven't been throwing fits and squeaking much… though I have to say, I can't keep it up like you and Ron can, Harry. I don't know. I feel things. I used to think I was uber cerebral and I could think rationally, without my emotions clouding my judgment, but I found that while I'm least susceptible to falling on feelings to make my decisions when it comes down to it, there are times that I think we should feel, and during those times, my emotions become so strong, it baffles me how you and Ron can manage to be so cool and unemotional. I mean, really, aren't I supposed to be the rational, unfeeling one?”

His features softened. “Rational, yes. Unfeeling? Never. Ron and I do feel, but we don't—we didn't feel nice things anymore. We covered it up with anger, or frustration, or just plain being mean. You've… you've allowed yourself to feel everything, and I really appreciate you for that. When Ron and I were in the worst of moods, you manage to find the time to—I don't know, do something about it. Not necessarily for us, but for someone else. You help people out, or remember them when it counts, like when you send the Weasleys birthday cards, or when you knit things for Julien…”

She reddened.

He smiled. “You can think of something to laugh at even when it's all dark and dreary, and you don't pretend that you can't feel, whether it's anger or passion…”

Her cheeks felt hopelessly aflame.

“You've been an…” His voice trailed momentarily, as if unsure if he should go on. “When everything's so bad, I know I can look at you and feel better. You tell me what to do and where to go, never leading me astray. You're… you're like a guardian angel. My guardian angel. That's the only way I can explain it.”

“Harry… I really, really appreciate that. You don't know how much.”

His responding smile was all she needed to forget that he'd been the cause of her misery one time or another in the past. She couldn't help herself when she leaned over and kissed him.

There was none of the awkwardness that they'd seemed to have during their first few kisses. This shared kiss was sure and easy, like it was the most normal thing in the world, but it still felt wonderful. The touch of his lips still made her toes curl and her insides tighten with desire.

They always separated breathless, and perhaps now, having shared what they did the previous night, the thought that they had been so deeply intimate removed all kinds of barriers.

She sucked lightly on his bottom lip and he hissed.

“I love it when you do that,” he said in a voice that made her want to do unholy things to him then and there.

She smiled lazily, slipping her arms over his shoulders as she laid back on the grass.

Is that all you love about me?

She pushed back that fleeting, almost forbidden thought, as she pulled him to her for a kiss. There was no hint of resistance on his part.

Their kiss took on a scorching quality and Hermione found herself hitching her leg around his hips. She arched her back to press closer to him and his hand cupped her arse, pressing himself against her as he squeezed her bum with almost painful need.

The mere thought that they would have to run—probably stumble—all the way to his room was too much for her to bear. She didn't think she could make it that far.

He moaned, sucking on the skin of her throat.

She closed her eyes and smiled, “Well, before I abandon all reason…”

“Gods, I'd give anything for my Invisibility Cloak right now,” he murmured against her throat.

“I'm tempted to tell you that you have quite the talent for an Accio, but truth be told, I'm not quite ready to shag out in the open, Invisibility notwithstanding. For one, we've grown quite a bit since first year, and the cloak's much too small for the two of us now…”

He raised his gaze to meet hers and he could only smile down at her, his fingers brushing over the buttons of her shirt. “Logic's impeccable, as always…” His fingers began to make circles on the patch of skin between her shirt and trousers.

She let him, watching the amusement playing in his eyes. She giggled when his touch tickled and she grabbed his hand to keep it from tormenting her. He turned her hand over, kissing the underside of her wrist before he pulled it over his shoulder to coax another kiss from her lips.

She sighed, contenting herself with just snogging with him in luxuriant ease.

It was so nice, to be this relaxed in each other's company, as if they'd been doing this for a long time.

In the past, she'd had fleeting thoughts—snatched imaginings—of what it would be like to kiss Harry Potter. At first she chastised herself for it. It was silly, she had said to herself that first time in fourth year, to be thinking of one's best friend that way, especially when he was crushing on Cho. She had put off thinking about him as anything other than her best friend, but then those dratted articles came about, making it all the more palpable that perhaps Rita Skeeter had seen into her brain and—and figured her out.

That wasn't the case, of course, and she quickly convinced herself of that, but Ron began to act like an arse, and she couldn't help but compare, and compare, and compare… Viktor was a welcome distraction, especially during the ball where she made it quite a point to show Ron up—which of course ended up with them rowing and Harry getting stuck in the middle of it all.

All that drama, however, didn't change the fact that he had such striking black hair and green eyes. The glasses only added to his charm instead of taking away from it. He seemed so scrawny at times, but that was only around the beginning of the year. Not even halfway through the first term, he would always gain back what mass he had lost, however little even that was, but he always looked better for it. Then in sixth year, he just blossomed. He was so beautiful to her. Never more fanciable. Her attraction to him was one she couldn't deny anymore, but she was a highly rational being, and she could tell that he didn't see her like that, so she quite cleverly put her feelings for him aside in various ways while she inadvertently took out her frustrations on Ron.

She hadn't really been in love with Harry Potter, or at least she thought she wasn't in love with him. A crush, perhaps. She definitely found pleasure in looking at him. And didn't she smile when he kissed Ginny in the common room? Yes, she was happy for him. And for Ginny. She was happy for everybody. She was just that kind of gal.

Another sigh of contentment escaped her, Harry's tongue sweeping to massage hers.

Oh, but what did I know of happiness then?

She couldn't have known. She knew absolutely nothing, because now was so much more wonderful.

This was true felicity. This was everything she never knew she wanted.

She should have expected it. Everything she did from the very beginning, she did for Harry. She had dreamt of him, alive and whole after Voldemort's defeat. She thought of him first, always, when danger was afoot. She wanted to make him happy with gifts and things, and even girlfriends…

It seemed so natural now, to come to this realization that she was fast falling for her best friend.

It was a strange thing, to realize that one had fallen in love. She understood that it was a completely cerebral impulse that had nothing to do with the heart, except maybe when it was thumping wildly because the person you love is so near, but ultimately, the emotion her mind generated throughout her body felt as real and potent as a pin pricking one's finger, or a cherry's juices bursting in one's mouth. It was all very true, and it felt right, but Hermione had never felt this way before, so she still had to puzzle a lot of it out.

But right now, complex thoughts scattered by his touch, it felt so easy to love him.

He pulled away and began to push himself off the ground. She looked at him questioningly before he took her by the hand and pulled her to her feet.

He led her then, across the grass and through the woodland, through the courtyard and back into the tower, through the halls and up to his chambers, where nothing mattered but the two of them and the intensity of their kiss.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This was nothing like their first time.

Where the previous night had been filled with secret uncertainties and cautious surrender, this was unbridled desire.

The frantic removal of clothing, the hot, fevered need to kiss and touch—the sweat breaking from the pores of their backs as they held on to each other in a tangle of limbs.

They went through the same motions of skin upon skin and torrid kisses, but Hermione, perhaps driven by her realizations, of how she felt for him and why, found herself taking the lead and pushing him on the bed.

When she crawled atop him, he had no choice but to relinquish control to her, but it wasn't as if he resisted.

She was driven now, by some intrinsic need to be accepted by him; perhaps for him to love her the same, even if for now, she only knew how to do it by physical means. She'd done all she can to love him with her heart. Her body was now a glorious extension of it.

Straddling him on the bed, she ran her fingers roughly through his hair while she kissed him with possessive fervency before sitting up and taking him into her.

There was a momentary rush of pleasure. Like it could end right then and there and it would be perfect for them both, but then she moved her hips in delicate thrust, and Harry's eyes looked to roll to the back of his head.

“Oh, my God,” he moaned, like it was the most amazing thing in the world.

She had never, in her life, felt so drunkenly empowered. Hands braced on his chest, she moved, and amidst her own haze of wonderful sensations, she could see how Harry was absolutely lost to it, and she smiled when his fingers dug tight over her hips.

She couldn't possibly fathom what else could feel better, having him inside her, the center of her pressing just right against his firmness. Incredible sensations pulsing through her at each thrust, it felt so heinously good.

Her name falling from his lips while he thrust back to meet her rhythm made it all the more stimulating, and before she could think on it, before she could be self-conscious about her words, she told him, with no uncertain terms, that she was coming.

It might have surprised him, what with his eyes dilating even more, but he didn't lose his cadence, and gasping, he begged her not to stop.

That was her complete undoing. Head thrown back, she climaxed. Waves of pleasure burst from within her, coursing through every possible nerve in her body. It was mind blowing, coming with him inside her. It was her first time ever to feel an orgasm like it. It was different from her first ones. She couldn't explain what, but she knew that this one was powerful, with her blacking out a few heartbeats and every single nerve of her body pulsing tumultuously with pleasure.

Harry bucked beneath her, their combined moans of surrender ringing throughout the room.

Hermione collapsed upon him as her orgasm waned, her face cradled in the crook of his neck and shoulder. They took several moments just recovering their breaths.

The damp warmth of his skin thrilled her even now, loving that she could do this to him.

A few heartbeats went by and he wrapped his arms around her, his face turning to press a kiss to the top of her head.

She closed her eyes, savoring the tender gesture, before she looked up at him and smiled. “That was wonderful, wasn't it?”

“Absolutely unbelievable,” he whispered.

She settled on his side and he turned to face her, gathering her in his embrace as they lay there amidst the late afternoon sun streaming through the French windows.

Wrapped in the reassuring warmth of his body, listening to his gently beating heart, she felt swaddled in his presence, like nothing could ever harm her again. She looked up to meet his gaze, and taking a deep breath, she told him. “I love you.”

For a moment, he could only stare back, then he pulled her closer as he sighed. She didn't know what the sigh meant, but he kissed her forehead, holding her tight, like he didn't want to let go.

She didn't want to ask if he felt the same way. It seemed so pushy to do that, but he was holding her so very closely, and the gentle caress of his fingers through her hair and his hand on the small of her back felt oddly like he didn't need to say the words back.

Her eyes drifted close, and soon, she slipped into a satiated sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione woke at midnight because Harry was nudging her awake.

She blinked sleepily, trying to make sense of Harry and the darkness surrounding him. Even through the dim light of the moon, she could see that he was worried.

“What?” she asked drowsily. “What is it, Harry?”

“Can't you hear it?” His gaze left her, moving towards the window. “That voice…”

Sleep left her completely and she began to get alarmed. When Harry heard voices, it was never, ever a good thing. “I can't. What does it sound—Harry, no! Don't follow it!”

He had left her side and was gathering his clothes. She grew frantic.

“It's a woman's voice,” he said. “Like she's singing, but… not.” He pulled on his trousers.

Sighing, she scrambled to follow him, dressing in a hurry. He was already tying his shoelaces, and all he had to do was put on a jumper and he would be all done.

Hermione barely finished buttoning her jeans and jumper as she frantically shoved her foot into her boots. “Harry, you should tell the priestess first. We can't be wandering off—“

“It's not telling me to go to the priestess.” He didn't even bother to argue with her. He just stood, grabbed his coat and began to leave.

“Harry!” she hissed, hopping on one foot as she slipped on her other shoe. She was too afraid to lose him to bother with tying the laces of her boots. She hurried on after him still securing the buttons of her clothing, her haphazard state putting her in a great state of agitation. Trudging purposefully to fall in step with him, she pursed her lips in stern disapproval. “You're doing it again. Jumping into anything and everything, and you don't even know if it's good or bad!”

“It's good,” he said, taking her hand and looking at her. “It has to be. Nothing bad could ever exist in this place.”

He held such warmth in his eyes as he said this, his gaze never wavering from her face, that she caved completely.

I'm such a damn fool for Harry Potter, she thought, only semi-grudgingly as she let him lead her.

He let her out of the castle and she was surprised that it was only slightly cold.

She followed him through the courtyard and the grounds beyond. They passed the stables and Hermione saw a faint flicker of light from the nearby cottages. She could hear laughter and was drawn to the orange glow seeping through the windows.

“Hermione, come on,” he said, urging her gently by the arm. She went on, drawing her eyes from the light to the darkness.

The sky overhead wasn't all that gloomy, but they had to venture through the woodland where the trees and foliage was thick and oppressive. There were sounds, and in spite of the darkness, there were shadows. She tried to push back thoughts and memories of the Forbidden Forest, how nothing good ever came of being there.

This isn't the Forbidden Forest. This is a small patch of charming woodland in Avalon. It is a wonderful place during the day. There are no dark creatures lurking in the—

Hermione jerked at the sound of snapping wood and she almost screamed when something bounded out of the bush.

She clamped a hand to her mouth just in time as her mind's eye registered a fawning deer, leaping gracefully through the trees.

Oh, for goodness sake, Hermione!

Pursing her lips, she waved Harry's look of concern away and plodded on.

She kept casting glances at Harry's face and saw how his expression changed just before he turned in a certain direction. It frightened her, how elements could speak to him and he'd hear them, and with a person like Harry, he was never content to just let it fade away. He had to listen and follow. It has gotten him in loads of trouble, but it also made him the hero that he was.

He suddenly stopped in his tracks and pressed his finger to his lips, signaling her for silence. His finger drifted about his ear while his questioning eyes turned to her.

She listened, and to her surprise—and not without a bit of trepidation, she heard a low, musical hum, like a droning melody that didn't quite have a tune, but had baritone notes thrumming through the smallest nerves of her body.

His wavering finger began to point in a direction.

She looked and saw nothing, but then his hand pushed some bushes aside, and she saw it; an ethereal, ghostly glow.

The unearthly sound hit her full force and prickles raced down her spine. She stood on her spot, transfixed.

Harry began to walk towards it and Hermione had to stifle the urge to cry out—to tell him to stop, but she knew that short of attacking him with a binding hex, she wasn't going to get him to listen to her.

Her stance reflected rigid protest, but she fell into step with him. If he was going to go into this without listening to her, she was going to go right with him on equal footing.

They emerged from the brush, and Hermione saw they were back to the lake they'd been at the previous afternoon, but it looked much more ominous at night. The moon shone upon the glassy surface. The reflection of water rippled all over their surroundings, silver, shapeless discs of light dancing as they bounced off the lake and into everything else.

At the center of it all, Hermione squinted through the glow and made out what appeared to be the svelte forearm of a woman, skin as pale as death. In her hand she held a sword by its blade, hilt point towards the starry sky.

There was nothing splendid about it. It was a small sword, its mercurial blade long and slim. Its hilt was a marriage of leather and steel with a pommel almost as large as Hermione's fist. It could be any man's sword, yet even in the darkness, Hermione could tell that it was the sword that hummed with melody, and she could feel power radiating from some kind of inner, magical fire. The song, unintelligible, could have been its tale, how it could have been held by the greatest Wizard ever known, and how it made Arthur King. It was a compelling sound.

A boat sat beached nearby, a long bamboo pole leaning against its stern.

Harry hastily went to it and Hermione followed. The boat had intricate carvings of mythical creatures on it from stern to bow, but most of its paint was worn bare. The wood was no longer smooth to the touch and the carved fairy at the bow had lost its smile for a gruesome, disfigured grimace. It must have been a wonderful boat in its prime. Now it just looked like the rotting shadow of a dream.

For some reason, Harry seemed displeased by it. She doubted it if was because he thought the boat didn't look pretty enough.

He paused as he hefted the pole in his hand. “This boat won't fit both of us.”

She frowned.

“It's alright,” Harry whispered, not even bothering to look her way as he began to push the boat into the water. “I can do this alone, Hermione. It's only a few meters away.”

She grabbed the edge of the boat before he could completely get it into the water. “The boat can turn over if it's not properly balanced in the water—“

“No,” Harry interjected, darting his gaze at her. She froze when she saw that his eyes blazed with open rejection. She took a step back, and for a brief moment, she could have sworn that the sword began to diminish in luster.

Her gaze flickered between him and the sword somewhat uncertainly.

His expression softened, first with regret, then affection. “The lady isn't asking for you… and I'm afraid of what will happen to you if I let you go with me.”

Her jaw hardened stubbornly. “But you said nothing bad—“

“I'm willing to risk me. I'm not willing to risk you, not even in Avalon. You know how it goes, Hermione… I can poison anything…” His gaze shifted briefly to the scratched and mutilated features of the Gryphon and Manticore shaped along the boat's stern, as if the lost luster of their features were his fault.

Her heart broke at the earnestness in his eyes. He really believed it, and he was genuinely afraid for her. “Harry… no. That's not true. Not in the least.”

“Please… just stay on shore.”

She swallowed, the plea in his eyes defeating her utterly. She nodded and stayed still, helpless against his persuasion.

The sword's glow brightened, as if summoning Harry to it, and Harry turned to move forward. He waded ankle deep into the water before he gave the boat a strong push and hopped on. He hauled the pole up and dipped it into the water, using it to push him further.

She watched worriedly as the water took more of the pole's length, the gentle ripples on the water's surface fanning out from the boat with whispered lapping sounds.

The water's deeper… if he falls, he can swim. I know he can.

The last time Harry swam, it was in fourth year, when he had ingested Gilliweed. He was able to swim then, and she could only hope that the body's natural tendency to know how to swim once it had…

Harry was bending for the pole to reach bottom now, and Hermione swore that if he fell over, she was going to jump in and save him, sword and lady be damned.

Finally, he came up to the sword as the boat came to a slow stop. Still using the pole for balance, he gingerly made his way to the bow.

With painstaking care, he reached past the boat and over the water. Just when Hermione thought he could reach no further, he managed to clasp the sword by the hilt and the lady relinquished it to him, arm disappearing back into the lake.

Harry hefted the sword and almost lost his balance on the boat.

Hermione made a strangled sound as she watched Harry teeter over the water, but he stabilized in a few seconds, and setting the sword down, he began to push back to shore.

He reached shore and she helped haul the boat upon the bank when she could. He threw the pole aside and hopped out.

Hermione watched Harry take the sword reverently.

He held the sword up to the light of the moon, and it seemed to glow briefly, or perhaps it was just the reflection of the water.

Hermione could see the details on it now, how intricate the carving on the pommel was; how strong the hilt seemed in Harry's grip. And there were the runes, carved down the blade with ancient words.

“Can you read it?” Harry asked quietly.

Hermione studied it. “Only very crudely. These are very ancient words and there isn't an English translation that would do it justice.”

“Let's hear it, anyway.”

Stifling a sigh, she ran her fingers down the runes. “Live for justice and courage, and you shall be immortal.”

Harry smiled slightly, looking amused. “Arthur's dead.”

Hermione thought that quite crude. “He isn't. You speak of him, don't you? And always with admiration. He's immortal.”

He chuckled and swung the sword experimentally. It hummed. “It's perfect.”

She stepped back a bit. “Can you wield it?”

He smirked. “Only as far as I could swing it.” He dug in his pockets and pulled something out.

Hermione gasped as she saw Slytherine's locket. “You brought it. Did you know—“

He nodded. “Yeah. The lady told me to bring the unnamed soul. I figured… He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, you know?”

That was an odd way to call it, and really, it didn't make much sense that the lady would ask for the Horcrux, but Hermione nodded. She could only accept Harry's explanation.

He set the locket on a flat stone and Hermione stepped back a few feet.

Harry looked at her. “Farther.”

Stifling a roll of her eyes, she kept moving away. They'd destroyed Horcruxes before and Harry was in the right for being worried, especially for this Horcrux, which had evaded all means of destruction, but really, just because for some reason, the destruction of the Horcruxes wasn't as harmful to him as it was to everyone else who seemed to try, it didn't make him invincible. She wanted to be as near to him as possible in case she needed to come to his immediate aid.

To humor him, she kept moving farther, his gaze did not waver until she supposed she had gone far enough. When she thought herself far enough and he still insisted on her moving by the look of him, she glared back at him, stubbornly locking her jaw and challenging him to tell her to move back more than she was willing to.

He was the one who gave in, sighing as he let her do as she pleased. She smirked at her tiny victory.

From her vantage point, she watched Harry holding the sword in both hands. The water from the lake reflected on the edges of him like a cloak of light. He looked quite magnificent, and he was lovely to watch as he brought the sword up, swung it in a graceful arc, and slammed its blade down on Voldemort's last piece of soul.

The sword's edge caught on something even before it hit the locket, like it was slicing light. There was a shriek, like life splitting asunder, and when the blade sank through the locket, a scream of pure hatred exploded through the air.

Hermione gasped as she slammed her hands to her ears, cupping them from the piercing sound.

A dull pulse boomed, and Harry was flying back; lifted into the air. The sword fell from his hand, dropping blade-first into the watery soil as Harry crashed with a mighty splash far into the lake.

“Harry!” Hermione shrieked hysterically, thrashing wildly into the water.

She could see Harry come up sputtering and gasping, and a groan gurgled from his lips as he struggled to stay afloat. He was grasping his glasses in his hand, and she could see they looked quite fractured even from afar. Frantically, she reached him, and grabbing him by the collar of his jumper, she dragged him to shore with great effort.

When they reached the rocky land, they both crawled on all fours.

“Harry,” she gasped, catching her breath. “Are you—“

Harry managed to laugh miserably, dropping flat on his back as he moaned in pain.

Her brows knotted with concern.

“Lord, that hurt,” he gasped hoarsely. “I feel like I got punched on the chest by a giant.”

He was speaking, and his breathing didn't seem to be bothering him, so she knew instantly that none of his ribs were broken, but he did appear to have some measure of pain. He would bruise, probably, but she decided to make sure.

Automatically, she whipped out her wand and checked him. Her theory of his physical state was confirmed, but he was probably going to feel very sore. She knew a few healing charms that could mute aches and pains, and the moment she administered it, Harry appeared to feel better.

“Merlin, Hermione,” he whispered under his breath as he struggled to push himself up. “I don't know what I'd do without you…”

She knew it was his pain talking, but she blushed anyway, helping him to his feet. When he was steady enough, she picked his broken glasses from the ground, repaired it, and gave them back to him.

He thanked her, and when they were relatively recovered, Harry turned back to look at the Horcrux.

The sword lay stood near the flat stone, reticent and unharmed, but at the foot of the stone sat one half of Slytherine's locket, smoke rising from its severed edge.

“It's done,” Hermione said, surprised by the simplicity of the fact. “Voldemort's last Horcrux.”

Harry nodded, saying nothing.

New fear blossomed from Hermione's chest. The Horcruxes were all destroyed, and that only meant Harry had to face Voldemort one last time.

She held back her tears, fighting back the urge to give in to the panic. She wanted to tell him to run away; save himself. Now that the Horcruxes were gone, anybody could kill Voldemort. Let someone else get rid of him, but she held herself, summoning what courage she had. It was Harry's destiny. If she told him to deny it, there would be lives to pay.

“Are you going to give the sword back now?” she asked.

He stared at the sword a moment, then he looked to the lake, as if to listen. “The lady isn't asking for it. I guess it's mine, for now.”

She paused, turning the logic over in her head. Sometimes, it amazed Hermione that Harry could come to such quick conclusions, totally unbothered by the possibility of consequence, and yet, half the time, she trusted him—completely.

She nodded and plucked the sword from the soil. It was heavy, but it thrummed soothingly in her grip, warmth amidst the cold just now seeping into her bones.

Harry took the sword from her, and he seemed to lift it with ease. He wasn't a sword wielder, yet he had told her about the time he had used Gryffindor's sword to fight the Basilisk, which he had vanquished; how the sword had seemed to fit perfectly in his palm. This sword, half his height, seemed to rest comfortably in his hand.

She wasn't one for macho imagery, but Excalibur fit him perfectly. She felt a potent pang of desire and she sighed at her wantonness.

“Come on,” he said, putting his arm around her shoulders. “Let's go back to the tower.”

“But the Horcrux…”

“It's nothing but a locket, now.”

She stared at him, searching his eyes for answers. And then she looked at his scar. “You can feel it, can't you? The soul fragment's gone.”

His gaze lowered and she was instantly sorry for being so blatant with her actions. He nodded listlessly.

She pressed her forehead to his shoulder penitently for brief moment. “I'm sorry. I didn't have to ask that.”

He managed an appreciative smile. “It's alright.” He squeezed her shoulders and led them back from where they came.

TBC

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A/N: Thanks to Tome Raider for pointing out the details that matter! All writers should be so blessed to have a beta like her.

Standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter Five: Love in Dreams

As morning grew brighter, someone came knocking on Harry's chamber door.

It was Hermione who awoke to the soft tapping. She shifted gingerly, hoping not to wake Harry up as she scrambled hurriedly to get out of bed to put on one of the ugly nightgowns that were in Harry's closets.

When they got back from their adventure in the lake, they were of singular mind to find warmth in each other once more. It was perfectly fine by Hermione, since seeing Harry with a sword had stirred something quite primal in her. She didn't even know she could feel like that.

Harry had an almost embarrassingly powerful effect on her.

Dressed in her ugly nightgown, she opened the door just when the knocking began again, and louder this time.

Hermione cracked open the door and she found Brigit looking fresh and perfectly put together.

Brigit didn't look the least bit surprised to see her. “Good morning, Hermione. Is Harry there?”

Hermione felt the slightest bit flustered, her brain still addled from sleep. “He's asleep.”

“Ah, well, he needs to be awakened, then. The Priestess Morgana is asking for him, and if he… has anything to show her, he must bring it with him.”

This woke Hermione fully. “How did you—“

Brigit arched an eyebrow, and Hermione instantly felt silly for asking. Of course the priestesses would know. They were magical and mystical, weren't they? They knew things.

“The stable maids saw you two last night and informed the Head Priestess about it. She's only assuming you… picked something up on your way back. Really now, we don't always do things the magical way,” Brigit told her matter-of-factly.

“Right,” Hermione said with an accompanying sigh.

“Wake him, tell him what I told you, then come back out again. You and I must talk.”

Now Hermione was really confused, but Brigit had affixed her with a stare of martyr-like patience, and Hermione began to feel the full force of it. She apologized hastily and said she would do as instructed. She hurriedly closed the door and proceeded to wake Harry.

She gently roused him from sleep, and when she told him what Brigit told her, he didn't seem all that surprised about it. Drowsily, he pulled himself out of bed and began to get his things ready. Their clothes from their early morning adventure weren't dry yet, so Hermione explained that she had to go to her chamber to dress.

Harry nodded. “I'll come by your chamber to get you in a bit, then.”

She shook her head. “You'll have to go to the Priestess alone. I have a meeting with Brigit.”

“Brigit?”

“That lady that came—“

“Yes, yes, I remember her. You have a meeting with her? What for?”

“I don't know. She just said she and I needed to talk, and frankly, I wasn't given a choice. You'll be fine by yourself, won't you?”

For a moment, Hermione thought Harry would say no. He didn't appear to want to go all by himself, but he nodded, and she had to take it at that.

She offered him an encouraging smile and hastily gave him a goodbye kiss, which he seemed to appreciate. “I'll see you in a bit.”

Hurriedly, she left his chamber and invited Brigit to wait in hers. Brigit accepted and settled comfortably on the neatly made bed while Hermione showered and dressed.

When Hermione was done, Brigit brought her to a tearoom with a solar overhead. The stained-glass windows were very pretty, and the fanciful décor was fairyland-like, with Satyrs and sprites carved into the stone columns and the enchanted paintings filled with familiar faces from fairytales told.

Brigit pulled a wand from her sleeve and Hermione found herself surprised by it.

It must have shown on her face because Brigit once again lifted a superior eyebrow and said, “What, did you think we were Muggles?”

“I—that is to say—“ stammered Hermione. “It's just that I hadn't seen any of you with a wand and it completely slipped my… you know what? You're absolutely right. It was silly of me to be surprised.”

“Well,” said Brigit somewhat haughtily. “We rather like doing things with our hands around here. Makes us feel closer to the Great Mother's gifts. Wand and magic is a blessing, of course, but sometimes the earth on our palms or the labor of knitting, for example, makes one feel more connected to the Creator of All.”

“I understand.” And Hermione did.

Brigit seemed to believe she did, too, because the priestess nodded approvingly and waved her wand to ready the tea.

It only later occurred to Hermione, as she sat across from Brigit who was pouring the tea, that the room had a crib on one end of it.

Why, this is the baby room!

And Hermione found that quite amusing as she lifted the cup and began to drink the tea.

She almost choked on it because it was awful. The bitterness was one thing, but there was a very unpleasant, rust-like taste to it. like it had been sitting in an iron pot for decades. It settled flatly on her tongue, so the taste wasn't going anywhere.

“It's bad, I know,” said Brigit, smirking. “But you must drink all of it.”

“I must?” Hermione gasped, gagging at the mere idea that she had to ingest such a foul substance so early in the morning.

Brigit nodded, pouring more of the tea into her cup.

Hermione noticed that Brigit was taking none of it, and no wonder. It tasted bad enough to harm the baby. “I won't drink anymore. It's horrible. Have you brought me here just to drink this tea?”

“Yes, and from what tales Harry's told of your brilliance—“

She blushed with pleasure. “He said that? That I was brilliant?”

Brigit completely ignored her question and went on, “you've drank worse, or at least something equally as foul. Polyjuice isn't exactly cherry flavored, you know.”

“But that was a potion! An important one at that!”

“Well, how sure are you this isn't like a potion?”

Hermione glared. “For what, then? What sort of potion am I drinking?”

“For strength. You'll need your strength for the coming days. All you need to do is finish this pot, and you'll never have to drink it again—“ she paused. “Well, maybe not until… you know what, just drink the tea.”

“Maybe not until what?”

Brigit briskly had Hermione lifting the cup back to her lips. “Not until you know you'll need it again.”

“Why will I need my strength? What aren't you telling me?”

“Nothing you shouldn't have already figured out. I'm guessing Harry destroyed the last Horcrux this morning, didn't he? He'll have to face You Know Who soon enough.”

Hermione's lips pursed for a moment. “Voldemort will be dealt with when Harry's good and ready.”

Brigit chuckled. “Everybody has a plan until the first hex. Now drink your tea.”

Hermione couldn't, for the life of her, understand what kind of power Brigit had on her. “I'm only doing this because I trust Harry when he says nothing bad could happen in Avalon,” she muttered, poising the cup to her lips.

“Goodness, alright then. Whatever makes you happy! You're a stubborn little shrew, aren't you?”

Hermione was so shocked by Brigit's language that she hardly noticed Brigit tipping the cup until the awful liquid sloshed into Hermione's mouth.

She had to take deep breaths to keep from retching it all back up.

Brigit wasn't kidding when she let Hermione drink all of it, and it was with great relief when the last drop fell from the pot's spout. Hermione downed it with sheer determination, and when it was all done, Brigit “rewarded” her with the most delicious pastries.

“I s'pose I ought to be glad they're not doggie biscuits,” Hermione muttered.

“Don't get snarky. It's for your own good. Now, what shall we do with you? Ah, gossip?”

Hermione glared at her.

“No? Well, that's too bad. I've been dying to ask you about Harry.”

Hermione gave Brigit a poisonous smile, setting a pastry down delicately. “Thank you for tea, Brigit.” She stood and began to walk to the door.

“You're welcome. You wouldn't want to be Harry's weakness, after all, now would you?”

Hermione stopped in her tracks and whirled to face the priestess, eyeing her with all-out suspicion. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. You and Harry would probably be heading on your way later. It's best you travel with a full belly.”

Annoyed by Brigit's superior tone, Hermione merely nodded and left, grumbling under her breath about priestesses who called her names and said crazy things.

Harry was already in the breakfast hall when she arrived. He didn't have his sword with him.

She sat beside him, in no way eager to discuss what Brigit had told her but wholly curious about what Priestess Morgana had told him.

She refrained from asking though, feeling that he didn't want to be pressed about it.

In the middle of her bacon and eggs, he pulled something out of his pocket and held it out to her.

It was a crystal pendant that looked exactly like the ones Brigit and some of the other priestesses wore around their necks.

“Priestess Morgana told me to give this to you. She didn't exactly say why, except that it's only right you have one.”

Hermione's brows knotted. The priestesses were all acting awfully weird. She took the pendant. “Well, I suppose I'd have to thank her, then.”

“Later, before we leave.”

It irked Hermione that Brigit had known they were leaving before she'd given thought to it herself. Not that she was adverse to the idea of going on their way, because really, they'd done what they came to do, but it was so annoying to have everyone around her know more than she did.

She absentmindedly put the pendant on.

Harry took his coffee. “Priestess Morgana also warned me that while the sword always, always has the best intentions for its wielder, it's usually given because the wielder's going to need it. Badly.”

Anxiety sliced through her. Was Harry telling her that the sword was the harbinger of danger?

He gave a tiny smile. “S'alright. I'm used to it.”

Hermione thought that quite depressing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Saying goodbye to Avalon was a very unceremonious affair. The only ones to see them off were Priestesses Morgana and Brigit.

They were brought to the very spot from where they came and the Priestesses gave them their blessings before bidding them farewell.

Hermione, in spite of her minor irritations of Brigit, gave her as warm a thanks as she gave Priestess Morgana. Brigit showed no indication of Hermione's earlier treatment of her. The younger priestess had, in fact, given her a wink and smile as she sent them away.

Hand in hand, Hermione and Harry walked through the mist. She moved about blindly, but she wasn't worried. They'd get where they had to go, safely.

The mist cleared in due time, and soon they found themselves along a quietly running river.

Hermione looked around her, feeling slightly disoriented. The sun was bright over the meadows, and while their surroundings were nothing as perfect as Avalon, she had a strange feeling that she'd seen this place before.

“Hang on,” Hermione said, trying to put a name to her surroundings. “Harry, are we—“

He laughed, and it seemed they were of the same mind. “We're in Ottery St. Catchpole! Look there! It's the Burrow!”

Hermione followed the direction of his finger, and in the distance, small but distinct, was the impossibly structured home of the Weasleys.

“That was nice of the priestesses, wasn't it?” Harry said, already heading briskly in the direction of the house. “Dropping us off like this?”

Hermione was most grateful, but she couldn't help but think that it would've been so much easier for all of them if Avalon had just appeared in Ottery St. Catchpole when they first decided to go to it.

Oh, well…

She hitched her bag higher up her shoulder and followed after Harry. They jogged and walked briskly by turns, and soon enough, they were pushing open the fence that would lead them to the front yard.

When Ron opened the front door for them, he merely stared in open surprise. He seemed to be at a loss for words.

“We're back!” Hermione said somewhat lamely.

“Harry!” someone shrieked from behind Ron.

Ron was then battered aside to make way for Ginny who had thrown herself at Harry, arms around him in a fierce hug.

Hermione's easy mood deteriorated in a second, and swallowing whatever jealous words she might have spat out in her moment of anger, she turned and nonchalantly walked into the house.

Harry hadn't quite said that he was over Ginny, and really, even after a year of being officially broken up with her, Hermione—nor Ron, for that matter, hadn't really asked Harry about his feelings for the youngest Weasley. Harry never seemed very eager to talk about it, but it didn't mean he didn't want to.

In fairness to him, Hermione could admit that he had—in the last few days, dispelled many of her insecurities regarding his ex-girlfriend, but still, it didn't mean she could watch Ginny be all over him.

Ron sniffed rather disdainfully but seemed to gather his bearings. “Have you two had anything to eat, yet?” he asked in typical Ron fashion.

Hermione nodded, plopping her backpack in the corner of the kitchen and seating herself at the table. She looked at the Whereabouts clock and saw that most of the Weasleys were at the hospital.

“I'm surprised to see you two home,” Hermione said. From the corner of her eye, she could see Ginny chatting up a storm as Harry tried to make his way past the threshold. “Is Bill feeling better?”

Ron shrugged, taking a glass and setting it in front of her. “Not any worse.” He summoned some pumpkin juice from their stock and poured Hermione some of it into her glass. The juice was cool to the touch. “Ginny and I were at the hospital all night. Mum made us go home this morning. Said we should catch up on some sleep. How'd you get here so quick? Where in that wilderness did you find a Portkey?”

“We'll tell you all about it in a bit,” Hermione said, drinking from her glass to avoid Harry's gaze on her as he entered the kitchen.

Harry and Ron shook hands then patted each other's shoulders the way best friends did.

“Bill doing better?” Harry asked, settling beside Hermione.

“Not really.”

Harry gave him a sympathetic smile. “Sorry to hear that, mate.”

“Yeah, well, at least the healers think there's a chance he'll pull through. If I have to keep thinking about it… well, I'm glad to see you two. I was getting sick of putting up with Gin.” He didn't sound like he was kidding in the least.

Ginny stuck her tongue out at Ron just as she slid into the kitchen bench next to Harry.

Harry moved slightly away from her, bumping his hip against Hermione's.

Hermione moved further away on the pretense of giving them more space.

Harry, probably knowing exactly what she was thinking, cast her a scowl.

“Ginny, for Merlin's sake, give Harry some space!” Ron cried irritably.

For once, Hermione felt like agreeing with him.

“Don't be a grouch, Ron! I've missed Harry,” said Ginny, her snappy tone turning affectionate as she switched her attention from Ron to Harry. “I never get to see Harry anymore.”

Hermione refrained from blurting out that she'd been gone for just as long. Did Ginny miss her?

That would, of course, send Ginny's hackles rising, and Hermione wasn't quite sure she was in the mood to butt heads with the fiery little redheaded ex-girlfriend.

“The three of us have to talk,” said Ron. “In private.”

Ginny's chin hardened stubbornly. “Don't you send me away—“

“Ginny, please,” Harry said quietly. “Just for a bit.”

To say that Hermione found Ginny's behavior, however justifiable, very infuriating was an understatement, but she held her dignity with admirable grace, and she observed it all without expression.

Ginny looked about ready to explode, but with Harry asking her so nicely, she wasn't about to throw a tantrum. Huffily, she got up from the table. “Only because Harry asked!”

She left, stomping around and slamming doors as she went.

“Whatever,” Ron muttered.

Hermione wasn't going to comment.

“So,” Ron began unsmilingly. “Tell me what happened.”

He sounded exhausted, and Hermione did feel quite bad for him.

She launched into a severely edited version of the last few days' events. She could have sworn she felt Harry's leg twitch uncomfortably under the table a couple of times.

Ron listened without interrupting, asking no more details than what she provided him. He did, however, seem to hunker down lower the further into the story she went.

When she got to the part about the sword, Ron seemed to perk up a bit, though she could see that his dour mood hadn't gotten better for it.

“So you did find it,” Ron said. “Do you still have it?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, hauling up the wrapped parcel attached to his rucksack. He pulled the cover off the sword and showed it to Ron.

Ron held it up by its hilt, examining it. “D'you use it?”

“Yeah,” Harry said more quietly. “On Slytherin's locket. It—It worked. The locket's destroyed.”

“Well, Hermione said the sword would do the trick. So the last Horcrux is destroyed… what now, Harry?”

Hermione frowned. “Really, Ron, do you have to ask that?”

Ron scowled right back. “Well, it's got to be talked about some time! We've put this discussion off for a year, haven't we? Don't want to be upsetting Harry, now do we?”

Hermione's eyes blazed. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Oy,” Harry interjected. “That's enough, you two. Ron, we'll talk about that as soon as we can get word to McGonagall and Remus safely. Hermione…” He shot her a pleading look.

While she wasn't entirely in the mood to be indulging him, she was sensible enough to back off. Ron was understandably touchy, what with his brother being in critical condition. She should have cut him some slack. “Fine. I'm sorry, Ron. I really am.”

“Whatever,” he grumbled again, setting the sword down. He rose to his feet. “I'm going to go eat some pie.”

He left them to go to the pantry.

Harry sighed and looked at Hermione.

She wasn't sure she should be dealing with anybody right now. Ginny had agitated her, and Ron had upset her by bringing up something she was probably more reluctant to talk about than she was willing to admit. Even Harry couldn't cheer her up right now.

“I'm going to read,” she said, getting to her feet as well. “I'll be in the living room.”

He said nothing as she left.

She made herself comfortable in the reading chair by the window and propped a book up on her lap. After a bit, Harry plopped on the couch nearby and fell fast asleep.

Hermione curled up in a sofa chair and kept reading, drifting off into sleep shortly after.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They were awoken by the sound of Weasleys, a redheaded army thundering into the house and ready to eat their dinners.

They had brought Fleur and Julien with them, and while Molly and the other Weasleys fussed over Harry's sudden reappearance, Hermione spoke with Fleur while cooing over Julien.

Molly dragged Harry to the kitchen, the rest of the Weasleys following, and Hermione was a bit glad she could give Julien attention in peace.

“He's grown so much since I last saw him,” Hermione said, wiping the drool from off the corner of Julien's mouth.

Fleur smiled and nodded. “He has. I had to lengthen his robes just last week. `E is growing so fast! His `air ees grown thick, no? Very red. Just like his papa.”

Hermione smiled in agreement, but then Fleur's eyes began to water, chin trembling. In the next second, Fleur was weeping, and Hermione could do nothing but rub Fleur's shoulder comfortingly, offering her soothing words of how it was going to be alright.

Julien, oblivious to it all, laughed and gurgled, which was just as well.

Hermione let Fleur cry, and soon enough, Fleur's tears waned and she looked up, giving Hermione a grateful smile.

“I am sorry,” Fleur said. “Eet is difficult, with Bill in ze hospital. I am in fear that Julien will grow up wizout a papa.”

“Oh, don't say that,” Hermione said gently. “Bill's a Weasley. They're a stubborn lot. He'll pull through.”

Fleur sniffed and nodded. “Merci. You are very kind.”

They were called to dinner, and Hermione was surprised when Fleur gave her hand a warm squeeze. The Frenchwoman had never been very nice to Hermione, but Hermione thought Julien adorable, so somehow, the baby bridged some of the gap between them in the last year. This was the first time, however, that Fleur had shown her any sort of affection outside of her fondness for the baby.

It could have been because Bill's state was making Fleur a bit unbalanced, but Hermione could never believe that Fleur was as snobby as she initially seemed if she was capable of loving a man with a horribly disfigured face, so it wasn't impossible to assume that Fleur actually liked her as a friend.

Hermione smiled faintly at Fleur as they made their way to the dining room.

Weasley dinners were always lively, especially now when all of them were there. Sometimes, talk would become somber because of Bill, but the atmosphere was charged with positivity, so they toasted to Bill's recovery, and Hermione noticed that Fleur's smile was not forced in the least.

Harry seemed far more subdued now that they were out of the calming shelter of Avalon, but it was more his normal state these days.

Even when he was smiling, he was brooding. Ginny kept fussing over him at dinner, and Hermione could only look away. She scolded herself for being petty, of course. It was completely in Harry's nature to be kind and thoughtful. He would never flip Ginny off just because—

Because what? Because he's not available?

The implications of the thought made Hermione's stomach knot. She pushed those thoughts aside and just let herself enjoy dinner, resolving to write to her parents later that evening.

Several times, Ron would knock things over when he scrambled to get anything she asked for. The oddest thing was, half the time, she wasn't even asking him to pass the salt, or the potatoes, or the sausages. She usually asked Fred, who was beside her, but no matter how softly she asked Fred to pass something, Ron was always there to the rescue. It got so bad that he knocked Fred's glass of water over and had its contents spill on both her and Fred.

She and Fred instantly got to their feet, chairs scraping back noisily as they hastily avoided getting more of the water spilled on them. Molly was already shooting Ron a very dismal frown and Arthur was already appeasing her with the press of his hand. George and Ginny were snickering, Charlie and Fleur were sighing, and Harry was staring at Ron with unveiled confusion.

“What in the world is wrong with you, Ron?” Hermione cried, unable to help herself.

“Sorry!” Ron cried.

Fred shot him an annoyed glance as he flicked a drying spell in Hermione's direction, then himself. “You didn't accidentally eat those Klutz Cookies George and I got up, did you? They haven't been tested, I'll have you know.”

“I said I was sorry,” Ron muttered as they all sat back down.

Julien gave a shriek and that took the attention away from Ron.

There were no untoward incidents after that.

After dinner, Molly ordered Ron to clean the dishes. Ron looked positively miserable for it. With the twins and Charlie there, there were heaping piles of plates.

Hermione felt sorry for him and volunteered to help.

She could have sworn Harry's eyes flashed for a bit, but she could have very well imagined it.

The Weasleys helped pile everything up by the sink then the kitchen cleared as they all headed to the living room.

Harry was the last to go. “Are you sure you don't need an extra—“

“Oh, let them, Harry,” Ginny said, pulling on his arm.

Pursing her lips, Hermione turned to the sink. “We'll be fine, Harry. Go on ahead and relax. We've got it covered.”

Ron sighed as Ginny's entreaties faded into the hallway.

It took sheer determination on Hermione's part not to bang the plates around as she flipped them magically through the wash.

Ron stood beside her, in charge of drying them.

For a long while, they worked in complete silence, but several times through the entire process, Hermione spied Ron looking like he was about to say something.

It was impossible to ignore forever. “Alright, Ron, what is it?”

He blinked in astonishment. “W-What?”

“You've been trying to tell me something in the last ten minutes. What is it?”

He looked positively panicked, for whatever reason, and Hermione began to feel irritated. She was about to scold him about how ridiculous he was being when to her utter and complete shock, he grabbed her by the back of her neck and pressed his lips to hers.

It took her a moment to register that Ron was actually kissing her, but the fact became monumentally and horribly real to her in the next second. She pushed him back with a gasp, a plate crashing to the ground between them.

They stood there, blinking at one another, as if Ron couldn't believe it himself.

A twisted sense of déjà vu assaulted Hermione, except this time, she was anything but enamored of the kiss. Ron's lips had been stiff and unsure, and it felt more like he had decided to “go for it” at the very last second, like he wasn't ready for a quiz but he decided to take it anyway.

Hermione's thoughts spun as she stared at him. She wanted to slap him. Or maybe punch him. Just to wipe that ridiculous look off his face.

They heard footsteps, and Harry was there in the doorway.

He looked quite annoyed. “Mrs. Weasley sent me to check on you two. Are you fighting again?”

They both stared at him. For Hermione's part, she was at a complete loss for words. Ron just looked like he was still recovering from the shock of what he'd done.

Harry, unfailingly observant, began to look concerned. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing! I'm done cleaning,” Hermione squeaked. “I'm going to bed. Very tired.”

She longed to have her own, private room to run to. Right now, she was sharing with Ginny, and she didn't much fancy staying up with the young girl to talk of silly things. She wanted to be left alone, and seeing as Ginny was still spending time with her family, perhaps she could avoid chitchatting with the redhead if she went to bed ahead of her.

She made a beeline for the exit and she could feel Harry's gaze following her, but she refused to hold back. She'd let Ron handle it because she figured he simply couldn't screw it up any worse than she could.

She was very confused about what Ron had done, not because she had feelings for Ron, but because she was completely unprepared to deal with the situation of Ron, Harry's best friend, kissing her. Should she tell Harry? Or perhaps she should talk to Ron first? She was Ron's friend, too. She didn't want to cause any trouble.

She had to sort everything out before she did anything she might regret later. She needed to sleep on this. She needed time to think.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione couldn't sleep, and she blamed Ron for it. It was his fault that her brain was going on overdrive, and thought, several times as she sat in the swing seat out at the Burrow's front yard, that she should have given in to her initial instinct of punching him. At least she'd have gotten that out of her system.

She pulled the shawl around her tighter. Clad in nothing but the shawl and her pajamas, the night air was a bit nippy.

She suddenly missed the comfortable temperatures of Avalon.

There was a sound at the door, and when she looked, she saw Harry. She should've known he'd be the only one awake at this time.

He had a thick house robe on over his borrowed pajamas, and he seemed unbothered by the cold. He sat beside her on the swing seat and put his arm over her. “And what are you doing up?”

His closeness was comforting, and she was ashamed to admit that it was all he needed to do for her to forget about how Ginny fawned over him all day.

She smiled. “Couldn't sleep. Too many things to think about.”

He nodded. “Me too.”

She wondered if Ron had said anything to Harry about what happened that evening in the kitchen. She was too nervous to even hint at it, and several moments passed in silence between them, neither of them saying anything.

Finally, Harry spoke. “I've been thinking about the end. When I face Voldemort.”

Hermione's stomach dropped. She suddenly didn't know if talking to him about Ron would've been a better subject to broach.

And why did he call it the “end,” anyway? The only thing that was going to end was Voldemort's reign of terror.

“Don't look at me like that,” he said, laughing softly. “I'm not dead yet.”

She swallowed, holding her tears back. “You're the one talking as if you're dead.”

The laugh died on his lips, his smile waning, but he didn't seem angry.

She could feel his fingers running through her hair as he met her gaze.

“If anything happens to me,” he began.

She shook her head and tried to pull away from him, her vision going liquid.

“Please listen to me,” he said, holding her firmly by the shoulders.

He needed her to listen. She could feel that, and for him she stayed still, meeting his gaze even as her tears spilled.

Seeing that he had her attention, he started again. “If anything happens to me, I want you to promise me that you'll go on to do the things you would have done if I were around. I want you to promise that you'll be everything you want to be. Alright Hermione? Do you promise?”

She didn't want to be thinking that anything would happen to him, but this was a relatively simple thing to give him. There was no difficulty in nodding and saying, “I promise. I promise, Harry.”

He smiled and he glanced briefly at the house, as if to check if anyone else but they were awake, before he leaned over to seal her promise with a kiss.

She clung to him, cupping his face as she took the soft press of his lips, and the warmth of his tongue. She instantly felt wanted, and cherished. Suddenly, all her petty insecurities of that evening were inconsequential. All her muddled thoughts finally settled, and under the light of the moon, she snuggled in Harry's arms, comforted.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Fleur had wanted to buy some things for the baby, and Harry, as well as everyone, was surprised when Fleur extended her first invitation to Hermione.

“Julien behaves when you are about, `Ermione,” Fleur said, never minding the astonished stares she earned from everyone. “Would you mind ever so much?”

“Of course I don't mind, Fleur,” Hermione replied with perfect poise. “I'd be glad to help you buy things for Julien. Give me a few minutes to put on something warm. I'll be down straightaway.”

“You can come too, Ginny,” said Fleur. “Eef you are interested.”

Ginny jumped at the chance. “I've some things I'd like to see over at Madame Malkin's.”

Molly shot her a frown.

“Not to buy anything, mum. Just to see the latest styles.”

“Oh, let her, Molly,” said Arthur as he flipped the pages of the Daily Prophet over his pancakes. “She can have a girls' day off. She's been spending much too much time with her wild brothers.”

“Daddy!”

Arthur flashed her a fond smile.

Ginny grinned and winked at Harry.

Harry felt his face burn as he looked away, praying that no one had seen it.

Ron scowled, first at Ginny, and then at him.

So much for no one seeing that.

He caught Hermione's gaze and she gave him a faint smile. He wished he could go with them. He didn't mind shopping for baby clothes at all if it meant spending time with Hermione, the one woman who could percolate his mind with important discussion one minute and make his blood boil with desire the next. The last two weeks with her had been a roller coaster ride of emotions and hormones, and yet Hermione was never one to care for drama, so it wasn't as if she was deliberately inducing it. She stirred turmoil in him without trying, and as much as that same turmoil had given him troubled thoughts, it was the kind of uncertainty that seemed to make him want more of her, just to see if he could make it all settle down, even if some secret desire in him didn't want it to.

He'd seen her confusion whenever he was silent when he was perhaps supposed to be talking. She was a creature of logic, discussion, and words, and when he was slow to respond to that, he knew it bothered her, yet she didn't make a huge fuss. She let him ponder and brood, and he knew each time that he was pushing her patience to the limit. It was a different kind of rush, whenever he knew that she was thinking of him on account of it. He wasn't toying with her; that had never been his intention. Her growing impatience was merely incidental to the amount of time he needed to let his thoughts of her sink in, but it gave him a rush, anyway. He never delayed speaking to her once his decisions were made, but he found that she'd just about reached her limit around the time he figured it was time to talk. He didn't know if it was actually one of the many things that attracted him to her, but the fact that they had this system that seemed to fit made it all seem very… comfortable.

Or maybe comfortable wasn't the correct word.

Right.

Things felt right, with her.

And then she'd told him she loved him. It was the single, most amazing feeling in the world, to be told, by her, in no uncertain terms, that it was what she felt about him. He didn't quite know how to respond.

He had lived day to day since Dumbledore's death, taking things as they came. He had closed his mind to dwelling on the past, kept his heart from looking too far into the future; as much as possible, he thought of now, and “now” didn't seem to include relationships—until she said what she said.

He didn't know what he felt. He didn't want to put a label on things; not right now, at least, when his future was so uncertain that he almost felt a physical ache in his chest whenever he told himself that he shouldn't be making any plans, especially when it came to Hermione.

He couldn't help it, though, that whenever he touched her, just before the passions and yearnings took over, that some of those yet-unlabeled feelings would show when he brushed her hair back, or when he kissed her on the forehead, or when he was just looking at her through his unspoken words.

And then there was Ron to consider. His best friend, Ron Weasley, throwing in his own share of confusion into this mix.

In the past, Harry had thought that maybe Ron fancied Hermione, which meant, of course that Hermione was “off-limits” to Harry, yet Ron would do and say the stupidest things which would have Harry completely convinced that Ron had no romantic feelings for their best friend. Harry had, in fact, asked Ron once “what the deal was.” Ron had vehemently denied any attraction to Hermione, which seemed to settle things, until Ron did something again that had Harry rethinking the whole thing.

And it wasn't enough that Ron was a complete mess. Hermione fought with Ron a lot on account of his stupidity, and it happened so often that Harry couldn't help but wonder if Hermione actually liked the pointless banter. He knew it was moronic to suppose that Hermione would ever fight with someone she fancied, but perhaps she made adjustments for Ron? Yet… a certain, alluring fire stirred in Hermione's eyes whenever she got that way. Harry couldn't quite explain it, but she took on a different quality of attractiveness when she traded barbed wit with Ron on such occasions.

Harry didn't know if it was normal for a bloke to find a woman attractive when she was angry, but if he somehow liked the way her cheeks got flushed and the way her eyes flashed whenever she got that way, it was only logical to suppose Ron felt the same way, didn't he? Why else would Ron keep trying to provoke her anger?

It made sense, yet it didn't, which was why Harry was in a constant state of confusion when it came to his two best friends, and it was why, until that night in the cave, he never thought of wanting Hermione any more than as his best friend.

That night after the Dementor attack, Hermione's anger had been directed at him, and he felt an inexplicable surge of desire. Her inner fire gave him more warmth than the fire they had going in the middle of the cave. So many nights of their quest had been so cold, and her emotions, not necessarily her anger, the rawness of it, went straight to his soul. And as quickly as her anger came, it waned, replaced by her despair, and he longed to comfort her, which he did.

When he kissed her, it felt like letting himself feel again, and it was wonderfully intoxicating. It was the first time he felt that rightness, but it was so sudden, so unexpected, that he felt he had forgotten to consider many things about it, one of those things being Ron.

So he pondered and brooded, and he could see that it drove her crazy, yet she said nothing, and it just made him want her even more. When she told him that she didn't fancy Ron and she gave him that logical, “What kind of person would I be if I fought with someone I fancied? I'm not six years old, Harry!” he felt lightheaded enough to think, “Well, she's right, of course, and Ron would have to be an idiot not to think the same thing.” That his judgment was clouded, that was for certain, but at that moment, it was like all the permission he needed.

It was only the next day, waking up from a dream of Ron socking him in the jaw, that he realized that Ron didn't exactly think on the same terms as Hermione did, so he fell to pondering again, which in turn seemed to have driven her to a point of psychotic insecurity.

Her presumption of his ignominy when it came to matters of her and Ginny angered him at first, but after he gave it some thought, he realized she wasn't all to blame for it. He was the one acting so indecisively towards her, so yes, it was his fault that she'd gone and thought that his uncertainty was her fault instead of his.

Everything from that point on had been about her. With Ron out of sight, he hardly even remembered Ron had once been an issue. He gave his best friend the obligatory thought once or twice, but each time, Harry thoroughly convinced himself that Ron never thought of Hermione the way Harry was thinking of her now. Ron couldn't have, or else he wouldn't be able to blow Hermione off so easily, because Harry couldn't bear the thought of having her stop looking at him the way she did, much less lose her to any sort of circumstance. So no, Ron couldn't possibly fancy her. Not in the least. Not with the way Ron treated her. Each day that passed only seemed to make Harry's feelings about Hermione more intense, and that became more evident when Fleur asked Hermione to go with her to shop for Julien, because the mere idea of not seeing her all day appeared to give him a considerable amount of distress.

It probably wasn't all that healthy to be thinking like that, but what was he to do?

He thought about talking to Ron.

Yes, he'd decided he would tell his best friend. Harry had, after all, convinced himself that Ron felt nothing more than friendship for Hermione, and really, when a bloke had problems with women, who else would they turn to except their fellowmen?

This morning, with her and Ginny away, would be the perfect time to talk.

His affections for Ginny had changed very little in the last year, but now knowing how intensely he felt about Hermione, he couldn't help but realize that his feelings for Ginny were only slightly more than a passing fancy. She was pretty, and she was fun to be with, but she couldn't possibly fulfill in years what Hermione had done to him in a span of two weeks. He had, in the last twenty-four hours, considered Ginny's advances a bit of an annoyance, mostly because he didn't want Hermione thinking that he liked it just because he couldn't out-rightly, and unkindly, tell Ginny to just stop doing what she was doing.

It was, regrettably, a relief to get her out of the way this morning.

He watched the girls leave the breakfast table with equal amounts of longing, trepidation, and relief.

His gaze on Hermione went unnoticed and breakfast resumed as if nothing was amiss.

When the rest of the family were done with breakfast, Hermione, Ginny, Fleur, and Julien were ready to go. Julien, laughing in his baby way, was slung in a cute little papoose, strapped happily to his beautiful mother, and looking at their party, Harry thought Julien had every reason to be quite content, being in such lovely company.

“'E shall be back as soon as possible,” Fleur declared, as if to promise Harry and Ron. “I will not keep the girls longer than I `ave to.” She winked.

Harry wished for lightning to strike him dead.

“See you in a bit, Harry!” Ginny chimed, bumping him with her hip as she went.

Hermione's expression was implacable as she walked past him with perfect dignity. “I'll see you boys later,” was all she said, casting Harry a barely noticeable second, more significant glance, as she stepped into the floo with the shopping party. And then they were gone, and Harry couldn't help but give a huge sigh of relief.

“Sorry about Ginny, mate,” Ron muttered behind him. “She's just happy to see you.”

“Right.”

Harry offered to do the dishes for Fred and George, and the twins looked very much ready to take the offer, but Molly intervened, threatening her sons with her wrath if they so much as took their wands out of the kitchen sink.

Molly hustled Harry and Ron out to the back yard, telling them to keep themselves outside in the fresh air. Ron didn't need to be told twice. He hurried on out and Harry had little choice but to follow.

It was just as well. Harry thought it presented the perfect opportunity to talk to Ron about Hermione. Harry was just about to bring it up when Ron turned to him with purpose and said, “I need to talk to you about something.”

Harry had to do a double take, letting it sink in that it was Ron who said it, and not himself, who was thinking about saying those very words only a few seconds short of Ron blurting it out.

“Er, sure, Ron,” Harry said. “What about?”

Ron's ears reddened, and he began to look supremely agitated. He paced a bit before stopping and seeming to make a resolution to just say it. “It's Hermione. I kissed her last night.”

Harry could not have been more shocked. He stared at Ron, utterly at a loss for words. His mind went completely blank, like it had imploded, and then when Ron's words began to register, he felt a very, very strong urge to swing and serve Ron a punch to the face.

He held back, of course, and he had to stamp his possessive anger away, only to have it replaced by a burning, unreasonable jealousy. Why didn't she tell him about? It had happened in the kitchen, broken plate and all, when he almost walked in on them. He knew that now.

She had the perfect opportunity to tell him about it during their rendezvous last night, on the swing seat. She could have taken a minute out of their insanely pleasurable snogging and said, “Oh, I almost forgot. Ron kissed me this evening. I feel strange that he did this. I didn't kiss him back, of course…”

Because she would feel strange about it, wouldn't she? She wouldn't kiss him back, would she?

But why else would she NOT tell me about it?

He took a deep breath, berating himself for thinking that Hermione would be so inconstant. There had to be a perfectly logical explanation for it all.

“Alright then,” he said in a perfectly controlled voice. He told himself he shouldn't ask for details. He shouldn't be encouraging Ron to kiss and tell. Besides that, he trusted Hermione unconditionally, right? But Harry was human, and jealous, and he had to know. “And what did she do after that?”

Ron sighed and collapsed against the apple tree. “I think maybe she pushed me away. Yeah, I think she did. And then she ran off. You saw her go, didn't you?”

Harry did recall, only too clearly now that he thought about it, and that, coupled with Ron telling him that she had “pushed” him away appeased his jealousy immensely. He didn't say anything, though. He could feel a brood coming along, and it was beginning with burgeoning intensity.

This did not stop Ron from speaking. “I suppose I shocked her, and looking back on it, it wasn't the best way to go about doing that, but I couldn't help it. I've been wanting to do it since after those Dementors… you remember that night, don't you, Harry?”

Harry nodded wordlessly.

“I mean, it's crossed my mind lots of times before that, but I never really gave it much thought until two weeks ago. I've fancied her for ages, you understand—“

“No, I don't understand,” Harry blurted before he could stop himself.

Ron's brows knotted. “I know it didn't look it a lot of the time, but I—well, I do fancy her. I'm not good with this emotional stuff. She's… when we're fighting, it's about the only time I have her full attention, and you know, she kind of looks more fanciable when she's all riled up… I don't expect you to understand—“

Harry positively fumed at that. At how Ron got her angry on purpose and how Ron assumed so easily that he wouldn't understand. Harry felt, indignantly, that he was all about understanding Hermione. He lived and breathed her. What manner of rubbish was Ron talking about?

Ron, blissfully unaware of the danger he was in with regard to Harry's feelings on the matter, continued. “But it's just as well. You don't have to. I just wanted you to know how I felt about her. I mean, I don't want to be keeping things from you. You're my best mate.”

Harry wasn't feeling much like Ron's “best mate” at that moment.

“I sorter just wanted to talk to you about it before I—you know, really start to pursue this thing I have with Hermione. I don't want you to feel weird or left out.”

It was completely outrageous. “Left… out?”

“Well, I think maybe it's possible that she fancies me back. If she does, then we might be a couple and you—well, it can't be the three of us all the time anymore, yeah?”

“You think she fancies you back?” Harry asked through grit teeth.

Ron reddened, somewhat shamefaced. “W-Well, of course, I'm not really assuming… I'd be a lucky bloke then, if—“

Harry had never felt so murderous in his life. “Yeah. You'd be quite the lucky bastard.”

Ron, thick-skinned as he was, did manage to notice Harry's cold tone. “Look, Harry, I realize that this might be very awkward for you right now—“

Harry stepped back, out of punching range. “I can't talk to you about this.”

“Harry—“

He turned and began to walk away. “Not now, Ron.”

“Mate, don't be like that! I swear to you, I don't want this getting between our—“

“SHUT UP!” Harry yelled over his shoulder as he rushed back into the house. He needed a place to shut himself into. He needed his own room. A cupboard. Anything! He just didn't want to see Ron's face right now. Or else he might do something he'll regret.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Hermione got back late that afternoon with Fleur, it appeared to Harry that Ron wanted to speak to her.

Foregoing any sort of pretension, Harry crossed the room and intercepted Hermione before Ron could get to her. He shot Ron a menacing glare, and Ron merely sighed, perhaps assuming that this was about Harry having a stupid best-friend fit over Ron's confession to him.

For the most part, Harry wasn't really angry. He had gotten over that between speaking to Ron and Hermione's arrival. Right now, he was just supremely annoyed by the entire mess, and he needed to talk to Hermione about it.

He led her to the Weasley cellar, and by the time they got there, she seemed as annoyed as he was.

She confronted him squarely, her face set on a rigid line. “What in the world is this about? What's so top secret that you had to drag me here to the cellar?”

“Did Ron kiss you last night?” he demanded without preamble.

She froze.

Please don't lie to me. Please don't. Please don't…

“I was going to tell you,” she finally said, her tone rigid, though her face was completely aflame.

Her admission—her truthfulness, he realized, was all he needed to make the last of his residual insecurities ebb away. He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “Why didn't you? When Ron told me, I was completely unprepared! I didn't know what to say. I didn't know what to do! First I was afraid you'd liked it—“

She gasped. “Harry, no! It wasn't like that! Did he tell you I did? He's lying, then!”

“He didn't lie,” he said, dryly. “He just didn't know what you meant when you pushed him.”

Hermione scowled. “Honestly, he's completely—“

“The point is,” Harry continued, refusing to be sidetracked. “You should have told me, so that we could've talked about it, and so Ron couldn't have blindsided me with it. What if I—what if I punched him in the face? I wanted to, you know!”

She frowned. “Harry Potter! Why would you do such a terrible thing? He's your best friend—“

“He made a pass at you!” he cried in frustration. He couldn't believe she had to ask! Wasn't the answer obvious enough? “You don't think that drove me crazy? He touched you! God, that makes me so—”

Territorial!

He couldn't even say it! It was such a “bloke thing,” but even to him, it felt like the sort of shite that didn't need to be said out loud. He growled in frustration. That was all he could manage.

Her lips pursed, and for a moment, he couldn't tell what she was thinking. Then her gaze softened, and to his complete surprise, she slid her arms over his shoulders and kissed him breathless.

He didn't think it terribly bad to forget his feelings of frustration for her to accept such a nice, unexpected offering. It was, in fact, a welcome balm to the distress he'd felt all day, having her away and thinking about what Ron had told him.

His hands automatically snaked to her nicely perky bum, squeezing as he pressed her against the wall. He didn't know what it was about her kiss, but whenever she did it, it was as if his mind shut down to allow only thoughts of her, those lips, and her body. Thinking of anything else was to dishonor the privileges she was bestowing on him.

She coaxed him gently away a bit later, and as was usual, his brain at first refused to process it, but she would insist, and he had no choice but to pull back.

She smiled lazily up at him and ran her fingers through his hair as her smile dwindled into an anxious frown.

“I didn't think Ron would tell you, and the truth is, if I could have kept it from you, I might have. The kiss didn't mean anything to me, and it was such a bad kiss that I figured Ron would've wanted to forget it, too, so I thought it was unnecessary to bring it to light, making things awkward between you two. I thought maybe I could just pretend the whole thing never happened.”

“He thinks you fancy him.”

Again, her lips pursed. He noticed she did this when she was irritated by something but didn't want to start yelling about it. “And did he say why he thought that way?”

“Not really…”

She tensed in his arms. “Are you—are you going to tell him? That you—and I—?”

“I was going to,” he admitted somewhat grudgingly. It was a conversation he had wanted to keep between him and Ron until he figured things out completely, but now there was no help for it. He had to tell her, or risk hurting her feelings by denying it, and he didn't want to do that. “But he sprung that kissing-thing on me—I got sidetracked.”

She reddened. “So now… are you still going to tell him?”

He frowned at what her question implied about him; that he would have intimate relations with her on a purely physical level, but then he reminded himself that again, this was a result of his brooding and abstraction—his seemingly distant attitude towards the whole thing. She could very well mistake his silence with indifference, because Hermione was about logic and facts. She wasn't going to assume things, no matter how seemingly obvious his feelings for her were; not when he could confirm what he felt with words.

He cupped her face, running his thumb lightly over her cheek. “What we do—it's special for me. Please don't think it isn't. In Avalon… things seemed so much simpler over there, but since we got back… I've been thinking about things, and I'm just—I don't rightly know where this fits in my life right now. I've got a madman on my back, and he wants me killed. There's a war that we all just want to survive so we can live our lives normally after. It's all about instinct and doing things now before we find out that tomorrow's too late…”

She stared up at him, her eyes filled with pain, but she was nodding, like it hurt to understand.

“It doesn't mean I don't want to try, anyway,” he said, taking her by the hands. “I'm just not sure if I should be going into this without careful thought, you know? It's… it's you. You're not just some girl.”

Some of the pain waned from her expression and a hesitant smile crept up the corners of her lips.

“I'm still going to tell Ron,” he went on. “But I'm not quite sure how, this time.” And it was the truth. Harry had no idea how to approach this. He had initially thought it was going to be quite simple, that he would undertake it in perhaps the same way Ron had spoken to him earlier, but now it wasn't as simple anymore. Now he knew Ron fancied Hermione, and having been on the other end of conversation not so long ago, he also knew that Ron was going to be upset. Very upset. It wasn't going to be pleasant.

“He's going to talk to me, you know,” she said quietly. “I saw it on his face when I got back from shopping with Fleur. He's going to try to talk to me again. Maybe it will help if I do let him talk to me first. I won't—I won't presume to know what you feel about all this, so I won't talk to him about that, but I can tell him what I feel and leave your end of it for you to explain.”

His brows knotted. It seemed like a reasonable way to go about it, but he didn't want it to seem like he was hiding behind her, because he wasn't afraid of Ron. He was just reluctant to hurt Ron's feelings with haphazard confessions.

She seemed to know what he was thinking, because she squeezed his hand reassuringly. “He won't think you're hiding behind me. Leave it to me, alright?”

It was times like these Harry truly knew that he didn't deserve her at all.

He nodded, trusting her.

She smiled encouragingly and was just about to pull him out of the cellar when they heard an explosion from above them.

He froze, his stomach dropping, and he felt the blood drain from his face.

There was a scream.

Hermione's eyes widened with panic. “Ginny!”

Harry didn't have time to let the dread sink in. He felt the magic coming at them from outside the door with burgeoning speed. He turned to Hermione, protecting her with his body as he pressed them as flat against the wall as possible.

The door to the cellar exploded and splinters flew in all directions.

A stabbing pain on his shoulder and leg made him cry out but he wrapped himself tighter around Hermione as they tumbled sluggishly down the stairs.

“Harry!” she cried. “Oh, God!”

They ended up on the foot of the stairs with her atop him, and he tried to scramble to his feet, but the pain on his leg flared, and his shoulder was no better.

More hexes exploded above them, and bits of the cellar roof rained from above. Hermione whipped out her wand but it was too late.

Harry could see feet, and one of them viciously kicked Hermione's wrist. Her wand went flying as she cried out. She threw herself over him, and he felt her digging for his wand.

He saw Snape staring down at them, his nose tilted in disdain and his wand point on Hermione's back.

“No,” Harry moaned. Not Hermione…

With what little strength Harry could muster, he grabbed Hermione by the shoulders and flipped them over.

The last sound he heard was her cry of dismay before the curse hexed him unconscious.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

-->

A/N: Lots of difficult stuff here. As in—difficult to read and difficult to take, but I promise there's purpose to it. ^_^ Just a warning, because it really is harrowing.

Tome Raider did an excellent job polishing this chapter. Thanks Pam!

Standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter Six - Demon Gripped

Her eyes were his salvation from the Demon. Every time he looked into them, he felt saved from the imp that plagued him—from his burdens and responsibilities, from pain, and even from himself. He had willingly let himself fall into their depths and each time, he felt that nothing else mattered but having her in his arms, pressed against him, having her hand in his, or having their lips against one another, tasting…

She was the balm of his pain. He couldn't do without her. He lived for her.

There was a loud clap, and Harry wailed as a lightning shaped crack punched a hole through his wall.

The Demon.

It reached in and tore her presence away, sucking it into the rift. Her scream filled him with terror and helplessness. She was gone. He was alone. The realization was so overwhelming that his weakening walls crumbled completely and the demon that was tormenting him crashed through, breathing poison as it extended its razor-sharp claws to rend Harry's walls raw.

He screamed as his mind got uncontrollably swept into a cyclonic wind. He couldn't stop the images from showing. When he tried, he felt that his head was going to explode. And he couldn't stop the chaos. He couldn't stop any of it from happening.

The Demon was powerful. All it needed was to get in, and his walls were no more.

There was absolutely no relief, and the pain was agonizing.

~~~

Harry jolted awake with a scream. The pain from Crucio ripped through him like a serrated knife, slowly slicing him into a hundred pieces. Burning pain flashed through his body and he writhed on the floor. It felt like he was being twisted awkwardly from the inside out, like his bones were being pulled in impossible directions. He couldn't breath, and his eyes felt like they were being gouged out of their sockets. He didn't know if he could go on for very long.

Then the pain was waning, and while it didn't completely go away, it was no longer unbearable, and he was slowly becoming aware of things around him.

The cold marble floor was hard against the angles of his body. The ache on his shoulder and leg had not improved.

There was light. Lots of it, and for a moment, it glared into his waking eyes.

His head throbbed, his limbs felt stiff, and he felt filthy with blood and cellar grime.

Cellar… Hermione!

He tried to spring awake, but there was too much pain pressing on him from all sides. He moaned as he rolled to a more manageable angle—on his hands and knees. Head heavy between his shoulders, he tried to push himself up. A trickle of red ran down his arm from his shoulder, and his pants leg was wet with red and browning blood.

The pain made his head swirl, but he forced his vision to settle, focusing on steady thought.

How long have I been here?

It was very hard to tell. It could have been hours, but it could have been days, too. He had drifted in and out of sleep, his nightmares full of disturbing images. There was no rest in unconsciousness, because he had felt invaded in his dreams, like someone was trying to look in and that he had to fight it, so he did, and he had won each time, but he felt weaker after every battle, and it did not help in the least that in the brief moments that he woke, he had been Crucioed back into unconsciousness.

But this last time…

He'd gotten through. Voldemort got through! Oh, Merlin, what had he seen?

He felt his chest tightening, but he doubted it had anything to do with a hex.

There were footsteps. Distant, at first, but as his fuzzy thoughts gradually drifted into sharp focus, he realized that the sound was no further than a few meters away.

He oriented himself and saw a familiar blur within reach of his hand. They were his glasses, and groggily, he took them and put them on.

He was in a workroom of sorts, with magical contraptions and potions sitting on heavy tables and surrounded by reams and reams of paper. It looked like Dumbledore's chamber, but darker—more sinister. Potions piped skull-shaped smoke. Enchanted objects bore sharp blades and horrible carvings. Books screamed and sobbed periodically. Candles sat on small skulls. Animals were locked up in cages.

Voldemort prowled in a circle, his wand clasped lightly in his hand. His red gaze fell upon him at intervals when he wasn't glancing out of the window of the room, or looking idly at one of the many horrible paintings that decorated the chamber's walls.

Snape stood beyond the circle of the madman, watching him intently with the same sour expression that Harry always saw on him. Beside Snape stood Bellatrix, her smirk of triumph muted only by the loving gaze she would cast her master every time he passed her.

Harry turned his gaze to the window and saw the sky infested with Dementors. His stomach curled in and of itself.

Voldemort finally stopped walking and met his gaze.

Harry was startled by the absence of manic red and the presence of intense lucidity that replaced it. He had expected the fevered gaze of a megalomaniac; the image of Voldemort Harry had remembered from the graveyard, and from the Department of Mysteries. The spindly hands and hair-barren head remained, and by all means, he still looked like a horrific skeletal man, but the manic gleam in his eyes was not there, and while perhaps that should have assuaged Harry's fears, it seemed to strengthen it. Voldemort was no longer the monster driven by unrealistic, demented delusions. He was a man, one with clear intelligence—a calculating man who knew exactly what he was doing, and that—Harry thought, was more frightening.

“How thorough a teacher Albus Dumbledore was,” he said. There was displeasure in his tone, but nothing to suggest that anger would overrule him. “He taught you many things.”

Harry pursed his lips, eyes staring defiantly back.

This did not seem to bother Voldemort. “He showed you Tom Riddle; made a mortal man of me so you would learn not to fear… this.” He gestured to himself nonchalantly. His tone was almost self-deprecating, a hint of dark humor showing in the quirk of his bald head. “Disappointing that the effect should be so ruined. I rather like instilling fear.”

For a moment, the red of his eyes returned, coupled with Voldemort's manic smile. He was a snake, ready to strike and sink his fangs into his prey, and then it was gone. He was that intelligent, lucid man again, and Harry realized, much to his horror, that Voldemort could put on whatever face he wanted.

Harry's hands fisted, and he felt true fear—not for himself, but for Hermione, and Ron, and everyone else who might have been taken at the Burrow. “What have you done with my friends?”

Voldemort seemed mildly surprised by this, but it was only momentary. He smiled, some of the madman returning for a very brief appearance. “Friends, are they? That's an interesting way of calling them. Miss Weasley was more than just a friend to you once, wasn't she? I don't think she thinks you're just friends.”

Anxiety spiked through him. Had they captured Ginny? Where was she? Was she suffering for him? Was she in great pain?

“She's not here,” Voldemort said. Perhaps he had read Harry's thoughts. It wouldn't be the first time. “She got away with the other Weasleys. Relieved?”

Not quite…

“I have no use for Miss Weasley any more,” Voldemort said dismissively. “Her use is done, and perhaps I might have been more eager to capture her if you still thought of her as you once had…”

Harry hated the fact that Voldemort had crept into his mind—had seen all these things. What else had he seen?

Oh, God…

“The Mudblood means much, much more to you.”

Harry could see it in Voldemort's eyes—the lewd suggestion; the prurient interest. He dug his fingers into his hair. He gritted his teeth and felt physical pain at the feelings of violation. The privacy of his mind and his heart had been ripped open, and Voldemort had seen him… with Hermione. Voldemort had seen her in Harry's most intimate moments with her. “Stay out of my head!”

Voldemort shrugged with casual disregard. “The Blood Traitor wants her affection as well. You do not think he can love her the way you do. You belittle his feelings. You forget that between the two of you, he has not had the… pleasure of her company, yet he feels strongly for her, almost as much as you feel for her. Given the opportunity, he will take her from you, as you would if she had chosen him.”

Harry pressed his hands over his ears and shut his eyes. Lies… he's trying to turn me against Ron…

“He was very strong,” Voldemort continued. “He would not succumb to torture. He would not answer our questions, no matter how hard we hurt him. The Mudblood would say nothing, either. She is stubborn and bullheaded. She took much pain at the end of Antonin's wand with hardly a whimper.”

Bellatrix smiled.

Harry could hardly bear to listen. He could feel Voldemort watching, and Harry felt that Voldemort could see his internal struggle plain as anything. This wasn't random cruelty. Voldemort was observing him. Voldemort was watching for his reactions.

The silence that followed was maddening, and Harry almost wanted to say something—anything, just to ease the crushing pressure.

“You can't break them,” he rasped. He believed it, and he said it with a lot of conviction.

Voldemort looked unmoved, tapping his chin, pensive. After a brief silence, he seemed to decide on something. “You're quite right. They are bound by Fidelius Charms. Clever of the Order, but to be honest, I did not take them for what they know. To me, they are tools. What Antonin and Lucius do with them is their business, and besides, like I'd stain myself breaking into the mind of a Mudblood…”

Harry's hands curled into fists.

“Fortunately, Severus was kind enough to break into their minds for me. Hence, we learned of the Fidelius charms. It did its work. Severus learned nothing from them.”

Harry lifted his gaze to Snape suspiciously. There were some things that hadn't been protected by a Fidelius, most of it concerning their Horcrux hunt, of which knowledge they hadn't bothered to share with the Order. Snape must have seen those secrets, and yet…

“Whatever I wanted to know, I knew I'd learned from you, and I did. The poetry of it nearly made me weep,” said Voldemort casually. He smirked. “I'm nothing if not dramatic. For the meantime, I'm just keeping your friends for insurance.”

What… what does he mean by that?

The question was not going to be answered by Voldemort.

“Severus,” Voldemort said as he made his way to one of his many worktables. “Take the boy to his cell.”

Snape said nothing. He simply began to do as he was told.

Harry felt Snape grab him by the arm and hoist him to his feet. Harry wrenched his arm away and swung, making a grab for Snape's wand, but Harry's attempt was futile, and Snape easily dodged, whipping his wand in an upward hooking motion.

Harry felt himself levitating, ankle first. The ground swung out of control and Harry was upside down, his entire body dangling by one foot. The blood rush to his head was debilitating and his glasses tumbled to the floor. His injured shoulder and leg screamed and his entire focus was suddenly on the pain. He could do nothing else.

The floor rushed up against him and he fell in a supremely uncomfortable heap with a moan.

“If you had an iota of the Know-it-All's intelligence, you would have known that your attempts would have been fruitless, thus saving yourself from this most uncomfortable and embarrassing situation,” said Snape in his snooty, nasal way.

Harry was too dazed by all the sensations of discomfort buffeting him from all sides to act aggressively, but the reality of his situation fell upon him just as intensely as everything else. He wasn't going to be able to escape, not right now, and not in his condition.

Snape grabbed him by the arm again and this time, Harry didn't have time to contemplate another attempt to escape before he found himself surrounded by Death Eaters, two of them holding him on both sides of him as his wrists were magically bound behind him. He heard the sound of crunching plastic and the tinker of glass. There went his spectacles.

He was pushed forward, through a doorway and out to the vast hallways. Behind him, he heard Bellatrix's seductive laughter, dwindling as the chamber doors shut them out. Snape marched ahead of him, the potion master's long dark robes swishing around his ankles as he walked with perfect poise.

Harry lumbered with a painful limp. His leg was killing him, and his shoulder was stabbing agony through him at each flex. He had very little choice but to move forward in spite of the otherwise debilitating pain.

They forced him through the hallways of the unfamiliar castle with its barely lit hallways and gruesome tapestries. He felt cold, but he was sweating profusely.

The torches came farther and farther apart until they reached a dark stairway that wound down from where they stood.

It was so much harder to descend the steps in his condition and he was dragged most of the way, his feet tripping over one another in their haste.

When they reached the bottom, they came upon rows of empty dungeon cells. Iron grills separated each cell, and each cell had grill-iron doors. The locks on each door seemed antiquated, but without a wand, they would be impossible to undo.

Further down the detention rows, he heard her voice.

He thought at first he was delirious, but when they threw him into his cell and shut him in, he lay on the rotting, cobbled stone and let her voice lull him back to his senses.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It had pained her to see his wounds. He had taken them because of her. He had used his body to protect her when those Death Eaters blasted their way through the cellar door. She had seen the slivers of wood lodge themselves on his shoulder and leg. They weren't very large pieces, but they were stab wounds, nonetheless. It had horrified her, but she could do nothing.

When she saw the tip of Severus Snape's wand poised at the back of Harry's head, she felt—for an instant—that she had been wrong about Snape all along.

But Snape hadn't killed Harry, and Hermione knew then that Snape had to do it. He had to knock Harry out, because the other Death Eaters were watching.

Still, she refused to be taken without a fight, however futile her efforts were. She kicked and screamed as they took away her wand, Harry, and finally her dignity as Draco was made to deal the stunning blow.

When she awoke, she was in a cell in a dimly lit dungeon. She was in one of many cells lined up on one side of relatively narrow walkway.

She could reach into the cell beside her, but that was small comfort, because other than the vermin, she was completely alone, with no idea of where the rest of the Weasleys were, or whether they had Ron, or whether she would see Harry or Ron alive again.

There was no way to tell time. Her wristwatch wasn't working properly, the surrounding magic spinning its hands in constant motion. Wherever she was, she was underground, far from sight of the sun or moon. A bowl of gruel had appeared beside her, along with a cup of water. She had refused to eat or drink it, and it disappeared untouched after several minutes.

Having no concept of time made her restless and agitated, and having spent hours and hours contemplating every possible means of escape, she would find herself exhausted from being unable to do anything. When she began pressing her ears to the cracks between the stone bricks of her wall, she just knew she was already beginning to go insane.

Though she had tried to avoid sleep, it overwhelmed her, and she drifted off with troubled dreams. Her sleep was not deep, and she would wake between hours, perhaps minutes.

There was nothing to break the maddening tedium of her total isolation. When next she slept, then woke, the gruel and drink were there. She found that she was starving, but she did not touch the bowl. She did, however, eye the cup of water thirstily. All of it disappeared before she could decide to partake.

Perhaps another day passed. She had completely lost track of time, and she was seriously afraid dementia would overwhelm her. Singing to herself gave temporary relief, but she couldn't keep it up. Singing was never her forte. She was always off-key.

She was almost relieved to hear the sound of approaching men.

They dragged her to a dark sitting room with stained-glass windows and elegant furniture. It was, she discovered, Antonin's favorite lounging area, and it was there he tortured her to reveal her secrets. She wouldn't tell—couldn't if she wanted to. Most of his questions could only be answered by information that were on Fidelius charms. Antonin could get nothing from her, and the one piece of information she could reveal—the one about the Horcruxes, was never asked about.

Because Voldemort had told no one about those.

When they dragged her back to her cell, she thought she was going to expire that night, with her body so exhausted and in so much pain from the Cruicios.

Antonin had sent for her again a few hours later, and this time, Severus Snape was there with him. After they realized that torture was not going to work, Snape was told to break into her mind.

She had wanted to scream and yell, demand from Snape assistance, but she stifled the urge valiantly. Going that route would help no one, and she could lose everyone she loved in one fell swoop.

Snape had gone into her mind. She felt him flipping the pages in her head, but he was not looking for answers. He was looking—for show. Antonin was watching, and it was best not to fake it.

When Snape pulled away, he cast her a disdainful frown.

“Do you think we would resort to poisoning you in your cell?” he had said. “If we wanted to kill you, we would have done it by now.”

She hadn't been afraid of poison. She had been afraid of Veritaserum, or some similar potion that would make her speak of things unprotected by Fidelius charms, but before she could think more of it, she blacked out, and she woke up again in her lonely cell.

The next time her food and drink appeared, she consumed both gruel and water. If she was going to get through this alive, she needed her strength.

She felt strangely rejuvenated after she had eaten, and then the lonely, dead silence fell upon her again, her dungeons offering nothing but the squeaky scurrying of rats.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They dumped her into Antonin Dolohov's room again and she relived one nightmare after another at each Crucio.

To say that Dolohov was pissed by the futility of his interrogation was an understatement. It took several Cruciatus curses to appease him, and when he was done, he had left her in the dark room, panting and cramping on the marble floor with nothing but the light of the moon shining through the stained-glass windows. She had regained some of her strength back in a bit, and she immediately checked the door. It was locked, of course, and no amount of force could get it undone.

She had then turned her attention to the windows, picking up a chair and flinging it against the glass. It was a mistake. The glass was as hard as rock. The chair didn't so much as crack it. Her frustration had almost been great enough to make her cry, but then the door to the chamber opened, and she tried to make a rush for it.

It wasn't, perhaps, one of her more brilliant plans, but she'd made an earnest effort of it. She had picked something up, flung it against her intruder, and attempted to make her escape while he was ducking from her projectile. The porcelain figurine shattered against the wall behind him and pieces shot out everywhere.

It appeared to nick him at the back of the neck because he yowled in complaint as he grabbed at his nape, but he was no whiner, because he hardly paused as he made a grab for her as she rushed to the door.

She felt his grip on her arm and she tumbled awkwardly to the floor. Acting on instinct, she grabbed whatever she could use to fight against him. It happened to be a shard of that same porcelain figurine she broke. The sharp edges of the piece dug into her palm, but she didn't care. She swung wildly. She didn't even know where she aimed, exactly, but she drew blood.

He cried out, hand to his face and again, she tried to run, but he was stronger than she thought, and even while he growled in pain, he had simply slammed himself against her and brought them both rolling on the ground.

Mounting her, he grabbed her wrist and slammed it back against the floor, knocking her crude weapon from her grip. Having disarmed her, he slapped her hard across the face.

Stars exploded in her vision as she lay there, trying to recover. Even as her vision spun, she began to put a name to the bleary face of her opponent.

It was Gregory Goyle. He was touching his face, which she had managed to slice from the apple of his cheek to the bridge of his nose. He checked his fingers and his expression pruned into an angry scowl when he saw the blood.

“You stupid, ugly, Mudblood!”

She struggled to push him off her, and in her frustration, she began mouthing off. “I'm still ten times smarter and better than you, Goyle. You're nothing but a spoiled, inbred, lumbering monkey to the Malfoy golden boy. Do you hear me? You're Draco's bitch! Where's your leash, huh?”

That did not seem to go overly well with him. His eyes blazed. It was the first time she'd ever seen him with such raw emotion—such anger. Usually, he was just staring stupidly at her with some kind of sneer, doing what he was told. Not this time.

He grabbed her roughly by the front of her shirt and tried to haul her to her feet, but she fought back, trying to kick him between the legs. She caught him inside the thigh, and he growled in pain, but her struggles didn't successfully thwart him.

She saw the back of his hand coming before she could dodge it and it hit her at the side of her head. Her vision spun, and she found she could hardly form a coherent thought.

Goyle gave her a vicious shake, hissing in her ear. “I'll show you bitch, Mudblood.”

The moment Goyle turned her over and pressed his hand to the back of her neck to hold her down, she knew what he was going to do. He was going to make her pay for saying the things she did.

She felt him yank her trousers from her, and as brave a front as she had put up in the face of her situation, she couldn't help it when she screamed.

She could bear Crucio. She could bear any form of curse, but she crumbled at the reality of being raped. To be so physically helpless in the face of such violation was more than she could bear. By the time Goyle had grabbed her knickers, she was bitterly trying to fight back her tears.

Goyle began calling her all manner of demeaning names. Everything from Gryffindor whore to Mudblood cunt, to Blood-Traitor's slut. She grit her teeth against every single slur. She was paralyzed by Goyle's strength, but she refused to let him think that he could ever completely defeat her. She could cry and wallow in her humiliation by herself later. For now, she insisted on being defiant, however futile her efforts may be.

Goyle had, at that point, already sat on the back of her legs, and she didn't even want to know what sort of state he was in, but then the sound of the door opening cut through the room, and for a moment, things went silent, and all she could hear was the sound of her, fighting her own sobs.

Please let it be Snape. Please let it be…

But it wasn't Snape. It was the cold voice of Draco Malfoy.

“Go to your father, Goyle,” Draco had said.

Goyle hadn't released her. “But—“

“Go to your father, now.” Draco sounded monstrously displeased. “Or do you want me to go to him and tell him that you're sullying yourself with the Mudblood?”

At that, Goyle finally let her go and she frantically scrambled to get away from him, righting herself. She wanted to rail at Goyle. Hit him and call him names, but she had felt his strength—had already felt violated by him. She just wanted to get away; she just wanted to be fully clothed.

She watched him get up and button his trousers while she scrambled to dress. Goyle threw Draco a vicious glare as he stepped out of the room, cringing and seemingly sensitive around his left side.

Draco sniffed. “Snape brutal in training?”

Goyle didn't reply. He huffed out of the room and was gone. Draco turned to her, closing the door behind him.

She tensed, wondering with great panic whether she had been saved from one monster just to face another.

Draco approached and again, she tried to resist, thrashing as he tried to grab her.

“Settle down for Merlin's sake!” Draco hissed.

She spat at his face just when someone, some unknown Death Eater, barged through the door demanding what in hell was taking so damn long.

She didn't see it coming when Draco took her by the shoulders and dealt her a most dizzying backhand slap.

She stumbled to the floor with a gasp, and she was only just recovering her senses when he began to speak to the Death Eater.

“No problem here. I'll be out in a minute with her, alright?”

Perhaps satisfied that Draco seemed to have things under control, the Death Eater stepped back out, leaving the door slightly ajar.

Draco then turned to her, looking severely displeased. “You ought to be grateful I got here when I did, Mudblood,” he said in a harsh whisper.

Her pride rose to the occasion. “I owe you nothing, Malfoy. It's not like you showed up to save me. You're here because you were told to come here, and you could care less about my virtue, so don't pretend you did it for me.”

His lips pursed, and his silver eyes flashed in anger. “Like I would ever pretend that sort of thing. I've come to escort you to the dungeons.”

She said nothing as he grabbed her arm, yet again.

“You'll like it better there. You'll have your weasel-boyfriend for company in a bit.”

Only the hope that Ron might be alive appeased her. The rest of her unease remained. She would be back in her cell, but it didn't mean she would be safe from Goyle's bad intentions.

Draco had had an escort of several Death Eaters to lead her to the dungeons. She had been pushed roughly into her cell. He had shoved her so hard that she fell gracelessly, bruising her knees.

Ron hadn't been there when she first arrived, and when she was finally alone, with nothing but a few scurrying rats to keep her company, she had staunchly refused to cry by herself— even with what Goyle had almost done to her. It was an effort, and she had to take several deep calming breathes, telling herself that she had to stay strong if she was to keep her head. It was during this semi-meditative state that she noticed that her palm had been cut and that it was bleeding. She hadn't noticed it was there, earlier. It must have been from her scuffle with Goyle. She had wrapped her hand in her handkerchief.

She had contemplated the possibility that Severus Snape, the oily git whom the entire Order thought was a traitor, would come to their rescue, but she kept remembering what Snape always told her: “If you get caught, you are on your own. I will not come to your aid.”

Her arrangement with Snape was simple. Snape would provide her as much information about the Horcruxes as possible and she would use that information, along with his own research, for Harry to find them. When the time for reckoning came, she would vouch for his innocence. It had taken a great deal for Hermione to trust him, and it had taken even more to keep the secret from everyone she cared about, but it was for everyone's good that no one else knew. Snape was a mole. She was the mole's contact. It would stay that way until the end of the war… if it ever got to that point.

Thus deciding that Snape would take his statements to heart, she began to try to think of a way to escape. She found that it was difficult to think when she was so deeply worried about her boys.

Ron had been brought in much later, looking half-dead in his unconscious state. He was separated from her by one cell-block, and it was frustrating to watch him unconscious. It had been several hours before Ron woke, and shortly after, Harry was dragged in—by Snape, no less—looking so terribly out of shape that all she could do to keep from crying was the thought that they were all still alive.

Harry wasn't moving, but she could see him breathing, and she stifled her tears—that the few meters distance between them was an impossible gap to bridge.

“Harry! Harry, please say something!”

He remained quiet. He looked totally wasted, especially with his glasses gone and blood staining his clothes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Harry! Harry, please say something!”

Most of everything was a blur, but he had always been farsighted, and as he turned his gaze sluggishly in the direction of her voice, he saw her.

Her bushy brown hair was everywhere, a beautiful mess on her head. Her badly bruised cheek was streaked with tears. Her lip was split on one side. Her clothes were sullied with blood. The stained handkerchief wrapped around her hand suggested that the blood was hers.

He could go to her, and he could hold her, even if they were separated by iron bars.

Sluggishly, he pushed himself to his hands and knees, crawling in her direction.

“Oh, God, Harry…” She reached through the bars, arms open to accept him.

The mere thought of feeling her touch was enough to soothe many of his aches. He fell against the bars, but her arms were around him, and her frantic whispers were warm against his cold cheek.

“I was so worried,” she whispered. “I knew you were hurt badly enough and I couldn't bear the thought that—that Voldemort would—oh, Harry…”

He leaned back against her, closing his eyes.

It felt like a lifeline. He could not have survived through the despair and hopelessness without it. He wanted to lose himself to the comfort of her presence for a few more minutes, but there was a sound—a clearing of the throat, and Harry felt her go slightly tense.

Harry cracked his eye open, and in the next cell he saw Ron, watching them with a blank expression on his face. Harry hadn't been aware that Ron was there. In his haste to find comfort in Hermione's touch, he had blocked everything else out.

“I'm alright, thanks,” Ron said with icy derision.

Harry stared for a moment, trying to puzzle out what he was feeling. He was a bit surprised to note that he felt no reason to apologize. In light of what had happened, their jealousies seemed petty.

“Try to ease the pressure off that arm and leg,” she said, her voice slicing through the tension. “We'll figure out a way to escape in a bit, alright?”

Even if it seemed hopeless, her words were soothing. Hermione was at the helm. He had nothing to worry about. Well, almost nothing.

“How long have we been here?” Harry asked to get some form of conversation going.

Ron's eyebrow arched in mild confusion.

“I've been in and out of consciousness,” Harry said. “I had no way of knowing. Woke up in Voldemort's work room… he implied we've been here for a while.”

Hermione shifted against his good shoulder through the bars. She checked her wristwatch and she sighed. “I'm not sure. It could be three days. Maybe more…”

“They tortured you both.”

Harry felt Hermione stiffen; saw the tension in Ron's shoulders before he tore his gaze away.

“I didn't tell them anything helpful,” Ron said. “I couldn't even if I wanted to, anyway.”

Hermione said nothing. It was probably the same for her.

“Voldemort said he already got what he wanted from me,” Harry said softly. “I think—I think he's talking about the Horcruxes. It's the only thing that didn't have a Fidelius charm that he would be interested in. I—I'm sorry I wasn't able to keep it from him. I tried. I swear. I fought him—“

“You couldn't have,” Hermione said. “Especially not if he's been trying for days. It was only a matter of time, and it doesn't make it any easier that he's got a direct link to you. It's not your fault, Harry.”

He shook his head. “But you and Ron held up against Snape, and you've never had formal Occlumency training.”

Ron grimaced. “Didn't feel like he was very good at it, anyway.”

Hermione was about to say something when she was interrupted by the banging of distant iron doors, followed by heavy footsteps.

Harry was greatly surprised to find Gregory Goyle striding through the walkway with an ugly scowl. Harry was even more astonished when Hermione scrambled to her feet, almost like she was frightened out of her wits

Harry's astonishment evaporated into panic when Goyle went straight for Hermione's cell.

Ron gave an alarmed start. “What the—“

“D'you think I was going to let you get away with it?” Goyle growled, yanking out a key. “Huh, Mudblood?”

Hermione gave a whimper of fear, her face gone pale and her eyes filling with panic.

“Goyle,” Harry said in a warning tone. “Don't. Don't!”

Goyle wasn't listening. He shoved the key in the lock, went right into Hermione's cell, and made a lunge for her. She screamed just as Goyle slammed her up against the wall.

“You son of a bitch!” Harry cried, banging his hand against the bars. Behind him, Ron was yelling for Harry to grab Goyle and for Hermione to fight back.

Hermione swung, clocking Goyle in the face with her fist, but he was too strong, and it barely rocked him. He threw her to the ground, her eyes filling from the impact.

“Nobody here to save you anymore, is there?” Goyle growled, grabbing her by the hair. She shrieked as he turned her over, holding her down by the back of her neck and grabbing the back of her trousers.

He yanked and she yelped, but the trousers didn't give so easily.

Harry couldn't believe what was happening. He was completely helpless, and now he had to watch Hermione endure one of the worse possible fates.

This is my fault. This is my fault. This is my fault!

Hermione!

“I swear to you, Goyle,” Harry said, his voice gone hoarse with rage. “When I get out of here, I will kill you. Do you hear me, Goyle? I'll kill you!”

Harry felt his magic fill him, the way it did just before he let loose a hex, but he had no wand, and his magic scattered unfocused.

The dwindling fire of torches lighting the walkways outside exploded with a roar all at once.

Goyle gave a jolt of shock.

His grip must have loosened, because Hermione was able to buck out from beneath him, slamming her left elbow just beneath his armpit.

Goyle gave a cry, crumpling on his side in pain. “Mudblood bitch!” he rasped hoarsely.

Hope welled inside Harry. “That's it, Hermione! Get out of there! Get—“

Goyle made a vicious grab for her pant leg, but instead of wiggling out of his grasp, she turned and kicked him on the same spot.

“Argh!” Goyle gurgled in agony.

Hermione made a run for the gate, but Goyle lurched after her, wrapping his arms around her legs. She fell with a cry, face down on the ground.

“Kick `em in the face, Hermione!” Ron shouted.

Her eyes gleamed with determination and she did kick, digging her foot right into his nose.

Goyle gave an angry shout and she was able to scramble to the door, but Goyle was as strong as an ox, and he went after her, managing to grab hold of her ankle. She hung on to the door for dear life, even as he pulled her in and the door slammed shut after her. Something clinked on the ground and Hermione gave a cry as she heaved herself to resist Goyle's pull while she reached past the bars, grabbing at the ground with a cry of effort.

Goyle dragged her back into her cell on her back and fell upon her. She twisted beneath him, managing to slip away when Goyle lost balance. She was able to crawl towards Harry a few feet, which baffled Harry completely for a heartbeat. On instinct, he reached for her but Goyle yanked her away and she slipped, her forehead bumping on the ground.

She groaned, dazed, but then there was another clink on the cobbled floor, this time nearer—within Harry's proximity, and he saw it: the key. She had grabbed the key, and she had tried to give it to him.

That's my clever Hermione.

It was right there, barely within his reach, and as long as Goyle didn't see it, Harry just might get it on time. Harry reached through the bars, ignoring the pain on his shoulder from the effort.

I'll bloody get that key if I have to dislocate my shoulder for it.

The key touched his fingertips, and taking a deep breath, he pushed himself as far through the bars as he could. The key was beneath the pads of his fingers and he pulled. It slid within his reach and he grabbed it.

With a singular purpose in mind, he went to his dungeon door, jammed the key through his lock and turned. The lock clicked open and he kicked the door wide. The rage inside him reared and he rushed into Hermione's cellblock.

Goyle looked up with a shocked start, fumbling for his wand as Harry lumbered in.

In the background, he could hear Ron's vicious encouragement, telling him to make Goyle sorry he'd ever been born. Pulling his foot back, Harry slammed his foot right into Goyle's face.

Goyle flipped right off her, falling on his back.

Harry didn't even think. He rode Goyle, full mount, and pounded his fist on Goyle's face over and over again. More blood gushed out of Goyle's nose, and his lip was split open. Harry felt some teeth come loose, but Harry was so angry that he didn't feel much like stopping. All he could see was Goyle all over Hermione, doing unforgivable things to her.

Unbelievably, Goyle still managed to push him off with a mighty heave and Harry stumbled back, but Harry's rage was so potent that he rammed his shoulder right into Goyle's gut. Goyle stumbled back against the wall, gasping. He reached into his robe and Harry braced himself to dodge wand-fire, but a panicked look fell upon Goyle's face in the next second, and he frantically began to pat himself down, as if he were missing something.

“Looking for this?” Hermione said hoarsely.

She had the wand. A hex shot out of the wand's tip and Goyle went flying back, bouncing against the iron bars before crashing to the floor in a flatulent heap.

And just like that, the rage was gone from Harry. His hands were bloody. Goyle lay limp, unconscious. Harry backed off.

Hermione leaned wearily against the bars a few feet away. She looked pale, and she was trembling slightly. There was a lump on her forehead and parts of her face had gone sorely red. Her tears fell more freely, but she furiously attempted to catch them all with the swipe of her arm.

“We have to—“ she began nasally, pushing herself to stand. “We have to get out of here.” She touched her nose and there was a spot of blood. Her hand shook violently. She sighed, rolling her eyes in exasperation. “Shit.”

A deep sense of compassion filled him, and he wanted so badly to give her comfort, or apologize for what happened to her, or both. “Hermione…”

“We have to get out,” she said evenly. She walked out of her cell door. “Lock him in.”

Realizing that she was refusing to act the victim, even for one moment, all he could do was sigh and do as he was instructed. Hermione was waiting for him outside Ron's cell.

Ron shot a glare in Goyle's direction as Harry let him out. “Is he dead?”

Harry wasn't quite sure if Ron wanted to hear him say yes. “No. Just knocked out.”

Ron took a deep breath before turning to Hermione. “You going to be alright?”

She pursed her lips. Harry could still see her trembling, but she nodded. “I-In a bit. Stand still, Harry. Perhaps I can numb some of the pain on those wounds of yours.”

It was a welcome offer. She worked quickly, and while it wasn't a remedy, Harry felt a lot of relief.

When she was done, she held the wand out to Ron. “Here, Ron. You lead.”

Harry made to protest but Hermione cut him off.

“You're injured, leg and shoulder, you haven't fed properly, and you can barely see without your glasses. As soon as we get out of this dungeon, we'll have to get two more wands from someone else, and Ron's in the best shape out of the three of us to do that.”

Harry clamped his mouth shut.

Ron took the wand awkwardly.

Harry had to stifle a huff. Not that he didn't trust Ron, but he wasn't used to stepping back while someone else fought his battles.

“Say Hermione,” Ron said as he settled the wand in his grip. “You handled all that pretty well… just thought you should—you know, know that.”

Hermione blinked several times before she managed a small, appreciative smile. “Thank you.”

“How did you know where to hit him? You know… under the arm?”

For a moment, she didn't look like she was going to answer, but she did. “Draco.” She left it at that, urging Ron forward.

Harry didn't know what was more astonishing, her answer, or the fact that she had called Malfoy by his first name.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two guards were posted at the dungeon doors, both with wands on them. At first, Hermione couldn't tell, but she devised a way to keep their odds at even by getting the guards to come to them.

Ron did a fairly good imitation of Goyle's voice with a clever spell, likely learned from his prankster brothers, calling for the guards to come in and help him with something. Hermione didn't think the guards would come in without asking what that something was, but it appeared that the guards couldn't be bothered with details.

They walked right in without a care in the world and one of them got Stupfied in an instant. The other one had to be wrestled to the ground before Ron could petrify him.

She watched Harry take up the Death Eater's wand, noticing the odd lilt of his shoulder and the slight limp on his leg. She felt a pang of anxiety.

Ron hauled one of the Death Eaters in the shadows while she helped Harry with the other.

With the guards done away with and the hallway free of Death Eaters for the meantime, they crept through the shadows on full alert.

Hermione could feel her heart thudding, and she wasn't quite sure if it was still from Goyle's assault on her or it was from pure nerves.

Several meters down, they heard voices and they had to slide behind one of the darkest curtains to conceal themselves.

“You should have known Gregory was up to something when you saw him heading this way,” said the voice of Snape in a harried tone. “Do I have to tell you how to do everything?”

Someone made a sound of frustration. “Well, how was I supposed to know he'd do something as stupid as this?”

“If I have to answer that question, I will have to slap you, Draco. If the Know-It-All dies in Gregory's oafish hands, I'll be well and truly screwed after this war. And in case you haven't thought about it, perhaps it would do well for you to figure out that she can very well save your behind from Azkaban as well, so you'd best start evaluating your interests.”

Hermione could hardly believe what she was hearing.

He's gotten Draco to help…

Hermione pushed the curtains back, much to Harry and Ron's shock.

“Draco would have to kiss my arse first before I help him skive Azkaban,” she said.

Snape and Draco stopped in their tracks and they turned to face her.

Snape looked only mildly surprised. Draco was blinking in astonishment.

“How the hell did you get out?” Draco asked.

“Well, for starters, your best friend's an idiot,” Hermione said snootily.

“Oy! I resent that!”

“Coming to his defense, are you? Too bad it's a lost cause. He's too daft—“

“Not that! Why in hell would you think I'd be best friends with a stupid fuck like that?”

She glared at him. “Do you really want me to answer that?”

Draco glared back.

Snape's expression went from mild surprise to outright irritation. “You brought the dunderheads with you.”

Hermione looked to her companions and saw that their wands were out rather threateningly. She let them. It would be useless to tell them to set it down, anyway. “I thought you said you weren't going to help me if I got caught.”

Snape sniffed. “Plans change. Come along, then. You'll be wanting to escape. Considering you already managed half of it by yourselves, this works out much better.” He walked past her and she immediately fell into step beside him.

“You wouldn't happen to have our wands, would you?”

“Do I look like Ollivander's to you?”

“I never knew Severus Snape to do things in halves,” she said huffily.

“Insufferable…” Snape shoved a bag and a sword into her hands. “I hate it when you preempt me.”

“Wow, and you took the sword from the Burrow, too?” she said. She sounded almost teasing. “How did you know?”

Snape looked like he'd rather hurl than explain things to her, but he did, anyway. Perhaps he didn't want her thinking that he was being thoughtful in any way, shape, or form. “Like you said, I don't do things in halves. I already knew I was going to spring you, mostly because I really didn't think even you were clever enough to escape from this place without help. So I took your wands from the Burrow. I need to protect my interests, Granger.”

“And the sword? How did you know to take it with you, too?”

Snape was clearly annoyed. “Like I would ever leave a sword like Excalibur lying around for anyone to take. You're not the only one who knows Arthurian Legend. The trouble with you is that you think you're the only one who knows everything.”

“Oy, what the fuck is going on?” Ron cried from behind her.

“Intelligent as always, I see?” Malfoy remarked.

Hermione would usually agree that Ron wasn't the smartest person she knew, but she wasn't going to let Draco insult him. Only she could insult Ron. “Shut it, you. At least he gets by in Hogwarts out of his own merits, unlike some people I know who use their slimy father's money and power to get ahead.” She dealt him a glare as she gave out the wands.

Ron eyed her suspiciously.

Draco's nose lifted even higher. “That's not true. I use my dazzling good looks to get ahead. I use my slimy father's money and power to evade prosecution by the law.”

“The only thing your dazzling good looks has gotten you is the favor of an oily-haired potions master.”

Snape frowned and Ron smothered a laugh.

Hermione and Draco shot each other matching glares before she turned and gave Harry Excalibur.

She froze and met his gaze when he wrapped his hand around hers on the hilt.

His eyes roved briefly to Snape then back to her. “He killed Dumbledore.”

She sniffed and nodded. “I know. But I've been communicating with him for the past year—“

“You wha—oh, that's just great. He's your secret? I can't bel—“

“And I've come to trust him,” she continued. “You'll have to, for now.”

He blew out an exasperated breath. “And Malfoy?”

She shot Draco a sneer. “Him, I don't trust. He gave me this bruise right here, you know.”

“That's gratitude for you,” Draco said with a raise of his eyebrow, backing away from Harry who was already giving him a very dangerous look. “If I hadn't gone into that room earlier, you would've been Goyle's bitch by now, and the only reason I hit you was because that other bloke saw you spit on my face. I had to do something!”

“And you expected me to figure this out? Right after Goyle assaulted me?”

“You could at least figure out that unlike that lunkhead, I don't need to force women to sleep with me. I have my own supply of willing cunts, thank you very much.”

She felt herself moving forward, and her hand swung from sheer instinct. Her palm connected with Draco's face with surprising force and he stared at her with open-mouthed, wide-eyed shock.

Even Harry and Ron seemed shocked.

“You horrid, uncouth, vulgar boy!” She glared at him with self-righteous reproach. She cannot fathom how offended she was, and it was odd that this offended her more than Draco's earlier actions towards her.

Draco couldn't seem to muster the breath to speak. She doubted that anyone had ever spoken down to him in such a manner.

“Well,” Snape said with a sniff. “Nothing like a tender loving Know It All to teach manners at a time like this.” He grabbed Hermione by the arm and rushed her forward. “But lessons on etiquette aside, you have to `escape,' don't you? So you'll follow me without a word, understand? Hurry along. I have better things to do than risk my neck for you brats.”

Hermione sighed. Everyone seemed to be manhandling her today.

“Get your hands off her.”

Snape froze, and when he shifted to let Hermione go, she saw that Harry had his wand to Snape's throat. Draco lifted his own wand, but Ron was quicker.

“Move another inch and I'll Stupefy you,” Ron said.

Hermione sighed exasperatedly.

Snape's lips pursed. “It would do well for you to tell Potter over here to point his wand somewhere else… perhaps at himself. Maybe it will knock the half of his brain that works to waking.”

Harry frowned. “Just keep your distance, Snape, and we'll be fine, alright?” He shoved his wand forward which had Snape stepping back a few steps.

The wand was put away, and that prompted Ron to lower his own wand.

Harry shot Snape another glare as he strapped the sword and its ill-fitting scabbard on his back.

Hermione could've sworn Snape muttered “dunderhead” before he began walking again.

Snape led them through the lower levels of the castle, dodging anyone who might happen to see them with a well-placed spell or by simply hiding behind corners. In time, they reached what appeared to be a wine cellar.

“Go down there and turn left at the third entryway,” Snape instructed, pushing the cellar door open. “Go all the way down to the end of the row. Look for a casket marked `Pickled Leech,' move it aside and you'll know what to do from there. Don't forget to put things back the way they were when you're done. Understand?”

“Where are we, anyway?”

“Portree, Isle of Skye.”

She gasped.

“Well, that's fantastic, isn't it?” Ron said sourly. “How are we supposed to get off this place? Swim?”

“You may hitch a ride out of here on any boat from the ports. Do you make an effort to be this daft, Mr. Weasley, or does it come naturally?” Snape hissed.

Hermione shot Ron a glare, then she sighed. “We can find our own way out of here, thanks, Professor, but you must admit the waters don't make things any easier.”

“Whatever. Do you have any other questions? Something that wouldn't showcase Mr. Weasley's dazzling brain powers?”

Hermione forestalled Ron's angry protests by quickly interjecting her question. “One last thing, professor… does Voldemort know about the—you know?”

Snape's gaze went briefly to Draco before he nodded. “Yes.”

“How much?”

“Everything. Down to the last locket.”

She heard Harry's breath catch. “Is he—is he going to make another one?”

“Yes, he will, but he's going to need Potter for it, so whatever you do, do not let him get caught again. Now, go.”

Hermione ducked through the door while Harry and Ron followed. Behind them, she heard a hex being fired, but nothing else followed. She hurried along, lighting her wand as the door closed behind them. She counted the entryways and entered at the third.

“I can't believe he was your secret,” Harry said in a hissing whisper. “You know how I felt about Snape.”

She had it coming, and she even understood that Harry wasn't so much concerned about her not telling them as he was about her not telling him. “I couldn't tell you, Harry. It was too dangerous a secret if too many people knew about it.”

“Who else knows, then?” Ron asked.

She hesitated. “Only me.”

“Well, that's a rather elite society, isn't it?”

“Shut-up, Ron. If I told you and Harry what I was doing, you'd get on my case for trusting him, and you'd both make a fuss of it, which could blow the entire secrecy thing to bits. I decided the Order needed him here, even if they didn't know it.”

“Snape could've been dangerous,” Harry pointed out. “You could have been in serious danger!”

“I wasn't. I took precautions, especially when I had to meet up with him—“

“Merlin feckin' Arthur, Hermione!” Ron gasped. “You went to see him by yourself? What the hell is wrong with you, woman?”

“Nothing! Look, I'm still alive, aren't I? And obviously, I wasn't wrong about him, so I don't know what the big effing deal is—“

“He killed Dumbledore. That's the big deal,” Harry said pointedly, his anger apparent through the flashing of his eyes.

“He had to—“

“Oh, is that what he tells you? That he had to? Well, that makes everything alright, doesn't it?”

She was getting just the slightest bit impatient. “We can't talk about this now. We just have to get out of here. You two can badger me later—when we're in the clear. We've put Snape at serious risk by having Harry know, as it is—“

“What's that supposed to mean?” Harry shot at her.

“Think really hard, Harry,” she said curtly. She didn't feel that she had to tell him how susceptible he was, out of all of them, to having his mind read by Voldemort, even from afar.

It seemed to dawn on Harry because he said nothing more about it.

By the time they reached the end of the row, they were covered in dust, and perhaps even a few cobwebs. Hermione began searching the wine caskets for Pickled Leech. Ron found it and began to move it aside.

There appeared to be nothing there.

“It's a trap. Snape's tricked us!” Ron wailed.

Hermione sighed impatiently and pushed him aside. She waved her wand. “Apparecium.”

What appeared was a sturdy wooden plank that was twice as wide as the casket that had been set atop it. Another casket sat on the edge of plank.

Hermione's mind turned fast. The plank had to be moved in such a way that they could put it back the way it originally looked. She levitated the other casket off the plank before getting on her knees. “Help me slide this aside.”

Getting on their knees, they pushed the heavy plank back and revealed a gaping hole with a crude wooden ladder.

“Where does this go?” Ron asked.

“Do I look like I have a blueprint of this castle, Ron?” she said testily.

Ron sighed. “Alright, fine, but I'll go first. Safer for you that way.”

Hermione felt about ready to blow her top. What was that supposed to mean?

“Ron, just go, before she kills you,” Harry said.

Ron rolled his eyes and began to head down the stair, muttering `impossible' at intervals.

Appeased, she gentled her tone with Harry. “You next.”

“You can't scare me like you scare Ron.”

She took a deep, calming breath. “I have to put it back the way it looked—“

“I can do that.”

“Harry, it has to look exactly the way we found—“

“I think I can figure out how, Hermione. Go now. I won't screw it up.”

Biting her lip from any further retorts, she proceeded after Ron. She descended the ladder slowly, waiting to see how Harry was going to do it.

She halted and waited.

Harry levitated something, and she heard the sound of something being placed atop the plank. He repeated the sequence one more time.

“Concelare,” said Harry, and then he was stepping down the ladder, sliding the plank close after him with a well-controlled dragging spell.

Hermione hastened to go down the ladder. She had to admit that Harry appeared to do everything right.

She reached the ground and hopped down beside Ron. Harry followed.

Harry actually shot her an amused smirk. “You were so waiting to see if I did that right.”

She reddened then chuckled. “Can I help it if I'm neurotic?”

There was a pause before Ron began to head down the tunnel and Harry gestured for her to go ahead.

Hermione scowled. “Well, don't everyone jump in at once to disagree. You might hurt yourselves.” She stomped after Ron.

Harry laughed softly behind her. “If you weren't so neurotic, we'd all be dead.”

Oddly enough, Hermione appreciated that.

She followed Ron's lead, never minding that the tunnel seemed to go on forever. It was several minutes later that Hermione felt Harry's gentle touch, his hand entwining in hers. She tightened her fingers around his, clasping him more firmly.

“Are you alright?” he whispered over her shoulder.

She didn't know if Ron heard that. He certainly appeared not to notice. She looked at Harry, slowing her pace a bit, and gave it a brief thought. “I think so. A bit shaken up… but I'll be fine.”

“I'm sorry I couldn't… help sooner.”

“Oh, Harry… that wasn't your fault.”

He sighed, shaking his head. “Everything's my fault.”

The guilt in his eyes was heartbreaking. “Harry—“

“Hurry along, now,” he whispered, nudging her gently forward. “Go on.”

Pursing her lips, she quickened her pace, never letting go of his hand.

The light from Ron's wand ahead showed that the tunnel was coming to an end. Ron was looking up, and when Hermione came up beside him, she could see a trap door. The door was a bit too high for all of them, even Ron, but it wasn't completely unmanageable.

Harry looked up. “I'll go first. Give me a boost, Ron.”

Hermione felt anxiety immediately. “Be careful, Harry. Have your wand ready.”

He nodded and Ron crouched down, interlacing his fingers for Harry's foot.

Ron lifted Harry easily and Harry gingerly reached for the trap. It seemed heavy, but Harry was able to open it carefully enough to look around briefly to assess the surroundings.

“Clear,” Harry said, pushing the trap door aside. It yawned open with a whine and a thump.

Ron heaved and Harry was out in a second.

“You're up next,” Ron said, crouching for Hermione's foot.

She set her foot in Ron's hands and she was astonished at how fast she shot up, and how easy Ron made it seem.

Harry caught her, hooking his arms beneath hers and scooping her out of the hole without so much as a grunt. She felt the muscles on his injured shoulder ripple uneasily. His shoulder was hurting him.

To haul Ron out, Harry stuck out his good arm and shoulder. She took Ron's other arm and heaved with everything she had. Ron was a big person. It wasn't easy, but she didn't want Harry to carry the brunt of it.

When they were all above ground, Hermione surveyed their surroundings.

They were in a rather overgrown forest, the ground covered in foliage while the thick trees rising high above them were gnarled with vines. She listened briefly and she heard and smelled the sounds and scents of the sea, crashing waves, salty winds, and piercing cry of birds. She couldn't yet see the harbor town through the thick trees, but she knew it wasn't far away.

She looked behind them. Voldemort's castle was a fair distance away, but not far away enough to make her comfortable. It didn't help in the least that she could see black shapes hovering around its perimeter airspace, mostly concentrated at the highest tower.

She peered upward, through the trees. She couldn't really find any Dementors, but if they caused enough noise, the could attract unwanted attention.

“We aren't very far from enemy territory,” she said nervously. “We should keep going.”

Harry nodded and took her hand. “Let's go, then.” He took off in a swift walk, leading her.

Ron came up beside her. “You and Harry together now?”

She gaped at him. She couldn't believe that he was bringing it up now. And besides that, she wasn't quite sure how to answer him, anyway. She and Harry hadn't talked about the formalities—

“Yeah,” Harry said all of a sudden, much to her surprise.

She stifled the pleasant shudder that was threatening to overcome her. This wasn't the time for romantic flutters, but it was difficult not to cling to something better than running away from the madman behind them.

“That going to be a problem, Ron?” Harry asked, his grip on her hand tightening.

Ron looked overly unaffected. “Oh, no. Not at all. So when I told you I kissed her, you—what? Didn't think it relevant to mention that you bloody got to her first, you lying sack of shit?”

It was like someone hit her on the head, what with the vertigo she experienced from her shock. Apart from the fact that this wasn't something they should be talking about, the poison in Ron's voice was like a dagger through her heart. She felt physically ill all of a sudden, and she couldn't believe the venom of Ron's words. She gasped, feeling sick to her stomach.

Harry came to a screeching halt, his eyes gone dark with dangerous calm. “Lying?” he said in a soft tone. It was actually quite frightening. “I never lied to you.”

Ron gave a derisive laugh. “That's right. You didn't. You just decided to omit certain truths! By the way, I could've used that information when I was spilling my guts out about her to you!”

Harry was beginning to look pissed. “Well, this isn't my fault, is it? You're the one prancing around, throwing off mixed signals for the last bloody fucking seven years!”

“Mixed signals? Where did you lift that term off? Witch Weekly?”

Hermione began to massage her temples, coping with the suddenly oppressive weight that seemed to have settled on her shoulders. She told herself this wasn't happening; that this was one big stupid dream where in some twisted fantasy world, boys fought over plain Hermione Jane Granger. In a proper reality, her boys had more sense than to fight while they were embarking on the important task of saving themselves from bad people. They weren't having this ridiculous fight; this was a complete and utter delusion.

“Alright, you two knock it off!” she squeaked angrily, barging between them. “Let me remind you that there are Death Eaters behind us. It's quite possible that they've found out we've escaped, and even considering the reality that we're kilometers away from our previous point of origin, they have A, the advantage of being on familiar grounds, so they know these grounds better than we do; B, they have brooms to fly overhead. That's not a guess, that's a definite possibility. It doesn't matter if they're Cleansweeps or Firebolts—they can fly, we can't; and C, even if we do get away from this place… they'll never stop chasing us, so… any head start is better than nothing, yes? So please, please… I want to get away. I'm not going back there. Not after what I had to endure from Dolohov, and Goyle. Do you understand me?”

She was talking quite fast, and she didn't know if either of them understood the full extent of her desperation, but it seemed to sink into Harry quite fast, because he shot Ron one last glare before he nodded and took Hermione's hand.

“Let's go.”

Ron, scowling fiercely, threw up his hands. “Fine.”

Hermione sighed with relief. “Alright, then. This way for now—I can hear the water.”

She basically followed the sound, and the entire time, she refused to meet their gazes.

Before long, the forest thinned, the taste of the air became saltier, and the sound of cawing seagulls rang louder.

The harbor town was a Muggle one, and even from afar, they could see that the closest tavern was alive with activity, even if very few people could be seen wandering the docks. It didn't mean they weren't there. The small houses, set further inland from the tavern, were lit with life. It wasn't very late in the evening.

Hermione decided they had to proceed very cautiously. Just because Voldemort's castle was behind them, it didn't mean their enemies weren't ahead of them. Like she reiterated to her boys earlier, their enemies were far more familiar with the area than they were. It was entirely possible that the Death Eaters would have apparating points within the harbor town. The Death Eaters could have already been alerted of their escape and could be waiting for them in the docks.

“We can't get a boat out in the open,” she said, peeking through the growth of trees. “Voldemort might already know we'd escaped. The Death Eaters could be anywhere.”

Harry frowned. “We can't just sit here and wait.”

“We'll need to get a message to the Order,” Hermione said. “Even if they wanted to rescue us, they wouldn't know where to look. A message to them will—“

“Send your Patronus,” Harry said. “It'll swim really fast through the water. Even if it's slow on land, it won't be a huge distance between the lake and Hogwarts.”

Hermione couldn't have thought of a better plan. They stayed under cover of the wood and sought a place to launch her Patronus without getting noticed. They found an isolated expanse of beach and they stared at it uneasily from their hiding place.

“I've an odd feeling about this,” she said, looking around the deserted beachfront. There were no birds hopping about. There was nothing but rock, sand, and the crashing of waves. “I think we should go to the busier ports and send the Patronus from there. They'd never expect us—“

“Merlin, just do it, Hermione,” Ron hissed. “The sooner we get out of here, the better!”

She frowned. “We're not going to get out of here if we get caught, Ron.”

“We're not going to get caught, period! They probably don't even know we've escaped the castle!”

“Oh, and how would you know that? Your psychic connection with your psychic girlfriend?”

Ron scowled. “Ex-girlfriend! Are you ever going to stop nagging me about having dated Lavender? It's been more than a year since we broke up!”

Harry sighed. “So after I stop fighting with Ron, you start fighting with him. That's just great…”

His tired tone did nothing to melt her icy stubbornness. “Harry, what do you think?” She shot him a meaningful look, willing him to agree with her. He always did, anyway.

Ron gave a sigh of defeat, knowing what Harry would say.

Harry returned her glare with one of his own.

Well, she thought sheepishly. He never really could be bullied into giving in…

“They'll expect us to get on a boat, too,” Harry said. “If they know we've escaped, they'd have Death Eaters posted at the ports. At least in this setting, we'd have a greater chance of getting away.”

Great.

Ron looked surprised that Harry had somehow agreed with him, then he recovered and shot Hermione a smirk.

She shot Harry another glare. She might not scare him, but she thought he ought to understand how against she was at this idea.

Harry shrugged.

“What are you smirking about?” she hissed at Ron.

“Absolutely nothing.”

Lifting her nose haughtily with her wand, she cast her Patronus as far towards the water as it could go, bracing herself for an ambush.

Wandfire immediately shot out from the beach and she felt herself being dragged to the ground.

A beam of light shot above their heads, exploding a few meters away and scattering chips of wood all over.

Hermione risked the rain of curses to see if her otter made it across the beach and into the water. She saw it disappearing into the salty waves.

“Evasive maneuvers!” Ron cried, pulling her to her feet by her arms.

Harry came up right beside her, throwing more hexes as he went.

Hermione gathered her bearings and began firing in the direction of their enemies, though she couldn't be sure where they were.

The sound of splintering wood cracked above them, and Hermione jumped out of the way of a falling tree limb. It fell less than a meter away from her, and she scrambled to recover her footing when she saw Bellatrix heading in her direction.

Hermione shot into the thicket of leaves, muttering concealment spells as she ran. She could hear Bellatrix telling her that she couldn't get away without her friends.

The fact that she couldn't find Harry or Ron anywhere made the danger all too real. Over the past year, she'd learned to defend herself more effectively than her first sessions with the DA, but it was still a struggle to trust on her split-second instincts. She was clever, and she could be quick, but her natural state was still attuned to careful consideration—something that could cost her in a fast-paced battle.

Bellatrix was no amateur. The woman, apart from being psychotically unhampered by conscience, was a master dueler.

“Come out, come out!” Bellatrix sang. “You've nowhere to run.”

She had to find her boys. They couldn't have gone far. They were probably cloaked in concealment spells like she was. She ran towards the harbor town. If she could get there in one piece, perhaps she could get the precious time to think of a proper plan.

I don't know why I ever listen to those two… maybe they get off on jumping into trouble without a plan to fall back on, but I happen to think it seriously kills the mood. I can't live like this. I can't—

A prickly, terrifying cold crawled down her spine and she felt the first petrifying grip of fear.

Dementors…

She saw them coming for her from behind and none of her cloaking spells were working on them. They could feel her living soul, and they were closing in on her. She had no choice. Fighting the fear, she remembered the hours she'd spent with Harry—finding out that she loved him and feeling his strong arms enfold her as they kissed under the light of the moon…

Her Patronus flashed bright and powerful, sending the Dementors running and screaming, but they'd already done what they were meant to do.

Bellatrix shot a Reducto hex at her and Hermione was barely able to dodge. It caught her on the shin and it felt like getting stabbed right through.

Crying out, Hermione bit her lip and deflected Bellatrix's other hexes successfully enough. Hermione cast a clouding spell, impeding Bellatrix's vision just enough for Hermione to limp away and recast her concealment charms.

She stumbled out of the woodland, feeling the sand between her fingers and searching frantically over her shoulder for Harry and Ron.

She needed to find them. Her escape would mean nothing but cowardice if she left them behind.

Bellatrix emerged from the trees looking decidedly annoyed. Hermione scampered as noiselessly as she could behind some shore rocks and watched as Bellatrix began to head in her direction. Hermione was about to make an offensive attack when someone clamped a hand over her mouth and pulled her back against the rock.

She stifled a scream, fighting her violent urge to thrash. She was wrenched firmly around and she saw to her utter relief that it was Harry. Beside him was Ron, peering over their hiding place and possibly seeing Bellatrix headed their way.

Harry shot Ron a look and nodded.

Ron cast a spell, and as Harry removed his hand from her mouth, she scrambled to look at what Ron had done.

A bright flare of light from within the woods caught Bellatrix's and the other Death Eaters' attention. It took them but a second to turn sharply in the direction of the light. It looked like a Patronus and it was sure to distract their enemies into thinking they were somewhere else.

With the Death Eaters all disappearing back into the woodland, she felt Harry take the lead to hurry to the nearest harbor town. They stayed under cover of darkness and Hermione rubbed away their footprints in the dark sand with her wand, but they moved quickly, and managed to duck into a departing horse-drawn carriage filled with old vegetables. They hid under the tarp for as long as they dared. The carriage didn't stop for close to an hour, nothing but the sound of horse hooves and the driver speaking to his companion to break the tedium.

-->

A/N: So I finally got to upload this one because LJ decided to cooperate with me. `-_-

Thanks so very much to Tome Raider for betaing and giving me advice on just about everything else.

I might as well tell you all, since it's going to affect you, too. My updates might take a bit longer than usual. While I know I'm not the fastest updater in the planet, I think it's only right to warn you that I might take even longer these days. I'm in my first trimester of pregnancy and I basically nod off to sleep every moment I get the opportunity to sit still. I swear to you that I do not do this on purpose. If I can stay awake most of my free time, I'd love it, but my eyes get heavy, and I get very nauseous when I fight the sleep, so I sleep—and therefore I have to stop writing. Unless I can develop a way to write while I'm asleep, the writing's not going to get done as quickly.

So, with that, I hope I haven't turned you off. Thank you for your continued patience. You've been wonderful.

Standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter Seven - The Lovers, the Moon, and the Star

Her leg was hurting quite bad, but she sucked in whatever complaint she desired to make. There was no use making a fuss about it at the moment. They stopped for a few minutes by a tavern and Hermione peeked out of the tarp, finding a row of old farm trucks.

She met eyes with Harry, wordlessly discussing this new prospect they had of getting further away from their enemies.

Harry nodded and urged them to jump out of the carriage, hiding within the shadows of the dumpster which was nearest to the parking lot.

Hermione tried her best to ignore the pungent smell of rotting food as they crouched away from the light.

She watched the lights from the tavern dancing with the murmured sounds of conversation and perhaps even carousing.

To one side of her was Ron. On the other, Harry.

“How's the leg?” Ron asked as they waited.

“Fine,” she replied. “Not as bad as Harry's, I'd wager.”

“Want me to do a numbing charm on it?” Harry whispered from her other side.

“I was just going to ask her that,” Ron hissed.

Harry scowled. “Oh, it's going to be like that, is it? What are you going to do next, ask to buy her a drink?”

Ron reached over her shoulder threateningly, probably to grab Harry by the collar just so they could have it out.

Hermione pushed them apart roughly, immensely annoyed. “Oh, for heaven's sake! What is the matter with the two of you? Are we going to have this stupid conversation again? You're both acting like idiots! Yes, you too, Harry!”

“He's the one being a big arse berk,” Harry muttered.

Ron looked ready to swing and hit. “What—“

“We'll talk about all this later,” interjected Hermione.

“I'm not talking to your boyfriend,” Ron growled. “If it hasn't to do with escaping with our lives, or getting off this Merlin-forsaken island, I don't have anything to discuss with him.”

“Ron!” she cried.

“That's fine with me,” Harry grumbled. “Hermione's much more pleasant conversation, anyway.”

She gasped. “Har—oh, this is ridiculous! I've had it with you both. Don't speak to me, either of you—yes, you too, Harry!”

She saw Harry shoot Ron a most vicious glare. He was blaming Ron, of course, but at that moment, she was too irritated to care. They were being so stupid. At a time like this, too!

The waiting was wrought with tension, and Hermione almost sighed with relief when a man who appeared to be one of the many truck-owners sauntered out of the tavern.

Casting concealment charms, they stole into the back of the truck just as it began to depart.

The truck was full of chicken feed and old furniture wrapped in quilts. Overall, their situation could have been worse. They could have shared the truck with farm animals, which would have made the trip extremely uncomfortable and smelly.

They covered a lot of ground, and a little bit more than half an hour later, the truck slowed down within the confines of a cobbled-ground town.

Between streetlamps, they managed to hop out soundlessly, dodging anyone who might still be out in the semi-deserted streets. They converged in a dark alley.

Knowing that she could finally relax her guard for a bit, her adrenaline seemed to drain instantly away from her and the pain in her leg flared unbearably to life. She found a grimy, creaky throwaway crate and sat, biting back her tears as she breathed through the pain.

Harry knelt in front of her, and hesitating only slightly, he spoke. “Give us some light, Ron. Just a bit.”

Ron was cooperative, though he showed no expression on his face. He cast a dim Lumos—just enough for Harry to see without lighting the alley up unnecessarily.

Harry tore her pants leg open, exposing the bloody mess that was her wound. The Reducto had merely grazed her, but the wound was bleeding. The sight of her blood seemed to make her feel a little lightheaded.

“We need potions,” Harry said, slipping off Excalibur and its harness and shrugging off his jacket. “We need a place to patch ourselves up.”

“The next Wizarding town's several kilometers from here still, and we don't know what our reception there would be,” Ron said.

Harry took off his over shirt and then his undershirt, tearing the undershirt into strips.

“Death Eaters could be everywhere on this island,” she said a bit hopelessly. “Muggle towns are our best bet. The Order could be on the island in the next few hours. The easier to meet up with them, the better. I attached a homing spell to my Patronus, so any Patronus they send back to us should be able to track my wand, but if we keep moving, it would be that much harder for their messenger Patronus to find us, so we'll have to stay put for a bit.”

Ron looked worried. “But won't that make it that much easier for the Death Eaters to catch up on us?”

“It's not like they're chasing us on-foot, Ron. They could pop in and out in a second whenever and wherever, so running is a bit pointless. Hiding is a better option than running in this situation, so while we're hiding, we'll have to settle for Muggle first aid. What do you think, Harry?”

Harry began wrapping her leg with the strips, pulling it somewhat tightly to cut the flow of blood. “We'll wait—use the time to recover. We're badly beaten up. If the Order's not here by the first light of day, we have to assume they didn't get our message. We have to try to find a way to get out of here by ourselves.”

Hermione nodded, agreeing with this course of action.

Ron spoke. “In the meantime, I'll try to find us a place to stick around. You two stay here. I'll be back as quickly as I can.”

“You can't go alone!” she protested.

“He has to go alone,” Harry interjected. “We're not exactly going to be helpful to him, Hermione.”

She took stock of their blood-stained appearance. Even if they did manage to cast Glamours to hide the worse of their looks, they were still too injured to walk around with reasonable speed.

Defeated, she shot Ron a look. He seemed determined, and even if Harry hadn't jumped in to defend Ron's point, Ron looked like he would've done what he wanted, anyway.

“Be careful,” she told him, meaning it.

Lips pursing, possibly at her somewhat bossy tone, he nodded and set off, peering carefully past the corner before disappearing in the bend.

She sighed and watched Harry dress her injured leg. His shoulder was no better and she doubted if his leg was any less as bad than hers.

“How's the numbing charm on your shoulder and leg?” she asked as he pulled the bindings tight.

“Speaking to me again, are you?” he asked, flashing her a knowing smirk.

She frowned, hating the fact that his grin could bespell her. “I was just annoyed earlier. I didn't really mean it. And you haven't answered my question.”

“The numbing charms are holding up, thanks.”

That was good enough for her.

When he was done binding her wound, he cast a numbing charm and magically repaired her pant leg before putting his shirt and jacket back on. Gingerly, he set himself beside her on the crate, Excalibur between them, making sure that the crate wouldn't break under their combined weight.

There was really nothing left to do but wait, and hopefully, Ron really meant what he said when he promised to come back as quickly as possible.

She decided she had one little thing she wished to bring up. “Did you really mean what you said to Ron? When he asked if we were together now?”

Harry paused, staring at her from his crouched posture beside her. He tore his gaze from her in the next second, and she could tell he was trying to remember what he had said, exactly.

Honestly, it's not that hard to remember. Ron asked and Harry said, “Yeah.”

After a bit, he nodded, wedging his head between his hands as he clung tiredly to the strands of his hair. For a moment, he looked as if he was going to take back what he said, but then he smiled—tiredly, and said, “I suppose so.”

It wasn't a glowing response, but she really couldn't blame him. They weren't exactly in the best shape. She tilted a smile. “Let me know when you're sure.”

He chuckled. “I'm sorry. Of course I'm sure. I'm just—I'm really tired.”

“I was only teasing. This was probably the worse time to ask, anyway—“

“N-No. It's alright. The way things are going… sooner's better than later, eh?”

She stared at him, at first inexplicably shocked at what he said, then it dawned on her. She understood exactly what he was saying. She fiercely fought back her tears. She wasn't going to cry. This situation called for a mature, level-headed approach and she was determined to set aside her petty dramas for the more important issues they were facing now and around them. Harry was a different boy with different needs—

It was no use. She found herself furiously wiping her tears away again. “Have you turned Seer on me or are you just determined to die?”

He sighed, seemingly frustrated with himself. “Don't—Lord, I'm sorry I said that. I didn't—please don't cry. I don't want to die, I swear. It's just—“

She took a deep, calming breath. “Never mind. You're right, anyway. And it's not just you who could die. We all could. I just wish—I just wish that sometimes we could think about the future and not think about how it could all go to hell. I'd like to think that we could one day—I don't know, go out and have a nice quiet dinner in a nice restaurant, or maybe watch a really awful Muggle movie for a lark and snog in the theater or something… it's silly, but it's nice to think about.”

He smiled faintly but said nothing, leaning back against the alley wall and closing his eyes.

She stifled a sigh, feeling stupid for saying the things she did. Moments later, she felt his hand slip into hers and she clasped it firmly, taking whatever comfort it offered.

He spoke. “When Ron asked, it really—I just didn't like that he had to ask. I wasn't angry at him… yet. I just—I was thinking that if he had to ask, I must've been doing something really wrong.”

“Harry—“

“Well, I was mucking it up, wasn't I? That you had to ask me if I meant it means it's all screwed up. And I really think—I just realized that this isn't the time to be hesitating about things. At least not with you, you know? I really want us to be together.”

She squeezed his hand.

When all was said and done, it was simply a fact that she was only just eighteen. She was old enough to cope with the bitter realities of life, but young enough to be blindsided by it. She had been telling herself that Harry was a special boy with special demands, and that she had to try to understand what affected his decisions and the process he went through making them, but it was one thing to tell herself to do, and another thing to actually do it.

At eighteen, she had never felt this way about anybody before. She had slept with Harry, and she had fallen in love with him. That was all she knew for the time being. She could not separate her physical need of him from her emotions. She hadn't been toughened up by years of sleeping with other men and understanding their mood swings, or the simple, harsh truth that men can do one thing while thinking of something else entirely.

Her thoughts and feelings for him were still set on a rather linear line, and anything else could still cause her confusion and pain. It meant everything to her, to have him simplify things like that—break it down to its most basic form, because these matters were things she couldn't research from books.

He was the only book she knew on the subject, so she was wholly dependent on him for her knowledge.

He coaxed her closer and they kissed, the darkness and rawness of the ally lending an odd intensity to their exchange. The soft sounds of appreciation between them wafted through her senses, and shifting closer to him was the only way to appease the need.

She tightened her arms around him and he hissed in pain, his shoulder flinching.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered, pulling away. She flashed him a sheepish and apologetic smile. “I forgot.”

He smiled back, his gaze forgiving, and in spite of his pain, he looked somewhat pleased. Perhaps he liked the idea that his kiss had made her blissfully unaware, if only for a few seconds.

He took her hands and to her surprise, he kissed them, pressing his lips to her knuckles. Head bowed, he sighed, and it sounded so tired, so worn, that her heart broke. She let him lean his head on her shoulder and he gave in easily, sinking into the circle of her arms.

His sigh of relief tickled her neck, and she smiled, running her fingers soothingly through his hair.

The rest of their wait was spent in this intimate silence.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It didn't take long for Ron to return.

She had heard a slight shuffling beyond the corner and she urged Harry gently to be alert. Someone was coming.

When Ron emerged, she and Harry were poised casually on the crate with no sign of their earlier closeness. Ron said he had found a hole-in-the-wall inn where they could stay the night.

Hermione frowned. “And how are we supposed to pay for this inn? We don't even have Galleons, much less Muggle money to pay them.”

Ron frowned back. “There's a pawnshop not far from here. We could pool what we have and get enough cash to pay the inn.”

“And what, may I ask, were you planning to pawn?”

Ron's eyebrow arched and his gaze went pointedly to the pendant on her chest, and then Excalibur.

She clasped her crystal pendant possessively as she rolled her eyes. “Oh, for goodness sake. Leave the mythical artifacts out of this. I was expecting you'd have the sense to have ill designs for my wristwatch. Sometimes, you can be a real idiot, Ron.”

He scowled. “It's a Muggle artifact! I don't know what kind of value you put on those things!”

“It appalls me that you were willing to give up King Arthur's sword to a pawnshop.”

“Spare me the Camelot: A History drivel. It's not like we'd leave the thing in there. If we had to, we'd simply Accio the thing to get it back.”

She sighed. “Why do I even bother?” she muttered. She checked her watch briefly. It was branded and expensive enough in the Muggle world. It was working perfectly now that it had gone beyond the confines of Voldemort's castle, and if she ever got out of this alive, her mother would kill her for pawning it. “It might not get us enough in these parts, but I'll try to tough-talk the pawnshop into giving us more.”

She looked up briefly and saw them both arching their eyebrows. She flashed a sneer. “I will not use magic on the poor Muggle if I can help it. I can talk my way through it.”

Harry and Ron exchanged looks, but said nothing. She didn't bother asking what it meant. She knew that they were thinking she was getting all bossy on them again.

“I ought to go alone,” she said. “And I'll alter my appearance a bit. That way, in the off-chance that any Death Eaters come asking around about three teenagers, the pawnshop's appraiser would only remember a lone girl with different features. Wouldn't put it past the Death Eaters to figure it out anyway, but it'll at least buy us a bit of time.”

Harry frowned. “You can't be alone in a pawnshop.”

“This isn't London. It's a quaint, island town. I'll be fine. Wait here.”

She must've sounded bossy enough to make him listen. She Scourgified the worse of the dirt off her clothes and Glamoured her appearance a bit, particularly with her hair and eyes. Since she was within the glamour, she didn't know quite what she looked like, so she asked.

“How do I look?”

Harry looked mildly uneasy. “Not yourself.”

Ron didn't seem to approve at all. “You look... really wonky with straight-blonde hair and blue eyes.”

She frowned. “Oh? Remind you of your ex, Ron?” she shot back, leaving before Ron could say anything else.

She hobbled to the pawnshop as quickly as she could and trudged up to the counter, staring the appraiser square in the eyes. She showed him her watch and was quoted a stingy £110. She haggled, of course, and managed to get the price up to £250. When she exchanged the watch for the cash, she resigned herself to the fact that she would never see her watch again.

The appraiser certainly looked much happier with their transaction. She shot the appraiser one last glare before walking out of the shop and heading in the direction of their inconspicuous alley.

She showed them what she was able to get and translated it into galleons for Ron to understand.

“Impressive,” Ron said.

Still agitated by her negotiations with the appraiser, she was in no mood to be congenial, especially not to Ron. “But?”

He frowned. “What but? There is no but. Honestly, Hermione, can't I just pay you a compliment without being expected to backhand it?”

She almost wished she could be embarrassed about doubting him, but she couldn't. “Well…”

Ron made an annoyed sound. “Whatever. If it was your boyfriend paying the compliment, you'd be all over him.”

Harry made an annoyed sound. “Now how did I get into this argument?”

She scowled. This was getting overly tiring. “Ron, just show us where the damn inn is.”

Ron frowned but he didn't object. He turned stiffly to walk ahead of them. “The inn's this way. And that Glamour of yours? It's giving me the creeps.”

Se scowled but decided not to change just yet, mostly to be stubborn. Harry followed after Ron and she fell into step.

There was a grocer along the way, and Hermione, with her Glamour still on, bought some supplies, as well as some packaged food while the boys waited outside in the cover of dark.

When she was done with the groceries, they continued the course to the inn.

They reached the inn and with Ron's appearance slightly altered, he undertook the transactions at the counter while she sat on the ratty, lobby chairs. Harry waited outside in the back-alley where she would later fetch him by Apparition.

She waited patiently for Ron to do what he had to do. The couch that had been pushed up against the wall was upholstered in paisley print, and the fabric looked like it hadn't been washed in years. There were ugly, browning stains blossoming all over, and Hermione didn't have the stomach to imagine what sort of life forms had spawned and taken up residence underneath it.

She just knew the lobby was a preview of what awaited their accommodations and her stomach roiled at the mere thought of it.

The room didn't disappoint—or rather, it was the nightmare Hermione had expected. The floorboards creaked, the entire place smelled musty, the bed sheets were yellowed, the pillows looked itchy, the table lamp was atrociously gaudy, and the wallpaper was stained and peeling.

After she fetched Harry, he took one look at the place and said, “What a dump.” And coming from Harry who used to live in a cupboard, that was saying something awful.

“Well, it isn't the Place Vendôme on the Reu de la Paix,” she muttered, undoing her Glamour while walking to the window to peek through the dented aluminum blinds. The streets weren't completely empty, but there were no black hooded lurkers or even awkwardly dressed “Muggles.” Her eyes shifted to the sky above the squat buildings. The moon was slightly obscured—not quite full, and clouds seemed to cloak the stars, save for one that winked and blinked like a bright beacon.

Ron scowled, his own Glamour fading with a wave of his wand. “We're not exactly on a holiday, you know.” He turned to the door and cast several security charms. It was his specialty, having lived a perilous life with the twins. He worked on the windows next. “I left a detection charm in the lobby, so we'll know it if Death Eaters are heading up.”

She nodded, still looking out the window. “Well done, Ron.”

Ron paused noticeably. “Thanks.”

She felt surprised, and she realized that she had expected him to react with the same wariness she had when he paid her a compliment earlier. She knew instinctively that Ron would have reacted that way if he hadn't stopped himself, somehow.

Ron and Harry seemed to exchange the briefest of glances before they went back to bustling about the room to get settled.

Harry went to the bathroom door and struggled to push it open. Finally, he had to kick it in. He pulled on a light switch and after a moment's pause said, “At least the light works.”

Hermione stifled a wince. The cacophony of terrifying sounds from its pipes followed, just before it quieted down to more familiar sounds of water pelting the bottom of a tub. Harry turned all the water off before reemerging from the bathroom. “Water's relatively clear. Just don't swallow it. Possible roaches, no spiders. Toilet's operational. Sink looks disgusting, but the tub looks like it's clean. And whatever you do, don't use the complimentary toothbrushes.”

Truth be told, Hermione didn't care about the roaches and the questionable levels of PHP in the water. She just needed to feel clean after what Goyle had done to her.

She thanked the heavens for drying spells, else it wouldn't be practical to launder the only set of clothes she had to change into. “You boys go first. Just don't use up all the soap and shampoo, okay?”

“If we run out, I'll break into another room and raid its bathroom,” Harry said. “Tell Ron he could go first.”

She couldn't believe what she was hearing.

Ron scowled. “Tell your boyfriend that he could go first.”

That was it. She began to yell. “Duel for the damn bathroom, for all I care. Just don't you two bother me anymore! Honestly, the pair of you! Children! Oh, don't you dare speak a word to me, Ron. And I can't even look at you now, Harry!”

Harry growled. “Fine. I'll go first… unbelievable…” He slammed the bathroom door after him.

Hermione massaged her temples, taking deep breaths to relax, only to be shaken when Ron was suddenly there, facing her, and he had a rather severe frown on his face, though he didn't seem angry.

“What?” she snapped.

His frown deepened, but he didn't snap right back, which alerted Hermione to exactly what he was going to speak to her about.

She knew this moment would come. It was inevitable, and ultimately, if he didn't confront her, she would. She stared right back for a moment, even while feeling the hot flush of her cheeks, waiting for him to speak first. He did.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She was looking up at him expectantly, one hand resting lightly on the chipped and rotten windowsill, while the other parted the rusted blinds with her fingers. Even in the dim light of the awful room, he could tell that her cheeks were aflush—or maybe it was just that he had seen her angry, or embarrassed, so many times that he knew exactly what she looked like even under bad lighting.

Her bushy brown hair was all over her face, like a halo of dark-golden ringlets, and being so mussed-up from their dreadful escapades earlier, Ron tried his very best not to think that she was still as attractive as anything.

Merlin, she's a sight to see.

His thoughts wandered slightly, and he recalled being in the dungeons with them earlier. He had watched Harry rising half-dead from the floor just to find comfort in Hermione's loving embrace.

The truth was, Ron realized he was just daft enough, or perhaps delusional enough, to think that what Harry had done was a spur-of-the-moment thing, much like the way Ron had kissed her, even if the way Harry leaned against her seemed so much more intimate.

But Ron kept watching, and when Hermione was offering Harry comfort, and Harry looked so inexplicably content, it was then that Ron felt the full-force of what it meant. Harry had looked at her with surprising intensity, eyes affixed on her face, perhaps barely even hearing her whispered words of concern. It threw Ron off completely, only to have it make sense in the next minute.

Something had happened between them, and Ron had to wonder why Harry hadn't just told him about it. Why didn't Hermione? Did they think it amusing, to keep their relationship secret from him?

And Merlin, I told him I'd kissed her!

Ron had felt anger. Real anger, but he had to wonder at whom the anger was directed. Was it at Harry? Or at himself because he didn't want to acknowledge just how much it hurt to see her with someone else? It was an issue he thought he shouldn't have to dwell on at the time, but as soon as he had the opportunity to stop and think, the facts came back in a clear rush. He fancied Hermione, so he was in an extremely awkward position, not to mention a pitiful one. If Harry and Hermione had somehow found the time to get together amidst the dark and dreary shadows of their lives, then that—Ron felt—left him with little to nothing to illuminate the gloomy days.

He tried to remember who was it that said that if you had love in your life, it could make up for a great many things you lack; but that to have no love, no matter what else there is, it would never be enough. He figured after a while that it didn't matter who said it, because it was true—at least to him.

Sitting in a very depressing inn, their lives in mortal peril, and roomed with the one person he wished could love him but probably couldn't, made it all seem very futile.

Miserably, he began to speak. “You know that the only reason I fight with you is because it's the only time I have your complete attention. When you argue with me, I know that you're thinking of no one but me, and the thought that I can get you riled up like that's reassuring—to me, at least, that I can make you feel things for me, even if it's the negative sort.”

She sighed. “In what world would that count as a basis for a stable relationship, Ron?”

He always had trouble expressing himself, and sometimes he wished Hermione would throw him a line and be a bit more understanding. “I said I did it to get your attention. I didn't say I thought it was going to work.”

“Is it that you hadn't quite figured that part out yet or that you just began to develop a taste for getting yelled at while I called you names?”

He rolled his eyes as he turned away from her, leaning his back against the wall. His shoulders felt heavy and he was exhausted.

“D'you love him?” Ron asked, mumbling. He didn't know how he found the courage to ask it, or even why he asked. Maybe in the very darkest recesses of his mind, he knew that if she answered “No,” or even “I don't know,” he would dare to hope for her affections. Or perhaps he already knew the answer, and that he just wanted to start numbing himself. After all, once you've felt Crucio, it seemed like no other pain could be worse.

Her brows knotted, like it hurt her to even have him ask. “Of course I do.”

He expelled a breath. Of course she would. “Right.”

Something inside him twisted painfully, and he knew that he had been wrong to think that nothing hurt worse than Crucio.

“I never like it when you yell,” he said, perhaps to answer her earlier question, rhetorical as it was. “But I never really believed you meant to hurt me, so it didn't bother me as much as you think. Sometimes, it does hurt, but not often enough that I'd—I'd stop having these feelings for you—“ He felt his face grow hot with embarrassment.

Merlin almighty, that sounded so fucking stupid!

“I didn't even realize I felt this way about you until after that incident with the Dementors a few weeks back. Staring death in the face… makes you realize things, you know. You ought to have figured it out, anyway,” he rambled on. “That I felt—for you—I mean, who kisses a girl they don't fancy, anyway?”

She looked out the window again. “Things aren't always that simple.”

His lips pursed, feeling an inexplicable anger roil inside him, but not for her. “Only if you're Harry Potter.”

Her eyes whipped sharply to him, then the ferocity dwindled to hurt pride.

Ron cursed himself inwardly. If there were O.W.L.S. for hurting Hermione's feelings, he'd have gotten an O easily. “I didn't mean to say that.” He didn't, really. He had felt a surge of resentment for Harry—that Harry would kiss her then sweep her along in his tumultuous, confusing storm of emotions. Because Harry had always been the emotionally complicated one, wasn't he? Harry brooded and moped because his feelings were never linear like Ron's. Harry's feelings would have intersections and roadways, and the orderly, neurotic, and painfully no-nonsense Hermione wouldn't have been able to reason out a route through it to save her life.

But Ron's resentment was fleeting. Ultimately, he knew Harry couldn't help what he was, in the same way Ron couldn't help being himself. It boiled down to one thing: He wasn't that different from Harry when it came to what he felt for Hermione. The both of them had thrown her their own share of confusion.

The emotions in her gaze softened. “I know you didn't. I know—I know you don't mean a lot of things you say.”

For once, he was able to read between the lines, and he couldn't believe how hurt it made him feel to realize just what she was saying. “Don't do that,” he said. “Stop belittling my feelings for you. Just stop. It's insulting and I don't deserve it.”

Her lips pursed with the slightest hint of shame.

He wondered if what she understood of his feelings mattered. After all, he'd already lost her, but he realized that it did matter, however unrequited his feelings were.

He sat on the bed and dug through their bag of groceries. There was nothing appetizing in it, and it was surprising to note that he wasn't the least bit hungry. Giving up on their supplies, he lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione stood under the running water of the malfunctioning showerhead. The water was coming out as one, thick stream. It worked, but she had to be in a precise spot just so she wouldn't miss it.

Her fingers were pruned, and the soap had run out from her constant scrubbing. There was no shampoo left in the tiny bottle. She had spent most of the hour scrubbing herself and getting clean, thinking that there was still an itty-bitty trace of Goyle that she had to remove.

The wound on her leg had shriveled and paled at the edges. It looked a bit disgusting, but at least it wasn't bleeding anymore.

Harry had already knocked on the door twice, asking if she was alright. Both times, she'd replied that she would be out in a minute.

Her clothes were draped over the tub's edges, sopping wet. She had used up most of what remained of the laundry bar she'd bought from the grocery. Her clothes were ruined from the scouring, but they would be clean. Immaculately so.

Her thoughts drifted once again to her conversation with Ron earlier, and she couldn't get past the realization that his emotional range was more expansive than she first thought, and that she was ashamed she had thought so little of him in the first place.

She tried to justify her attitude towards him, but it kept coming back to the fact that she had always dismissed Ron as someone incapable of deep, complicated feelings. She'd dismissed him as someone who didn't need the kind of emotional attention she always gave Harry. She had believed Ron could very well fend for himself because he had his parents, and his siblings, and his relatively normal life. So while in the process of letting him be, she had completely marginalized him, and she had treated him horribly.

She sat in the tub, the water splashing everywhere as it hit her shoulders. She pulled her knees to her chest, watching the liquid beads dancing on her skin. Streaks of red marked the path of her vigorous scrubbing and she wondered if the remaining laundry soap would be too abrasive for her skin.

There was another knock on the door, and it was Harry again, but his voice seemed lowered. “Hermione? You've been in there an awful long time…”

“I'll be out in a minute,” she said wearily.

She heard him sigh, and she thought he would leave her alone again, but the door opened, and she stared at him in surprise. She thought she had locked that door. Apparently, the inn was more decrepit than she gave it credit for.

He closed the door behind him and reached into the tub to twist the shower knob.

The water died instantly.

“Hey,” she protested weakly as he grabbed the towel from its rack.

“The water's gone cold,” he said gently. “You'll get sick.”

“That's an old wives tale, you know. Most of it, anyway. You only get sick from cold water if you're talking about hypothermia. You can't get sick from cold water in a shower.”

Harry shot her a mildly warning look as he wrapped the starchy towel around her. “Do you need help drying your clothes?”

Sighing, she wrapped the towel more securely around her body and rose from the tub. “I can dry them myself,” she muttered, grabbing her wet clothes.

“I'll do that in a bit for you, anyway,” he whispered, putting the top down on the toilet. “Sit. Your wound needs dressing.”

She frowned. “Why are you whispering?”

“Because Ron's asleep and I don't want him waking up. Now sit and let me look at your leg.”

Still grumbling, she sat, and Harry, crouched on one knee, dropped the bag of first-aid supplies to the floor.

Harry began to apply ointment on her wound with a cotton pad. She barely flinched. Maybe the coldness of the water had made her numb. He dressed her wound when he was done then took her hand to examine the gash there. She'd almost forgotten she had it, even if it felt quite sore.

“This wound needs cleaning,” he said, swishing his wand at it.

His prodding stung and she flinched. He cast her an apologetic look. He made another quick swish of his wand and she felt something nip painfully at the wound just as a tiny foreign object went darting out.

Harry plucked it from the air and examined it. “Glass, I think.”

“Porcelain,” she said wearily. “I broke a few things when I—when I was being interrogated.”

He stared at her a moment, his expression one of mild suspicion, then his eyes traveled to the streaks of red on her skin, then the bathtub. His compassionate gaze fell on her face, gently rubbing her wrist with his thumb and caressing her leg. “I won't let anyone hurt you like that again. For as long as I can help it, I promise. Alright? And if somehow, I botch that up, I'm quite sure you're entirely capable of defending yourself, especially from the likes of Goyle. You really gave it to him earlier.”

She realized that she appreciated what Harry said, greatly. She had considered talking about it with someone, but she really didn't know if either Harry or Ron would be up to it. She didn't want to be the whining victim. Besides that, both of them were boys. She wasn't quite sure they'd understand.

There are a lot of things you underestimate your boys for.

“I fancied myself independent, you know,” she said. “I absolutely believed I could take care of myself. But… I really felt helpless with Goyle that first time he attacked me. He was too strong, Harry. I couldn't even push him off me. I was completely paralyzed and for a second… felt like forever, really… for a second, I was completely resigned to the fact that I was—that he was—“ She couldn't even bear to say it. “That's how powerless I was. If Malfoy hadn't arrived… God, Malfoy—the absolute last person I'd ever turn to for help—rescued me. How do you get over all that, Harry? How can you ever be the same person again?” She pressed her hand to her forehead, squeezing her eyes shut. Her head was hurting and the tears leaked unbidden. She took a shaky breath, trying to stop the sob from rising, but it crept up without warning. It occurred to her just how much she'd been holding in, and that she couldn't possibly push back the tide of emotions. It was too great. She began to cry in her hands—heaving, desperate sobs of humiliation, anger, and sheer release.

Harry's embrace was strong and reassuring. He let her cry on his shoulder, and his fingers running through her hair was soothing to her battered emotions.

“You do get over it,” he whispered. “You find ways. I promise.”

She found it surprisingly easy to believe him. Somehow, within the soothing cadence of his voice, she noted a familiar sense of defeat. He had felt what she felt—being completely helpless in the face of abuse. She was afraid to ask him when. Had it been at the Dursleys? Had Vernon been worse than Hermione thought? Fourth year, maybe? When Voldemort killed Cedric and took Harry's blood? Sixth year… when Harry had to watch Dumbledore die…

Good heavens… it was all those times. It was all of it. Harry's had to endure it over and over and over…

She let herself sink into his arms. It felt good, knowing that she could trust someone so completely, yet she felt compassion for him, too. Her tears weren't just for herself anymore.

When her sobs eased, she pulled away and turned to drying her clothes. He didn't comment about it. He just helped her then left her to dress.

When she emerged from the bathroom, she saw that he had neatly pushed back the covers of the bed for her. Ron snored loudly on one side, completely dead to the world.

“I'm giving Ron second watch,” he said. “Serves him right for going straight to sleep.”

She eyed him suspiciously, wondering if there were any bitter undertones.

He flashed a smirk and with that, she laughed softly, slipping into the covers and settling against the pillows comfortably. Ron shifted as she jostled the bed and wrapped himself around her.

Sighing exasperatedly, she pushed him off as she muttered, “Shove off, Ron.” He complied easily on account of the fact that he was mostly asleep. He kept snoring and Hermione giggled.

“Was always afraid he'd do that to me,” Harry whispered. “That's why I don't like sleeping beside him. Better you than me.”

“Nice and chivalrous of you, Harry.”

He smirked, pulling the blankets over her shoulders. “Go to sleep.” He pressed his lips to hers and she took advantage of the contact, flicking her tongue against his. He didn't resist and obliged her a few seconds of snogging before he finally pulled away.

“We might want to hold off on that for a bit…” he whispered hoarsely.

She smiled, sighing contentedly before she snuggled into the covers.

The last thing she saw before drifting off was Harry standing watch by the window, his wand tucked reassuringly in his grip.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was Ron who woke her for the last watch, and he looked about ready to pass out from lethargy. Beside her, Harry lay cocooned in the dingy blankets, his hand draped loosely over her waist and his legs twined with hers under the cover of sheets.

“Your turn,” Ron muttered, just waiting for her to stumble out of bed to give up the space.

Easing out of the tangle of Harry's limbs, she slipped out of bed and let Ron roll in. Harry—as if programmed even in sleep, turned over, his back to Ron.

“He just knows, doesn't he?” she said with a soft giggle.

“He would. I do,” he said with a tired smirk.

She felt a flush at the implications of his words. She remembered what they talked about earlier and she felt that she had to say something, now that she'd thought things over. “I'm sorry, Ron. I'm sorry that I never gave you enough credit for what you can feel…”

He merely sighed and snuggled into the covers. “S'alright. Lots of it was my fault anyway. I keep thinking that if we hadn't met when we were eleven, things might have been different. I might have been nicer to you, and you might have been nicer to me.”

She shook her head. “I would've been just as insufferable. You and I would've been just as mean to one another, because if I hadn't met you at eleven, I wouldn't have met Harry. That would mean the three of us wouldn't have been the best of friends and I wouldn't have learned to loosen up the way I am now, so I suppose…” She laughed at the sudden realization of something. “You and Harry made me what I am now. It's because of you two that I realized I could be this person, and it just… so happened that it's the version of me that you both love, eh? Isn't that funny?”

He blinked sleepily. He smiled and it looked very sad. “Hilarious.”

She felt a twitch in her heart. “I'm sorry,” she said more softly, smoothing some hair from off his forehead.

“No, you're not,” he replied resignedly, his eyes dropping close.

She considered protesting, but she realized that he was right. She can't be truly sorry. Not when it was because she loved Harry. Not when loving Harry made her feel so amazingly complete.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione saw the silvery shape of a wolf entering the room and she bolted out of her seat by the window to receive it.

She crouched to meet the wolf's silvery gaze and heard the phantasmal voice of Nyphadora Tonks.

“MacFusty clan, near Hibridean dragon lairs… Portkey at Digg, woodpile at the back of Anmara cottage, number six.” The Patronus did not fade, padding to the corner to take a seat, waiting for something. It was waiting for a return message.

Hermione knew from her Care of Magical Creatures book that the MacFusty clan, keepers of the Hebridean dragons, lived further north of the Hebrides, into the rough hills of Trotternish. She rummaged through their groceries and pulled out the map of the island. She considered asking the receptionist where they were, but that would seem too suspicious, seeing as they were already there.

She looked further into the hotel drawers and found a notepad. It was browning with age, but it had what she needed: The inn's address.

Using the telephone, she called the island's information hotline and made up a spiel about being a tourist trying to find the Albert Silverman Inn.

The operator was glad to help, giving her precise instructions of how to get to Albert from Portree. From there, Hermione was able to pinpoint where they were, and using her wand as a compass, she was able to plot a route on their map. She would have to find out if there was any kind of transportation leaving from town.

Not wanting to leave the room without telling either Harry or Ron, she used the phone to contact the front desk. She asked for the town schedules for all buses passing through the town, just so the receptionist wouldn't know exactly what bus they were taking, and the receptionist sent a general list up to their room. She found out that there were three buses that would be leaving from the station at the edge of town in an hour, one of which would bring them closer to their destination. The bus would take them as far as the lowlands, just a bit off the mountains to the north.

Foot of the Hebridean dragon lairs, thought Hermione, looking at the map.

She proceeded to wake Ron and Harry up.

As they blinked themselves awake, she explained to them the plan as she bustled about, shoving things into their plastic grocery bag. They were only slightly surprised by the silver wolf sitting at the corner of the room.

“We have to hurry. I don't know if we'll be able to make it to the station on time by foot. The bloke at the front desk tells me we can make it if we step it up, so we have to go now. Harry, send a message back with Tonks's Patronus. We'll be at the McFusty's in three hours.”

Harry acted fast. His stag leaped from his wand and together with the wolf bounded out of the inn.

They were done getting ready in a few minutes, and as soon as Harry Apparated away, Hermione and Ron hastened to the front desk, settled their bill and hurried out to catch the bus before it left without them.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The bus ride was supremely uneventful, and the ride was painstakingly slow.

Harry slumped against the back of the bus, his eyes on the faded lines of the poorly paved road crawling from beneath the bumper and slowly fading with distance.

Ron was slumped beside him, probably doing the same thing.

Harry glanced briefly at Hermione. She was talking to some of the other tourists. She seemed to be fishing for information. It was always her way. She wasn't the friendliest of women, but Harry figured it just made her trust all the more that precious.

He could see her brows knotting slightly. She was thinking, and he couldn't even imagine how that brilliant brain of hers worked so swiftly on so many things at once. He had always admired her cleverness, and he always thought that made her seem so much more sophisticated than her peers. He thought that supremely attractive, but he never really understood the full allure of that until now. He always knew that there was something about Hermione that made her different from the likes of Cho Chang, or even Ginny. He supposed it was too abstract a concept then for him to comprehend what it was. But now he knew, and he could truly appreciate it.

Hermione's profound mind made her gorgeous. Her intelligence made her sophisticated, and it was that sophistication that made her both tough and alluring at the same time. She was vulnerable too, though, and that made her so perfectly human.

He turned and caught Ron staring at her with blatant admiration. He couldn't blame Ron one bit.

“Oy,” Harry said.

Ron seemed jolted out of his thoughts and turned to him.

“How long are we going to keep this up?” Harry asked quietly.

Ron sniffed, turning to the window to look outside. “Keep what up?”

“This. Are we going to keep fighting?”

“Yeah. Why not?”

Harry sighed. “God, you're being stupid.”

“Listen here, Harry. I'm not being stupid. I'm being the bloke who lost the girl to his `best friend,' now if you don't fucking mind, I'd like to be bitter about it for a few hours. Is that alright with you?”

For some reason, listening to Ron talking like that made him feel very tired. “I'm not going to apologize to you for what I feel about her, or for what she feels about me. She's too important to me for that. But frankly, I just—I feel I have no time to be fighting with you. I don't even know if I'll be alive tomorrow, or the day after that. Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you?”

Ron didn't budge, and the pause was so long that Harry thought he'd never have Ron's friendship back again, but then Ron's expression seemed to soften and he finally looked at Harry. “I can't apologize for what I feel now, either. For her, or for you. I don't want you to die, Harry, but I really, really want to sock you in the face right now.”

Harry frowned. “Go ahead, then, but I won't promise I won't hit back.”

“Like Hermione needs another excuse to yell at me. Thanks, but no thanks.”

“The only reason she yells at you—“

“Spare me, Harry. She and I have already talked, alright? I don't need you to tell me the whys.”

He was surprised. “You talked? You two?”

Ron nodded. “Yes. It didn't really help me to feel better about any of this, but she at least understands my side of it already. More than I can say about you.”

Harry frowned but said nothing.

They fell back into an uncomfortable silence.

He decided he was done thinking about Ron for that day. He had tried, and if Ron refused to budge, there was really nothing he could do about it. He instead watched Hermione laugh at something a twenty-something couple told her.

That momentary sound; that melodious chime of her voice, made him long for that wonderful future she dared to wish for during their private moment in the alley. He wanted, more than anything, for that future to be true.

She looked over her shoulder and caught his gaze. Her eyes were asking if he was alright. He answered with a weak smile. She smiled back. It was a beautiful smile.

God, I do love her.

He wasn't sure if it was something he should be completely happy about. It seemed to him that the people he loved most slipped from his fingers and into the unrelenting tides of loss.

He remembered her crying in the bathroom, every sob rending his heart. He knew. He understood how what happened to her could break someone. He'd lost control of his destiny too many times not to know how heart-wrenching it could be—how it could change you and make you fear things you were never afraid of before…

His blood boiled at the mere recollection of Goyle taking that sense of peace and assurance from her—tearing it away in the most vicious way possible. Too many times, he was unable to keep his loved ones from death and suffering.

I couldn't keep them safe…

But he had succeeded partly with Hermione.

I won't ever let anything like that happen to her again if I could help it. I swear it…

Though he had to wonder just how long he “could help it.”

If I wasn't around…

The thought that he would ever lose her like that, or that she would have to endure such horrible things like being assaulted by the likes of Goyle, sent such pain through him that he felt compelled to seek reassurance.

Looking up, he saw that Ron still wasn't looking at him.

Wearily, he nudged Ron's foot with his. “Oy.”

Appearing supremely irritated, Ron spared him a glance. “What now?”

“If anything happens to me… if I should—you know… will you still feel the same way about her?”

Ron reddened, his expression a mixture of embarrassment and anger. “What the hell kind of question—“

Harry wasn't in the mood to argue. He went on desperately. “As if she didn't—didn't break your heart?”

At that, Ron stopped, and he looked like he was actually thinking about it. Finally, Ron nodded. There was no uncertainty in his expression. “Wouldn't matter. What I feel for her won't ever change.”

“So you'll take care of her, won't you?”

Ron's gaze became suspicious. “'Course.”

“You promise. With your life?”

Ron looked at him suspiciously, but he nodded. “With my life, I promise… what are you on about, Harry?”

“Nothing,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I just—I can't stand the idea of anything bad happening to her, whether or not I get through this entire thing alive… there are people out there that are horrible and—I don't want her getting hurt like that again.”

Harry knew he didn't have to explain to Ron what “like that” meant.

Ron sniffed. “Ever occur to you that you might live and I'd bite the dust?”

“Contrary to what you think, I don't fantasize about your convenient demise…” Harry found it in himself to smirk.

Ron shot him a glare but was unable to hold it for very long. A grin cracked through, though he still didn't appear to be completely ready to be best chums with Harry just yet. “Always thinking it's about you…”

Harry shrugged, letting Ron have the last word.

The silence suddenly wasn't as badly oppressive as it once was.

Hermione joined them again in a bit, sitting between them. “This bus stops just a bit off the Anmara cottages in Digg. If we wait a bit when we get there, we'd have a shuttle to ride.”

“Or we could steal three bikes from those tourists,” Ron suggested, jerking his head in the direction of the noisy group of mountain bikers.

Hermione frowned. “Other than the fact that stealing is a crime, it's not as if Harry and I are in any condition to ride bicycles through rough terrain, so you can get that idea out of your head. Honestly, it's no wonder you and Harry get into so much trouble when I leave the two of you to your own devices. The both of you come up with the most bone-headed ideas.”

Ron rolled his eyes, scrunching back to farthest end of the seat to watch the scenery outside the bus.

Harry slipped his hand into hers. She looked up at him and they exchanged smiles.

She sighed tiredly, so he put his arm over her shoulders and she sank against him, a comfortable weight against his side. She closed her eyes. Her closeness and warmth were reassuring, and leaning his own head back, he closed his own eyes, drifting off into sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There was a crack in the thick gates. A tiny rift once bigger—repaired from having been torn much worse in the past.

He touched it, smoothing his hand against the hard surface, assuring himself that it would be safe.

He peered through the hole.

A figure in the distance sent his heart beating wildly. It rocked awkwardly towards his gates—limping and exhausted.

“I see you,” came that horrible, hissing voice. “But I don't know where you are…” There was frustration, anger, and hate.

So much hate…

He swallowed, hands shaking as he tried to patch the rift up completely. He couldn't fix it, but there was some reassurance that the demon couldn't look through—that the demon would be unable to see.

Pressing his eye to the hole, he kept watching—guarding. The demon mustn't get through.

The imp was at the threshold and he banged a fist on the gate.

The horrible, booming sound was nerve racking, but the gates were strong now. His strength had been replenished. The gates would be impenetrable.

“Where are you?” the demon demanded. Its rage was potent; hot and poisonous, but the gates held. “Tell me where you are!”

Harry licked his lips and closed his eyes, flattening his palms against his gates.

His magic worked best in dreams.

Harry pushed and there was a loud “Whump!”

The demon screamed as it flew, tumbling in the air and spilling a safe distance away from his mind's sanctuary.

Harry couldn't help but smile.

The demon cursed, a ring of fire erupting from it and heading straight for the steel barriers in retaliation, but the fires dissipated as they neared—extinguished by his magic.

Finally, the demon's rage waned, and casting Harry a glare, he turned, ready to leave. “There are other ways to find you… there are others I can use…”

The demon's voice carried through Harry's mind, passing through the tiny rift, harmless, but carrying with it a most unbearable, nauseating feeling.

Harry felt repulsed by it, and he slammed the rift closed once and for all.

It was stifling, that noxious, poisonous THING that the demon let through. Harry had felt it before. He knew he had. He had felt it before just as potently… from Snape.

Betrayal.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione woke to Harry's uneasy shifting. The bus was still moving and it didn't appear that a lot of time had passed since she dozed off.

Ron's head was on her lap. She shifted slightly and he complained with an incoherent groan, as if to scold her for moving. He slipped back into sleep.

“Harry?” she whispered.

He looked very worried. She could feel his restlessness.

“Are you alright?” she asked.

He shook his head. “We have to get to the Order soon. He tried to get into my mind again, but I sent him away. He doesn't know where we are. He couldn't find us.”

Hermione's insides twisted anxiously. She didn't need to ask who “he” was. “That's good then, isn't it? It means we're safe for now.”

“He said there are other ways to find us. That there are others he could use. I don't know what that means.”

“Those other ways mean physically looking for us—like tracking us, which they obviously haven't been successful at.”

He shook his head. “But who could he use? D'you suppose he found Snape out? Or Malfoy, maybe?”

She tried to be rational, even as her hands grew cold. “Even if he did catch Snape or Malfoy, they don't know where we are. They wouldn't be able to help in the search. Voldemort was probably bluffing… you know he's got a huge ego…”

Harry looked terribly worried, still. She could feel how tense he was—how unsettled.

“D'you think there's a traitor in the Order?” Harry asked.

The question shocked her immensely. “W-What? Do you mean—like Snape—?”

“Other than Snape.”

“Harry! I don't—I don't believe—I don't want to believe—“

“But is it possible?”

“Of course it is! But God, that would be so devastating that I don't even want to think about it!” The mere thought of it was enough to make her sick.

Her stomach roiled and she grew dizzy. This conversation was upsetting her quickly and she had to take deep, calming breaths to settle her gorge.

She pressed her hand to her forehead, focusing on the heat emanating from her palm. “Do you suspect anybody?”

He sighed. “I have no idea. I haven't the slightest clue… could be nothing. Maybe Voldemort is bluffing. It wouldn't be the first time… alright there? You're looking a bit peaky.”

She had felt nauseous, but the nausea was fading. “I'm fine. Just—just a bit shaken by the things you said, I think.

“I'm sorry,” he said softly. “But I'm worried.”

“Don't apologize. It isn't your fault, and if you're worried about something, you must always tell me what it is. I trust your instincts. They're hardly ever wrong.”

He frowned. “So what do you make of what I've been telling you?”

She took a deep breath, calming herself to organize her thoughts. “If there's a traitor in the Order, then there's nothing we can do about it, but apparently, Voldemort seems confident enough about finding us through this `other' way. If there's any truth to that, then he'd know we'd be heading this way…” The realization struck at that moment and she looked up at Harry, horror overwhelming her.

“We have to get off this bus,” Harry said frantically, reaching over to nudge Ron awake rather roughly. “Oy, wake up. Wake up, Ron!”

Hermione's heart triple-timed as Ron just then began to rise from sleep.

“What?” Ron mumbled, pushing himself up to sit.

“We have to get off this bus, or we'll put everyone in dan—“

From the corner of her eye, Hermione noticed the blackening sky outside. It grew dark in a second, and a thick, overwhelming fog descended around them.

Cold, like deathly ice, began to seep through the windows of the bus.

“It's too late,” she whispered, the freezing temperatures creeping into her bones. “They've already found us…”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

TBC

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A/N: Here it is! Sorry it's late. ::Blushes:: Real life can really get in the way.

This chapter isn't very long. ^_^

Thanks once again to Tome Raider! You rock!

Standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter Eight: Phoenix in Flames

The coldness was paralyzing, and all too familiar. Her breath slithered from her lips in tiny white puffs and she exchanged looks of horror with Harry and Ron as the bus came to a slow, whistling stop.

“What in the world…” said the driver, staring out at the darkening windshield just when the ghastly face of a Dementor took shape through the glass.

The driver gave a horrified shout just as the glass broke, cracks cobwebbing from the center and shattering into tiny kernels.

Dread spilled through the bus like ice-water. The initial rush of fear had the passengers screaming and scrambling to get away from the front of the bus and from the side windows where bony fingers reached through the rusty grills.

Hermione whipped out her wand, the words to summon her Patronus poised at her lips, but everyone was jostling and panicked, and someone barreled into her. She fell and she held on to her wand for dear life. This was not the time to be losing it.

The passengers, Muggles, began dropping to the floor, sobbing and weak from heartrending sadness. The Dementors were affecting them badly, and the driver up front had a Dementor hovering over him.

Just as she felt Ron's strong arms supporting her, a fantastic flash of silver light burst from the tip of Harry's wand, spreading to the rest of the bus.

Hermione could see nothing but white light at first, and amidst the pure, melodious note of the spell, she could hear the terrified shrieks of fleeing Dementors.

As the light of Harry's Patronus waned, she could still hear the hum of melody. Her eyes widened at the ethereal glow emanating from the sheathed sword strapped to Harry's back.

“Bloody hell…” Ron whispered, staring at the sword in awe.

It brought Hermione immediately back to her senses. They weren't out of trouble, yet.

The bus driver was sprawled on the floor, trembling with his eyes wide open and his skin as pale as death. He was not going to be very responsive for quite some time.

“Somebody!” she yelled, stumbling down the aisle and never minding that she was stepping on every single person as she went. “Anybody who can drive this—oh, bollocks!”

Hermione had never really driven any kind of truck, much less a bus, in her life, but in this situation she was willing to try. She pocketed her wand, took the diver's seat, pushed the shift stick into gear, and stepped on the gas.

The bus lurched and shrieked as it took off, and she could hear Ron yelling that she was going to kill them all. Hermione was seriously thinking that he could be right.

“Oh! Oh, oh, oh! What am I doing?” she cried, seeing the Death Eaters up ahead.

“Merlin, I'm going to die in a Muggle bus!” Ron wailed.

“Shut-up, Ron!” Harry cried, stumbling, amidst the recovering passengers, to get to her. “Just drive, Hermione! Go!”

“Oh, God!!” she gasped, struggling with the steering wheel. “They're not getting out of the way. I'm going to run them over. I'm going to run them over… ”

The bus went barreling through the Death Eaters and most of them scrambled frantically out of the way, but there was at least one unnaturally large bump in the road, like the wheel had gone over something solid and bulky.

“Oh!” she shrieked. “I've run someone over! Oh, heavens!”

“No offense, love,” Harry yelled back. “But can you obsess about that later?”

Hermione wondered if it was even in the realm of normal for her brain functions to stop when she heard him call her “love.” Of course, she was thinking several things at once, the most important thought being that she had to get Harry away from the evil dark wizard who wanted to kill him, but “love” was always a rather welcome word—most of the time, at least.

“Left! TURN LEFT!” Harry shrieked.

“OH HEAVEN HELP ME!” Hermione cried as she turned to navigate the curve in the road and desperately tried to keep the bus from flipping over.

The passengers, mostly recovered from their Dementor-induced depressions, were now fully capable of feeling terrified once more, and they screamed as one when Hermione made the perilous turn, instinctively leaning in the same direction for equilibrium.

The bus leveled with a teeth-rattling thump and lurched forward with a roar.

“We're all going to die,” squeaked Ron, his knuckles whitening as he hung on desperately to be the handlebars above him.

“Oh, you should talk, almighty driver of a Ford Anglia!” she screamed through grit teeth.

“It was enchanted!” Ron shrieked back in his defense.

Hermione couldn't even fathom how they could be arguing at a time like this.

A figure in the road ahead walked casually into their path, and Hermione could see the bony white hands pushing back a cowl to reveal the pale, hairless head of a sinister looking man. She had never seen him before, but she knew, from the very depths of her fear, that the man was Voldemort, and that Voldemort was going head to head with a bus.

Harry's hand, which she only now noticed was on her shoulder, squeezed tighter.

“Oh shit…” Ron said. “Are you going to run him over?”

She wanted to. She really wanted to. This creature was going to take the most beautiful person in her life and destroy him. She had never had such murderous thoughts in her entire life, but she knew, by instinct, that it wasn't going to be that easy.

“Brace yourselves!” she shouted over her shoulder. She stepped on the breaks, holding the steering wheel steady until it was safe to crank the wheel around, just before they could barrel into Voldemort.

“What are you doing?” Ron demanded.

“Getting away! D'you think he'll just let us run him over, Ron? The man tore his soul seven times to live forever! He's not going to let a bus do him in! Hold on!”

She stepped on the gas as the bus lurched off-road on the uneven terrain. Their ride was extremely rough, but as long as she didn't drive them off a cliff, she could kill time without killing them. All they needed was time until the Order got there.

She was sure they would arrive any second now. They had to. The unnaturally darkened sky just a few kilometers away from their destination was sure to make the Order suspicious, and the scandalous amounts of magic that was cast in the presence of Muggles, especially by Harry, was going to have the Ministry demanding for his head, and hopefully, the Ministry would be alerting all Aurors, including the ones they had in the service of the Order, of their location.

The pop of Apparition was not lost on her, and true enough, Voldemort appeared in their path again, this time with Death Eaters flanking him. He surged, as if to ram the bus with his head, and Hermione stepped on the breaks again, this time cranking the stick to reverse. She looked over her shoulder and stepped on the gas, lurching back. She tuned out the screams of everyone and tried to ignore Ron's shrieks of “Are you mad?”

“She's killing time, Ron!” Harry cried through grit teeth. “Until the Order gets here! So if you can just—“

The engine roared as Hermione turned the wheel again to position the bus for forward drive, but the bus lurched unnaturally, and Hermione felt an odd, rocking vertigo. Her stomach turned, and it took another second for her to realize that the bus was no longer moving, and that it was hovering several feet in the air by an awkward angle.

“Fuck,” Harry whispered, grabbing her from the driver's seat. He was somewhat rough, giving her no choice, and she couldn't help but complain, but he pulled her to the floor in a protective hunch just as she felt the world collapsing beneath her.

The bus was dropping, and the crash that followed was extremely jarring—metal, rubber, and tin crunching under the powerful force of gravity.

Everyone bounced with a dull thud. Hermione felt the wind being knocked out of her, even as Harry, wrapped around her, suffered the brunt of the impact.

As the dust settled, coughs, gasps, and groans began to pierce through the horrible silence.

Harry hacked and Hermione, coughing to get her own breathing back to normal, looked at both her boys worriedly.

“Harry, Ron? Are you going to be—“ She reached out, clasping Ron by the shoulder, but the folding door of the bus was ripped from its hinges with a hair-splitting shriek and her wound-up nerves snapped. She yelped in shock.

Lucius Malfoy walked in and his eyes fell on her. He reached, and she was sure he was going to drag her out of the bus by her hair, but Lucius gave a yowl, blood blossoming from a slash on the back of his hand. He pulled his hand back, swearing the most unrefined oaths.

Harry, though still recovering, had his wand out, and his eyes blazed. “Don't you touch her,” he growled fiercely, pushing himself up.

Hermione helped him to his feet, whipping out her wand and pointing it threateningly at Lucius.

Beside her, Ron lumbered to his feet, holding his arm close to himself. He was injured, but his wand arm was steady.

Behind them, the passengers knew well enough to stay quiet. Whatever it was that was happening, it wasn't natural, and they knew they were completely incapable of handling it.

Hermione let her eyes wander to the windows looking out of the bus. They weren't that many Death Eaters, but they were overwhelming enough. Escape was futile, but Harry didn't look ready to go without a fight.

He's still trying to buy us time…

“Step out of the bus,” Harry told Lucius, nudging his wand forward.

Lucius looked bored, though he raised his hands up. “You won't get away, boy. You might as well surrender.”

“I intend to take many of you down with me, if you must know, now back the fuck up!” Harry hissed.

A frown creased Lucius's features, but he slowly began to step back as he exited the bus.

Harry held her hand tight as they followed after Lucius.

Ron had her back, and as they left the bus, Hermione saw the Death Eaters closing in on them.

The sky had gone dark as night, and the cold was almost unbearable. The Dementors hovered above, but they would come no closer to Harry. He had spooked them well enough.

The circle of Death Eaters was closing as the carcass of the bus was moved aside roughly by a burst of magic. The screams of the passengers rose for a bit then settled as the bus crashed a second time, several meters away.

Hermione closed her eyes to how horribly the Muggles were being treated. She hoped nobody had gotten seriously hurt, and so long as Voldemort took no interest in them, they would be alright. At the moment, she had enough to worry about with the three of them being seriously outnumbered.

They stayed a tight triad within the menacing circle of their enemies.

Hermione scanned the faces, hoping and praying that Snape, or even Draco was among them. She found no trace of them, and she wondered, with some regret, if they had been found out and killed.

She glanced briefly at Voldemort. It was uncanny, how skeletal and unnatural he looked. The bony white texture of his skin wasn't human. He looked waxen and artificial. His nose was almost nonexistent, his cheekbones high and pronounced, like a snake's. Oddest of all were his eyes. His eyes were completely black but for the pinprick of red at each center. His spindly fingers peeked out of his sleeves, a wand resting lightly in his hand.

Voldemort did not look pleased. He flicked his finger at his minions and they stepped forward, hauling what appeared to be the naked body of a man.

The body was unceremoniously dumped at their feet and Hermione stifled a cry of horror as his face became visible. He looked familiar, but she did not know him.

He looked grotesquely beaten within every inch of him and his limbs were twisted in unnatural angles. The agony on his face was frozen forever in death.

“This is Gregory Goyle senior,” Voldemort said in a shockingly lucid tone. He gestured to his Death Eaters and someone stepped out to answer. The minion pushed back his cowl. It was Goyle, and he shot Hermione a hard, furious look.

She felt her insides twist with fear, but she steeled herself.

“This boy caused your escape,” Voldemort began. “And I was going to dispose of him for his failure, but his father appealed to me for his life. I can't be merciful, you understand. So I asked the son if he would die for his father. His answer lies before you right now. I do so value ruthlessness and Goyle won't ever forget my kindness. He is also willing to make up for his mistakes. Aren't you, Gregory?”

Goyle looked horribly pale, like he was about to throw up, but he nodded, his glare penetrating and vicious, clearly blaming her for all his troubles.

Hermione tried to focus, concentrating on the calming facts: Snape's still alive. Draco, too. If Voldemort had caught them, it would have been their bodies…

But it was small comfort, this realization. How can they stand up to this man—Voldemort, so bereft of emotions and compassion? How could they stand up to his minions who either believed in his madness or feared him enough to have their fathers killed in their place?

Hermione's grip tightened around her wand, fighting to keep her courage. It was a struggle, because Goyle was no longer just the mindless oaf from Hogwarts who trailed after Draco. He was the monster in her mind, large and terrible.

“Put down your wands, children,” said Voldemort, looking to be on the limit of his patience.

“There's no point, is there?” Harry said, his voice hoarse with rage. “You'll kill us, anyway. Why should we make it easy for you?”

Voldemort paused a moment. Hermione could see his fist clenching with suppressed rage. He whipped his wand. “Because you want to make it easy for yourselves.”

Hermione saw the spectral ropes and she knew instantly that her fear of Goyle had made her the easiest target. She whipped out a shielding charm, but Voldemort's spell was too strong and her fear too great. She was ensnared, and magical coils wrapped around her, yanking her from the reassuring proximity of Harry and Ron. Next she knew, she was nestled within the velvety green robes of their vilest enemy, his spidery fingers tracing the contours of her cheek. Voldemort's other hand held her by the wrist of her wand hand. His grip was strong, and as she fought to wrench herself away, he shook her. The force of it rattled her completely and her wand dropped from her hand.

Harry's complexion was completely gone of color, and he lurched towards them, only to be held back by Ron, who looked even paler than Harry. Harry's brief struggle to be let go died at Ron's strong hold. She saw on their faces pure fear, and she cursed herself—hated that she was his—their weakness.

Her heart hammered in her chest, and pushing back her fear, she wrenched her face from Voldemort's hand to meet his gaze.

Kill time. The Order will come. Any minute now…

Summoning her courage, she dared herself to speak the words. “You can't kill me. You're afraid. Harry's more powerful than you are, and you know it. You're afraid that you'd call his full power if you ever do something as stupid as destroy me! You're nothing but a fragment and dried up shell of what you once were you half-blood low life!”

She heard Ron's cry of dismay, but she had hit some kind of nerve, because Voldemort looked positively furious. He bellowed for Goyle, his rage pure in every note, and she felt herself being tossed like a rag doll to the ground.

Goyle's Crucio hit her like a pike, piercing her from her gut and spreading to the rest of her. Goyle's hate for her was potent, worst than Dolohov's. She tried to hold the screams, biting down on her lip as she drew blood, but the agony was ripped out of her throat, and her screams seemed to have echoed through the valley.

There was another roar—so filled with rage that it pierced through her pain and into what little of her conscious thought was working within the tangled threads of her agony.

She might have seen a flash of green—hatred so concentrated that the mere glimpse of it sent her stomach roiling. It was such dark magic like she'd never seen, and as she moaned and rolled over on the ground, she saw eyes—the eyes of a man completely and utterly murdered.

They were Goyle's.

The horror of it hit her completely as the pain in her body waned. Harry… oh, Harry!

The anguish she felt for what she had provoked Harry to do shot to her very core. Her soul wept, and she struggled to regain her strength.

But hexes were suddenly exploding around her, and she watched, terrified, as Harry and Ron barely had time to roll and duck apart.

“Fools!” Voldemort cried, enraged.

To Hermione's great shock, Voldemort fired off killing curses at every Death Eater that had attempted to hit Harry with their Avada Kedavras. There were three, and they went flying back, their dead bodies dropping to the ground like meal sacks.

She half expected Voldemort's wand to turn on Harry with the same menace, but Snape's words rang in her head from memory.

“He's going to need Potter for it, so whatever you do, do not let him get caught again…”

Voldemort needed Harry alive, and Voldemort would not have grandstanding idiots accidentally killing his last chance at immortality.

Even the other Death Eaters appeared shocked, and a lot of them not-quite-so-subtly stepped away from him. All but Bellatrix Lestrange stayed by Voldemort's side, her wand arm oddly tucked within her robes, like she was holding something within the folds of her clothes.

Voldemort pulsed with power as his eyes flashed with great annoyance. “Succendo Obvallo!”

His wand whipped and Hermione felt the vibration of magic from several feet away.

Thick fire shot out from the ground, erupting around them and caging her, Harry, Bellatrix, and Voldemort within its fiery circle.

Harry, after only a moment's shock, raised his wand and fired hexes in Voldemort's direction in quick succession.

Voldemort met each curse with fierce grace, like answering notes in a fatal duet.

Bellatrix moved, wand emerging from her other hand, and pointing it at Harry. Hermione scrambled for her own wand on the ground, whipping out a summoning curse for all that her life was worth.

The Dark Witch's scream of surprise and hatred keened through the milieu as her wand shot straight to Hermione's grasp. Wailing and flailing, Bellatrix could have very well rushed towards Hermione, if only to scratch her eyes out, but she didn't, and Hermione was just about preparing to fire more hexes when both hers and Bellatrix's wand shot out of her grasp at the very same moment Harry's wand shot out of his.

The wands fell right into Voldemort's palm.

“Enough,” said Voldemort in a low and furious tone, discarding all but Harry's wand to the ground. Bellatrix's eyes followed her own wand, but she did not scramble to take it.

Oddly, her complete inaction seemed to extend the dreadful silence.

It was within this heavy pause, fire roaring around them, that Hermione began to feel well and truly terrified.

Oh, God… we've died and been dragged to hell, she thought in horror.

“Bella,” said Voldemort. “Prepare yourself.”

The manic gleam in Bellatrix's eyes sent Hermione's fear careening into a maelstrom of panic.

“Captivitas Immortalis!” Voldemort roared. It sounded inhuman, and Hermione smelled putrid decay as the dark magic exploded from its maker. A bright blue beam shot out from the tip of Harry's wand and pierced Harry right where his scar was.

Harry's scream mingled with Hermione's as he held his head between his hands and buckled to his knees in agony.

The beam crackled like electricity, spewing corrosive sparks all around it and searing the ground. How the spell wasn't eating away Harry's flesh, Hermione didn't know, but the beam of light didn't break, and it held Harry in its power.

That pure, unearthly hum sang through the terrible chaos; the sword on Harry's back trembling as it glowed strong and bright.

Hermione had to tear her eyes away from it, but found that she looked away too late.

Voldemort had his wand raised at her and she knew what was coming. She bunched her muscles to dodge, but the curse was out before she could jump.

I'm going to die…

And she could have died.

But she didn't.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry was there, his scar bleeding with wisps of smoke curling from the gash, Excalibur in his hands.

He held it firmly by its hilt while his other hand gripped its blade, blocking Voldemort's Avada Kedavra in an explosive collision. Flecks of red magic fought green; the chaotic pops and screeches of clashing magic almost deafening.

“H-Harry!” she cried. The blade was cutting into his palm; his blood running down its silvery steel.

The Avada Kedavra was not dissipating. It seemed to grow stronger the longer Harry fought it. Voldemort's roar of rage seemed to fuel it from where he stood.

Bellatrix looked panicked and appeared to try to help Voldemort, but she was thrown back, some unknown force repulsing her with a bright, reflective gleam.

No, she thought, meeting Harry's resigned gaze as he looked over his shoulder at her.

“I love you,” he said.

Her tears came unbidden and she screamed his name. She made a lunge for him, but whatever had pushed Bellatrix from Voldemort sent Hermione careening away from Harry in the same manner.

She felt the collision, strong and solid. It knocked the breath from her as she stumbled. She whipped her gaze, watching as Harry swung the sword away from himself, trying perhaps to deflect the curse from him.

“Harry!”

The curse passed right through the arc of the sword and exploded in blinding greens and reds, right into Harry's chest.

He flew several feet across the ring and stumbled haphazardly on the dirt.

She saw his face, his beautiful green eyes wide open and the rest of him perfectly still.

He's dead. Oh, God… he's dead!

“Oh God!” she shrieked, scrambling to him. She fell to his side and gathered him in his arms. “Harry! Oh, God, no!”

No breath escaped his lips. The beating of his heart stilled.

She was wailing. Screaming and crying as the fires around them waned while a damp thickening mist crept around them like thick clouds.

There were more people than before surrounding them now; wizards in robes emblazoned with a flaming Phoenix exchanging hexes with Death Eaters. It was the Order, and they had come, but amidst Hermione's collapsing world, their faces were strange; their names unknown; their voices unfamiliar even as they called her name.

Her heart, mind, and soul lay cradled in her arms, and that was all she could focus on at the moment.

She remembered first year, that first time she gave him her complete trust.

“Harry—you're a great wizard, you know,” she had said to him, victorious amidst the ruin of giant chessboard and caught in her tight embrace.

“I'm not as good as you,” he had said in his shy, gentle manner.

Oh, how she believed in him so much, even then, and how utterly surprised she was that he would ever look to her, the swotty, rule-abiding, by-the-tomes girl, as a standard. “Me? Books! And cleverness! There are more important things. Friendship, and bravery and—“

Love… supplemented Hermione. Words unspoken could ring so true.

She had trusted him for a long time since then, wavering only because she was young and stubborn.

But their friendship held them together. So many times, when all seemed hopeless, their friendship, built by respect and loyalty, got them through. When she used her Time Turner to help Harry save Sirius's and Buckbeak's life, she had cared very little of its consequences to her. McGonagall had warned her to keep the contraption secret, or else she would never be allowed to have use of it again. Hermione didn't bother to worry about that. All she knew was that Harry needed help, and that he was much more important than her books. True to the caveat, Hermione lost use of the Time Turner the following year, and not wanting to worry Harry, she had told him it was too exhausting to use, and that she was glad to be rid of it. She knew he would believe her, because he had been the only one to notice her exhaustion all of third year.

“How are you getting through all this stuff?” he had asked her, his eyes roving over the clutter of books, quills, and her Arithmancy and Muggle Studies essays.

She had replied carefully then, not wanting to lie to him. “Oh, well—you know—working hard.”

Harry had given her such a worried frown that she felt wretched for keeping secrets from him.

She should've known then that she could hide nothing from Harry's observant eyes. There would be more secrets in the years to come, and he would know she had them, just the same.

And how much more of her mind and soul did he see when she bared all of herself to him? His intimate embrace, tentative and careful, but passionate and warm, seemed to melt what walls she had left.

“Don't stop,” she had pleaded, intoxicated by the look of pure desire in his eyes.

“I love it when you do that,” he had said just after they had shared a steamy kiss.

Her emotions had unfolded, one layer at a time at each touch.

And even now, his lifeless body heavy in her arms, he was unraveling that part of her that felt such profound misery and loss as her heart seemed to die with him.

There could have been a million infinite possibilities in a future where he was alive and with her; countless moments of those more important things…

Friendship and bravery and love…

His last words had been said with certainty; filled with complete conviction. He had told her he loved her, and she had absolutely no doubt of its truth.

Yet she never imagined that it would give her such pain.

He had taken the curse for her. He had no knowledge of whether the sword would block it, yet he jumped in her path of certain death. In his last precious moments, he had told her he loved her, and only then was he ready to die.

The moment was burned into her brain, both gift and curse.

Her tears fell, a steady stream of agony.

There was a second scream, filled with anger and hatred.

Whether she was numb from heartbreak or strengthened by self-righteous rage, she didn't know.

Holding Harry close against her, mist and fog engulfing them, she watched the ball of green light that was headed right for her utterly and completely without fear.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When next Hermione opened her eyes, she was on a bed, the pungent smell of sterilized walls and floors permeating her nostrils.

Something was tinkling constantly. It was the only thing that broke the silence of the sunbathed room.

To one side of her were her parents, both asleep in their respective cushioned chairs.

To her other side was a head of red hair, the steady rise and fall of shoulders indicating that he was dozing. Her hand was caught in his, his grip tight in spite of his slumber.

Things weren't quite so clear, particularly the memories. It took her a moment to remember; her hazy thoughts slowly aligning.

Then she remembered everything, and she began to cry, the pain so fresh that it twisted her heart in impossible knots of agony.

She wasn't dead. She had survived, but it only served as a potent reminder of who hadn't.

Harry…

Ron stirred and woke, his sleepy eyes rising to meet her liquid gaze.

When she realized he had been crying as well, the loss became overwhelmingly real.

She closed her eyes and turned away from him. It was too much. She couldn't look at Ron while she mourned the loss of Harry. Their fates were too tightly tangled together, and she had always believed that whatever happened to Harry, she and Ron would share his fate. It had been an unspoken promise, and she couldn't help but resent the fact that she and Ron had survived while Harry had to die…

She pried her hand from Ron's grasp, turning to bury her face in her pillow. She wept bitterly, but she did not care for anyone to see her grief.

She felt Ron's hand on her shoulder, and she heard his own quiet sobs behind her.

The shared grief gave her no comfort. Only time would decide if her heart would ever truly heal.

Perhaps in some odd way, Ron knew that this pain was private to the two of them. He didn't wake her parents, nor did he call the healers. She didn't know how long they stayed that way, but the next time a healer came, he seemed surprised that Hermione was awake, and that he hadn't been alerted to the fact.

Her parents, just then waking, fussed. Their words of sympathy were true and kind, but they couldn't possibly understand, could they?

And when the healer spoke to her, she did not speak back. She wanted it to be quiet. She didn't want to be speaking with anyone.

“Is there pain in your throat, Ms. Granger?” the healer finally asked after several frustrated attempts to get answers from her.

“Sweetheart,” said her mother gently. “Please say something…”

Hermione turned over on the bed and caught Ron's gaze. There was no one but him, now.

After a moment, Ron looked up at them. “Leave her alone. She's fine… she'll tell us if something's wrong.”

This did not seem to sit well with anyone, and poor Ron was the one to carry the brunt of it. She could see his resolve wavering. This was not his specialty—standing his ground for her when everyone else seemed to have a greater right to make decisions for her—it had always been Harry's thing.

But Harry isn't here anymore, is he? She reached for Ron's hand, squeezing. Her eyes pleaded for his conviction.

His lips pursed and he looked up at them again. “Please… she just wants to be left alone. Can't you see?”

Maybe it was the look on his face, or even the tone of his voice, but somehow, it compelled everyone to listen to him, and she managed to get that few extra hours of peace and quiet.

When the Weasleys arrived, Ron found them much easier to manage. They were his family. He could order them around.

She watched the redheaded crowd in her room, each and every face etched with pain as they stepped up to her bedside one by one, offering their condolences, at the same time telling her that they were glad she made it. Even the twins, so commonly filled with humor, were pale and stricken.

It was unbearable.

It's real. He's dead.

Ginny, so young and unschooled at hiding her emotions, could only cry and utter a soft, “I can't believe he's gone…” She could only weep after that, and Arthur had to lead Ginny away, whispering that she should hush, lest she upset Hermione further.

Hermione couldn't possibly imagine anything that could make her feel worse.

Fleur took a seat by her, and she had Julien strapped to the front of her in her lovely little sling. Fleur looked as beautiful and poised as ever and Hermione eyed her almost warily. She had shared moments of friendship with Fleur during that one shopping trip, but it seemed like years ago, now. Fleur seemed like a stranger again, but perhaps it was only because Hermione's emotions felt so raw.

“Julien and I… we are glad you are alive,” Fleur said in a gentle, private tone. “Many are glad you are alive. It is small comfort right now, I think, but in the future, when the pain is bearable, you will appreciate the ones who worry for you so deeply.”

It was surprising, almost shocking, really, when Fleur leaned over and pressed a kiss to her forehead. Hermione closed her eyes, letting the warmth of Fleur's lips in her cold skin comfort her.

Fleur was the last of them, and when they left, Ron urged Hermione's parents to take a break for a bit, promising them that he wouldn't leave her side.

Her parents relented, but only because her mother could see in her eyes that Ron's company was what she needed for the moment.

When silence finally descended in the room, Ron sat by her and took her hand. Not a word left his lips and his gaze was affixed to the window. He was there to keep her company. If she didn't wish to talk, he wasn't going to force her. If she wished to sleep, he would stay right there.

“He's really gone, isn't he?” she finally said, her voice barely audible.

Ron took a deep breath, the pressure of his hand on hers brief but indicative of his resignation. “Yeah…” He wiped away a stray tear furiously.

The next words that left her lips felt disembodied. “It was my fault. He took the curse for me.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to staunch what tears still insisted on falling. When next he looked at her, there was chaos of emotion, like he couldn't quite express what he wanted to say. “Harry does what he wants, Hermione. There's no—telling him what he should or shouldn't do. It wasn't your fault. You'd have taken a curse for him just as easily, so it's… he saved your life. He's a hero. Don't—don't take that away—“ He couldn't go on.

Her eyes widened as the harsh reality of what Ron was telling her dawned. “I'm not—Ron, I'm not trying to take anything away from him—losing him is just so painful!”

“I know,” he said in a remorseful tone. “I know. But… do you remember what happened? Could you fathom what he did for you?”

“Oh, Ron, of course I could fathom—and it hurts so much—“

Ron shook his head. “No… no, listen to me, Hermione… Harry—Harry died for you, and he—V-Voldemort, he's dead, too…”

She had forgotten about Voldemort completely, and now that she knew he was destroyed, she was mildly surprised that she couldn't fully appreciate what that meant. It was difficult, she realized, to be happy about anything.

Voldemort has been destroyed… and Ron said Voldemort's name.

She was sure Ron wasn't the only one who was doing that, and it occurred to her that Harry had done it. The Wizarding world was no longer afraid.

“Harry did it,” she said. “He did what he said he had to do…”

Somehow, even with her heart being strangled by grief, she knew the importance of what that meant. Harry hadn't died in vain. Perhaps when time eased the pain, it could be a true balm—whenever it hurt anew remembering him.

“He did,” Ron said. “What his mother did.”

She paused, turning over what Ron said and trying to make sense of it. “What?”

“He died for you… just like his mother died for him, and when Voldemort cursed you…” Ron's eyes were filling, and he couldn't go on, but he didn't need to.

Hermione knew exactly what Ron was trying to say. “The curse backfired… and it destroyed Voldemort...”

For the second time…

Ron nodded. “I don't know how many people saw it, but I can say for sure dad, the twins, Ginny, Tonks, Bellatrix saw it… I saw it—it was the killing curse. I know, because I heard Voldemort say it. I thought you were dead, Hermione.” His grip on her hand tightened. “We brought you here after that. We had to tell the healers what happened, just so they can make sure you were alright, but their professional oath binds them to secrecy, and basically we—we all kept it from the news people for now. We'll know when the story leaks out, because they'd be calling you the Girl Who Lived, likely…” His voice trailed, the humor of what he said dying on his lips.

She remembered vaguely that the Order had arrived.

A little too late…

She closed her eyes, pushing that thought away. She shouldn't be bitter. It was a powerful poison she wasn't willing to take.

“And Bellatrix? She's keeping quiet?”

“She got away.”

She stared at him in horror.

“I know, and the entire Auror force has been looking for her. They've caught everyone else who didn't die in the fighting, and they rounded up the other Death Eaters… they caught Draco, too. His solicitor has been asking after you. He'll likely ask you to testify for Draco…”

She sniffed, uninterested in those details.

“They haven't found Snape,” Ron went on. “And nobody knows if he's alive or dead.”

It was difficult to care at that point. “And Harry's—Harry's body.”

Ron didn't reply. He was looking at her forlornly. “Burnt… to ashes.”

She stared at him, shocked. “Burnt—they held funeral services for him al—“

Ron shook his head. “No. It happened when you were unconscious… at the site of the attack. He just… burst into flames. Took only a few seconds, but when the smoke cleared, there was nothing but ash. I'm so sorry…”

It was much too much.

Well, there goes my first step at closure… she thought bitterly, finally descending into the miserable comfort of tears.

Struggling to get her sobs under control, she spoke. “And Voldemort's body?”

“Incinerated… that one on purpose.”

She nodded, sniffing and wiping at her eyes. “Oh, God… this is…” She realized she had ran out of words, so she just lay there, letting it all sink in.

After a while, Ron took a deep breath, as if to steel himself for something. “There's more…”

“I don't think I can take anymore, Ron.”

He pursed his lips but he seemed determined. “I think you have to know. They'll tell you later, anyway, but I—I feel I should be the one to… It's—It's pretty big.”

Hermione stared at him, watching his features. He had gone pale, and he looked nervous. “What?” she asked, alarmed. “What is it?”

Ron fidgeted. “I don't—I don't have the details. If any, the healers were only allowed to tell your parents, but when we first brought you in here, the healers were very concerned about your condition, and one of them sort of blurted it out—and I heard—“

“What is it, Ron?”

Ron swallowed and took her hand. “The thing is—that is to say—you're, erm, with child. You know… pregnant.”

And that was about as much as Hermione could take, for sure.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The reports of what happened were, of course, mixed. What happened was as much a blur to civilians as to those who were actually there during the final moments. The only thing tying the varying reports together was the consistent fact that Voldemort's Death became known to each and every Death Eater the moment he perished, and that it plunged Voldemort's followers into chaos, then inevitable defeat.

By the end of the week following Voldemort's death, the worse of the Death Eaters had been caught, and most of them were already awaiting trial. There was no escape for them, but that wasn't really enough to staunch Hermione's grief. No amount of Death Eater executions were going to bring Harry back.

She had dreaded his funeral with near physical repulsion. Then again, that could just be the morning (all day, really) sickness.

At Harry's funeral, he was posthumously awarded the Order of Merlin, First class. He was hailed a hero by strangers and friends. He was beloved and admired. There wasn't a dry eye in the crowd of thousands that attended, as the last stone on his memorial was attached.

There was no coffin and there was no unearthed grave, because Harry Potter's body had disappeared amidst the destruction.

If it wasn't for Hermione's testimony—that he had taken an Avada Kedavra for her; that she had held him in her arms completely lifeless, many would insist that he wasn't dead.

None was surer than she was, and at times, Hermione thought that the biggest tragedy, that she, possibly the person who most heartily and faithfully wished that he was still alive, would be so damnably convinced that he was gone.

The circumstances of Harry Potter's death became legend. There were many versions of it, many of which included variations of a phantasmal phoenix swooping in to carry his body to the next great adventure. It served to make him more a myth than man, but all history of the final battle written for the years to come would unequivocally state the most powerful truth of all:

Harry Potter had vanquished the Dark Lord. Harry Potter had used Ancient Magic like his mother once had. He had made the ultimate sacrifice to save the woman he loved and their unborn child, and none would remember this truth more deeply than Hermione, marked as she was by a lightning-shaped scar.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: Standard reassurances apply. This isn't the end. This fic will MOST DEFINITELY end HHr. This fic ISN'T ending anytime soon.

-->

A/N: I swear, it's H+Hr. Trust me. I couldn't write anything else.

I blame DH mostly for how late this is, but the rest of the blame lies in RL, which has been sick, busy, and sick. Since I have now recovered from DH and my first trimester, I expect things would go faster. Thanks for your patience. Again, if you want to read up to chapter 13, you must let me friend you in LJ. Let me know your username and I'll go and friend you.

If any of you are wondering what I think of DH, I'm pretty much on the positive-feedback side of our LJ comm. DH was exciting and a real page-turner. There were many imperfections, yes, and the ships sucked, but I really did like too many parts of the book to hate it and gripe about it. No matter what anyone says, I liked the characterization of the trio. Besides that, I'm a big fan of the series. I couldn't have loved reading and writing fanfiction so much without all the books. JKR might have done our fandom wrong on a few instances, but hey, for giving us Harry Potter? She's got my gratitude. I'm just glad the general madness is over. The aftermath in LJ has been great. Everyone, happy or pissed about book 7, has been wonderful. LJ is still my haven. ::Hugs LJ::

Then there's this supposed Epilogue that everyone keeps talking about. What the hell is that? Never heard of such a thing.

Now, I'd love to say I've incorporated some Book 7 things in this story, but honestly, everything you read here was based on books 1 to 6. I've left out book 7 just so it doesn't get confusing. Anything from book 7 that appears to crop up here is coincidental.

Once more, thanks to Tome_raider for her awesome beta-reading skills. ^_^ Go read her recs. She has many of them!!! (If you haven't Friended her in LJ, do! It's the only way you'll be able to read her recs.) I myself have a lot of fics to catch up on.

Now, let the fanon begin.

Standard disclaimers apply. JKR, my ship is better than yours, but you still own one hell of a series. ^_^

PART TWO: DREAMS AND NIGHTMARES

Chapter Nine: Angel in Their Midst

Hermione knew, of course, the moment Pig clattered through her office window bearing a note, what the note would contain. Ron would never send good news of such magnitude by Owl post. If there was any such good news to be told, he would come to her office in person, brimming with it. She would, in his shoes, do the same thing in either situation.

But there was a moment of panic—there always was when Pig crash-landed. Hermione gave a mournful wail as Pig landed on a pile of manuscripts, knocking over reams of parchment and scattering them all over her desk and floor.

“Oh, Pig!” Hermione cried, trying to push past the sheaves of paper to get her hands on the perpetually hyperactive owl.

Hermione heard footsteps from beyond the threshold of her open office door and saw Olivia, her assistant, scampering to pick up the scattered pages.

“It's that stupid owl again!” Olivia hissed. “I swear that one day, I will take my wand and blow that feathery menace to bits!”

Hermione realized she didn't hire Olivia for being tenderhearted.

“It's fine,” said Hermione, having Pig restrained by the neck. “It's under control. Thank you, Olivia.”

Olivia sighed. “Do you want these pages arranged? It's a mess.”

“Yes, please. Why don't you ask that new girl for help—what's her name? Thora?”

Olivia made a sound of disgust. “I'd rather hang myself. She's a complete klutz, she dresses funny, and she doesn't know anything.”

Olivia did not suffer fools lightly, and her obsessive-compulsive disorder was just a bit worse than Hermione's, which is precisely the reason Hermione hired her. Not a strand of Olivia's smart, ebony bob was ever out of place and wrinkles on her clothes were, to her mind, punishable by death. She was quite pretty, but she had a dreadfully frosty exterior. She never hesitated to arch her perfectly sculpted eyebrow or purse her lips with icy displeasure whenever someone screwed up, and she basically terrified everyone in the office. But she was fiercely loyal to Hermione, and Hermione trusted her implicitly with work matters, so it was hard to believe that Olivia was as frigid as everyone said she was. Half the time Olivia nagged her about things was because Olivia actually seemed to care.

“I have to get this note,” Hermione said. “I'll help you with those as soon as I'm done.”

“I've got this,” said Olivia in her crisp, businesslike manner. “You have to leave soon if you want to make it to your appointment with Headmistress Kenly. You're driving to Angelica's school today, remember? Parking Pass and everything?”

Right. “I remember.” She took the note from Pig and set the tiny owl down on her desk, petting it to calm it down.

Olivia nodded, her smart, ebony bob unruffled in the least. “And you do have to get to that meeting on time so can make it to tonight's—“

“Yes, yes… like I need reminding about that.”

Olivia turned her nose up but looked neither pleased nor offended. “I'll clean up in your office as soon as you leave. Best not leave that Owl sitting around when you're gone, else I'll make Owl pudding of it.”

Pig gave a shriek, possibly understanding what Olivia said, and Hermione had to calm him down again.

Olivia made for the door, paused, and made the slightest, barely noticeable adjustment to the sculpture placed on the pedestal before leaving.

Hermione stifled a sigh and hastily opened the note.

~~

Wasn't the sword. ~~Ron

~~

Hermione sighed. She knew it.

Seven years.

Seven years and they still couldn't find Excalibur. Really, it felt pointless to keep looking. It was lost, and it was gone, but wherever it was, Hermione sincerely doubted it would be in any danger of being destroyed, or used for evil.

She just wished she had it handy.

You know, just in case the Priestesses of Avalon come knocking on my door, asking me to cough up their sword…

She moaned miserably. Remembering all those years ago when she asked Ron about Excalibur.

He had paled, like he was going to be sick, and he stammered for a reply. She knew, even before his sad explanation tumbled from his lips, that in the chaos of battle, finding out Harry was dead, and whisking off her barely breathing body to St. Mungo's, Ron had completely forgotten about it.

Ron Weasley had forgotten about King Arthur's sword.

She had been positively furious. She couldn't fathom how Ron could be so gone of his senses that he would forget about the most important sword in the history of man. Of course, this was Ron, but still. She had adamantly ordered him to find the sword—ask the Aurors, or anyone from the Order; the imprisoned Death Eaters even, if they had happened to see a sword lying around the site of the attack.

“And whatever you do, don't tell them it's Excalibur!” she had hissed. She was so annoyed, more so because she couldn't go looking for the sword with him. She was trapped in the hospital. There was nothing she could do.

Ron had no success in the matter, of course, and when she was allowed to leave St. Mungo's, she wasn't much help, either.

They had been looking for the sword ever since, following leads here and there, unable to out-rightly ask for help for fear that everyone would think them insane. They had, after all, kept secrets about Horcruxes, Avalon, and the sword itself.

Their searches in the last three years were half-hearted and far between. They had both lost a great degree of hope, following leads by rote rather than with enthusiasm.

Still, she couldn't help but let that nagging voice persist.

One doesn't just lose King Arthur's sword…

But having thought it the last seven and a half years, she was finally beginning to accept that she had.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione tapped her foot somewhat impatiently, chancing a glance at her watch.

When she looked up, the headmistress was eyeing her.

“Am I keeping you from something, Ms. Granger?” brand, spanking newly appointed Headmistress Kenly asked.

Hermione took in the straight-backed, shoulder padded, and perfectly made-up appearance of the woman behind the desk and surmised that the woman would be about as pleased about hearing cheek as Headmistress McGonagall would be.

“No,” said Hermione somewhat blandly. “Not at all.”

Headmistress Kenly nodded. “Good. Or else one would think the welfare of Angelica Grace isn't your primary concern.”

How Hermione mustered a smile, even a small one, without hexing the pearls off of the Headmistress would forever remain a mystery. “I was told Angelica's gotten herself in trouble again.”

“Yes. She got into a tussle with Connor Wilson, a boy in her class. By the boy's account, she punched him in the nose then pushed him, bumping his head quite hard against the wall. If it weren't for his injuries, I wouldn't have believed that such a little girl could overpower someone so large.”

Hermione sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Least she didn't think about inflating him… like the last classmate…

“Little witch's more like it,” Hermione muttered.

“Pardon me?”

“Nothing. Did she say why she did it?”

“I hardly think it matters anymore, Ms. Granger. This is the fourth incident in six months.”

“Yes, but you must know she gets provoked—especially that one time she called Ms. Emerson a stupid cow…” Hermione snickered momentarily, but upon seeing that Headmistress Kenly was not amused, she stifled her laughter and went on, straight-faced. “Her classmates tease her other friends and she defends them—“

“Which brings me to the more important point.”

The seriousness of Headmistress Kenly's voice actually made Hermione's stomach flip.

They're going to expel her. I know they will… Oh, LORD!

Perhaps seeing how terrified she was, the Headmistress seemed to take pity. “It's not as bad as you think.” She pulled out a chart and stood it up on her desk for Hermione to see. Hefting a pointer, she guided her attention to the upper portion of the linear graph. “Students with superior IQ are leveled here on the chart. This graph is updated, and as you can see, there are a very select few who make the superior grade.” She then rested her pointer past the drawn graph, a few inches above the highest point. “Angelica Grace is here.”

Hermione's eyebrow arched, knowing exactly what the Headmistress meant, and for the first time in her life considered playing dumb. It served no purpose, though, so she resigned herself to the inevitable truth. “Off the charts. Yes, haha, I get its figurative and literal meaning. Clever…”

The Headmistress was not amused.

Hermione, seeing that she wasn't going to fool anyone in this office, finally gave a defeated sigh. She knew this about Angelica, of course, but she didn't really think that her daughter being “too smart” was ever going to be a problem in school—or at least she hoped it wasn't going to be a problem. She waved her hand dismissively. “Yes, well, tell me something I don't know…”

“Angelica Grace is a gifted child, Ms. Granger,” said the Headmistress without batting an eyelash, even as she set the cardboard presentation aside. “She is acting up because those around her simple annoy her. Her uncanny genius makes her a target for her more average classmates, and since she is, after all emotionally six years old, she reacts accordingly. She belongs in a more enriching environment; in a school that specializes in children like her.”

Hermione grit her teeth, her defenses going up instantly. She took deep, calming breaths. “Inglewood is the best Grammar school in London. 93 percent of your students gain admittance into the most elite prep schools—“

“Yes, but that is beside the point—“

“Can't you just advance her lessons? Give her prep-school level—“

“Ms. Granger, we haven't the technical expertise necessary to teach someone like Angelica Grace—“

“Oh, you don't know the half of it.”

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing. It's not your fault, and I really do appreciate the concern you have for Angelica's academic development, but I'd really like for her to develop within a normal, healthy environment—“

“There are two parts to this, Ms. Granger. There's the child's academic development and there's her emotional development. Some parents of gifted children opt to send their children straight to University, but I do not recommend that course of action at all. University brings with it exposure to adult things that a six year old cannot possibly be emotionally ready to cope with—“

“I won't dump her in a University campus, if that's what you're worried about.”

The headmistress was not deterred. “I happened to review her file in the database, and I am frankly aghast that the previous Headmaster did not appear to address this issue before. Angelica Grace's file clearly states that you sent her once to Devon Science and then to Saint Vante's School for the Gifted, but your pulled her out both times. The records showed no indication of expulsion or… disciplinary issues that would—erm, merit any kind of removal.”

“Right,” Hermione muttered.

“Yet you removed her from both institutions voluntarily. If I had been headmistress at the time of her admittance, I would have flatly refused to admit her and sent her back to either Devon Science or Saint Vante's.”

If you had been headmistress, then it would've been YOUR memory that Tonks altered…

Headmistress Kenly continued. “It is my recommendation now that you readmit her to either school. She needs a special school, where her genius can be properly nurtured in the company of children her age. She is gifted. She must be with gifted children.”

Hermione sighed and leaned back tiredly on her seat. “Right. Headmistress, are you going to expel my daughter?”

Headmistress Kenly blinked, caught off-guard by the question. “Well, I can't quite do that—not without reason, and I certainly can't tell the Board of Education that I expelled her for being too intelligent. This school accepted her, and because of that, she and the school are bound by the rules and standards of the charter—rules and standards which she is yet to break badly enough for the school to justify expulsion. However, her behavior lately certainly merits the question of whether she would get worse—“

Hermione groaned and rubbed at her eyes. “Look, she's a good girl, and believe me, I do make her take responsibility for her actions, for whatever reason she gets in trouble for, but she's six, and she couldn't possibly be any worse than those bullies who torment her friends—“

“Most of her behavior, I agree, could be corrected by detention, but this last one was rather alarming. Connor Wilson was unconscious for almost a minute, and when he woke, the nurse recommended a thorough medical examination of his injuries to his personal physician.”

Hermione's eyes widened. “Good lord, is he alright?” she asked with true concern.

Headmistress Kenly's expression softened. “I believe the nurse was just being cautious. I think he will be fine, but Angelica Grace's… show of force still concerns me.”

“It won't happen again, I swear it,” Hermione said distractedly. “Just please don't expel her. Suspend her, if you must, but—“

“Ms. Granger,” began the Headmistress soothingly. “As of this moment, I am more inclined to recommend keeping her in school and off the streets.” She smiled somewhat good-humoredly. “But it still doesn't change the fact that she needs to be in a school for the gifted—“

Hermione felt so relieved that she couldn't even be bothered to fuss over what school Angelica belonged to. “Yes, well, I've made my decision on that. I'm not moving her to another school—for the gifted or otherwise.”

At that, the Headmistress's expression became neutral once more. “I urge you to reconsider. Talk it over with others who would have Angelica Grace's best interests at heart.”

Hermione wasn't sure why the Headmistress words made her bristle. “Others?”

The Headmistress seemed to redden, perhaps realizing that she had spoken out of turn. “I am sorry. It was not my place to tell you how your decisions should be made.”

Hermione didn't quite want to let it go. She gave a noncommittal shrug. “I'm just curious, really. When you say others, who is it that you mean exactly?”

Headmistress Kenly looked terribly uncomfortable, but she never came across as a coward. She owned up to her mistakes and she wasn't about to turn and run. “I was thinking of Mr. Granger. Perhaps you would wish to discuss it with him.”

“Mr. Granger?” Unbelievable. She gave a very tired sigh. “Are we done here?”

“Forgive me, but Angelica Grace gets dropped off at the school gates by a redheaded chap some days, and I've heard it said that he was her father.”

Hermione reddened, feeling about ready to explode. “He isn't. Angelica's father is… gone. Now, I'd like to go, if I may? I've a blind date—with someone who isn't Angelica's father. I'm not looking forward to it, but society seems to think that I have to be properly partnered. Why? I don't know. Make an honest woman of me, maybe.”

Headmistress Kenly looked truly apologetic. “I am very sorry. I did not mean to make you feel I was judging you. But be that as it may, think about what I said. You don't have to decide now. Just remember that your daughter's academic development may depend on it. If you ever change your mind, I will be glad to assist you in making the transition. As for the last incident with the Wilson boy… she'll have to serve Saturday detention this weekend, eight to twelve. She will help our janitor clean the blackboards and then help Ms. Blake, our math teacher, correct papers… not the usual fare for one her age, but well, we both know she's special. Ms. Blake shall be with her at all times. I trust that this punishment is satisfactory.”

It wasn't phrased like a question, but Hermione nodded, rising to leave. “I'll have her here on Saturday.” She turned and walked out of the office, spotting her daughter who was seated on one of the cushioned, waiting room chairs. Angelica had a magazine on her lap, but she was speaking to the receptionist. Her dark curly pigtails swished as she turned her head cutely, one way and another.

“So if a turtle doesn't have a shell, is he homeless or naked?” asked Angelica

Hermione was not amused. Sometimes, she had to wonder if her lovely little angel wasn't an imp in disguise.

The receptionist's face reddened. “Well—I—um, oh, look! It's your mother, sweetheart!”

On cue, Angelica's striking green eyes lit up. She jumped and ran to hug her mother's legs. “Mum! I was just talking to Ms. Falco about turtles. She knows so much!”

Hermione wasn't the least bit fooled. Her eyebrow arched. “I bet. Now, say goodbye to Ms. Falco.”

Turned away from the delighted gaze of Ms. Falco, Angelica made a face, knowing full well that her mother was displeased. As she turned to give Ms. Falco a wave goodbye, she was smiling brightly again, as if nothing was wrong. She followed her mother outside.

Hermione said nothing, taking Angelica's hand as they maneuvered their way out of the school doors. They came out to the front yard where there were still several students either waiting for their rides home or talking animatedly to one another about something or other. Most of the younger students were already gone. The preteens that did litter the front of the school gave her only the slightest notice, the way kids looked at adults like they were invaders from some other world.

Hermione ignored them all, briskly leading Angelica to the parking lot. The car, a shiny black hybrid—because God forbid Hermione would ever own anything that guzzled petrol—had been bought for one thing, and one thing only: So Angelica wouldn't be stuck with the mum who wouldn't participate in the PTA-sponsored carpool. And since the school knew she owned a car, it would be too suspicious not to have it when Hermione had to show up in school for a parent-Headmistress meeting.

As soon as she and Angelica were buckled in, with Angelica riding in the back, Hermione started the car and rolled out of the parking lot, driving out of the school and into the London streets. She switched on the CD player. Classical music began to pipe through the speakers.

“Mum?” Angelica said worriedly.

Hermione tapped the steering wheel, assessing her feelings for a few seconds. “I'm really angry.” It was very difficult to say it with that degree of calm, but she managed it.

“Oh,” said Angelica.

The mantle of a clueless, childlike six-year-old fell away, replaced with that extraordinary genius which seemed to prove more trial than gift at times. Angelica put the mantle on whenever she deemed fit. It was almost unnatural, but as the daughter of the two oddest persons she knew, Hermione wasn't all that surprised.

“Are you going to ground me?” asked Angelica

“I don't know. I've certainly tried that before. Maybe I should just hang myself, or jump off a cliff.”

Angelica paused, eyebrows knotting in deep thought. “Mum, it's so hard to tell when you're joking, sometimes.”

Hermione cast her daughter a weary glare. “If i were one of your teachers, I might fall for that act, but I am your mother, therefore I know you very-well understand the extent of my irritation now. I am supremely upset with you, but I have more sense than to let my anger kill me slowly. I'm an extremely practical person, therefore I will kill myself quickly through the aforementioned methods.”

Angelica gave a dramatic sigh. “Oh, mum, that's not funny.”

“Tell me about it.”

“'Twasn't my fault, you know,” said Angelica, pouting. “Connor was being so mean.”

“And you had to use magic to punish him. Clever.”

Angelica fell silent for a moment. “That was an accident.”

“Right. At any rate, you shouldn't have lost your temper. I swear, you inherited your father's tendency to get in trouble in spades—“

“He took dad's picture. I was showing dad to Pramilla and Milhouse, and Connor took it. He said he wasn't going to give it back.”

Hermione frowned. “It was a Muggle picture. I told you things like that could be recopied and replaced. You could have just let him take it and—“

“Did daddy really die, mum?”

Hermione was a bit shocked by the question. “What—Angelica! Of course he did! Why would I lie about something like that?”

She glanced briefly at Angelica's image on the rearview mirror. Her daughter wasn't crying, but Angelica was blinking furiously.

When Angelica stifled her tears, her sorrow was real, not pretended.

Oh, balls…

“It's just that…” Angelica paused, visibly considering her words. “Connor said that the bloke in the picture probably wasn't really my dad; that whoever my real dad was probably abandoned the both of us and I don't even know what he looks like…”

There was a sniff then all was quiet in the car.

Hermione gripped the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white. Taking a deep breath, Hermione tried to control her anger for Conner. The boy was six—probably seven years old. Children were cruel. Children were children.

“You know none of what Connor said was true,” Hermione said gently. “Your father… he never abandoned anybody. Not for anything. And he certainly wouldn't have abandoned us if he were alive. Believe me, sweetheart. Your father was a good and decent man. The best I've ever known. He would have loved us both very, very much…” Hermione had to stop talking. She didn't know if she could hold out without bursting into tears. Talk of Harry still made her quite emotional.

“I—but everyone heard him, mum. What if they believe Connor? He's the biggest boy in our year, and kids think that makes him smartest. They all think I'm weird and swotty—“

“Pramilla and Milhouse would believe you. They're your friends. Didn't you say they were smart and loyal? It's why you like going to school here. Because of them.”

Angelica seemed to ponder this briefly. “I s'pose… and even if they didn't believe, Julien would never think I was lying, would he?”

“No doubt about it. So, did you get the picture back?”

“Yes'm. Connor bent it a bit, but it's still whole.”

“Good. At least it'll be worth serving your punishment.”

Angelica sighed.

Hermione looked up at her rearview mirror, watching Angelica grumble. “Oh, yes, I haven't forgotten. Aside from your Saturday morning detention—“

Angelica groaned.

“I forbid you to go to the Beauxbatons carnival with Julien and Aunt Fleur.”

“Mum!” Angelica shrieked. “That's not fair!”

“Neither is it fair that you keep getting in trouble at school. I let it go when you were at Devon Science and Saint Vante's because you managed to convince me that you were miserable, apart from the fact that the teachers kept recommending you to be the subject for scientific research programs, but I'm taking no excuses here. This is a normal school with normal kids and you have friends that actually like you. If you wish to home-school with the Weasley children—“

“No!” Angelica cried. “I want to go to school like you and dad did!”

Good heavens, such conviction to GO to SCHOOL. She really IS my daughter! thought Hermione with secret pride.

“Then control yourself,” Hermione said curtly, masking whatever feelings of approval she had. “There will be no magical bursts—“

“I can't help those, mum!”

“Can't you?”

Angelica stared at her, open-mouthed. She was at a complete loss of her mother's unreasonable demands.

Hermione waved her own words away. “Never mind. It's not your magic than needs controlling. It's your temper. If you would just breathe and count to ten, many of these types of incidents wouldn't have happened.”

Angelica sniffed and crossed her arms over her chest petulantly. “I'll be sooo bored on Saturday.”

“No, you won't. You will do the things you usually do on Sunday, on Saturday… while Julien and Aunt Fleur are having a blast at the carnival.”

“Not fair,” Hermione heard Angelica muttering.

“Shush, before I recant my offer to take you to next month's Muggle Science Fair.”

Angelica looked shocked for a few seconds before she pursed her lips, saying nothing more.

Hermione figured that little threat would check Angelica for the duration. Hermione would have to think of a new incentive to get her explosive-tempered daughter to keep behaving.

“Mum, are you still going out tonight?”

It wasn't a subject Hermione was very happy to discuss, either, but it was better than school trouble and punishing a six year old. “Yes. I'd rather not, but since you've been nagging me about getting you a new dad…”

Angelica giggled, as if she hadn't just been punished well and good. Hermione always thought she got her mood swings from Harry.

“Oh, mum, tisn't like that…” she said affectionately.

“Yes, I know,” Hermione said dryly. “You want Uncle Ron to be your new dad.”

Angelica nodded eagerly. “He's my favorite.”

“Because he gives you candy and tricks from Uncle Fred and Uncle George's shop.”

Angelica looked pensive as she shook her head slowly. “Noooo, because he makes you laugh.”

Hermione didn't quite know what to say about that. “George and Fred make me laugh. You don't want them to be your dad.”

Angelica frowned into the rearview mirror. “They make everyone laugh. They're supposed to do that—`specially when everyone's watching. Uncle Ron makes you laugh even when it's just you two, and it's a happy, real laugh, not the store-bought kind.”

Sometimes, Angelica said the most uncomfortable things. Hermione decided to use evasive maneuvers. “Angelica Grace Granger, you sound terribly ungrateful of your Uncles George and Fred.”

“No, no, no. I'm not ungrateful! I'm just explaining why they're different from Uncle Ron.”

Right back to Uncle Ron…

“Besides,” Angelica continued. “It's not as if he wouldn't want to be my new dad. He still wants to be.”

Hermione was silent for a bit, turning what Angelica said over in her head. “He'll always be your other dad if by some freak of a miracle I find someone I'd like to be your new dad.”

Angelica shrugged. Hermione was yet to decipher what those shrugs of her meant.

They reached their townhouse in Paddington and Hermione turned the corner to get into their garage. She pressed the controls for the garage door and it wouldn't work. It always happened with the garage door. She could never get the Muggle-Electronics warding right in the garage.

“Bollocks,” Hermione muttered, jabbing her finger on the controls again and again.

Angelica gasped. “You said a bad word!”

Hermione rolled her eyes secretly, never letting on to Angelica how annoying that spiel was getting. “You're right, baby. I'm bad. I hereby punish myself and will not eat tonight's dessert.”

Angelica seemed satisfied.

Hermione was still jabbing the controls, though, and she was cursing each time in her mind's voice.

Fed up, she whipped out her wand. “Hang it!” She waved it and the garage door opened.

“Oooh, you'll get a citation for that, mum.”

“To keep my sanity? I almost think it's worth it,” she muttered.

She figured that she was only just a few inches away from the “privacy of one's magical home” as the Ministry regulations said pertaining to the use of magic in Muggle residential areas. Surely the Ministry would cut her a break.

As if on cue, the tawny owl of the Ministry's Improper Use of Magic Office flapped down from above and settled on her side-mirror, a well-familiar citation clipped in its beak.

Hermione gave a frustrated growl. “Bol—“

“Mum!”

“—lywood!” Grrr.

“Nice save!”

Hermione shoved her car door open and the owl flapped away, dropping the citation on Hermione's head and pooping on the windshield as it went.

Angelica giggled.

Hermione crumpled the citation in her fist. “Oh, what I would give to shoot that little bug—er, owl.”

Angelica pointed an accusing finger at her. “You still said it! That was sneaky, mum.”

“It's only dirty if you know what it means, now come on, and stop policing your mother.”

Angelica unbuckled her seatbelts and pushed her door open. She hopped out and slammed the door with a loud bang.

Hermione bit her lip to keep from nagging about closing car doors more gently, deciding that it was Ron's fault Angelica insisted on shutting the door so loudly. Since Harry almost fell out of the flying Ford Anglia, Ron had some kind of unholy fear of not closing the door enough, and his solution thus far was slamming it really hard.

As they entered through the back door, Hermione could hear the high-pitched whistle of a kettle. Ron was already there, waiting for them. She had given him a key, and he was free to come and go into the house as he pleased.

“We're home!” cried Hermione.

“Uncle Ron!” Angelica cried, her eyes alight as she rushed through the hallway to the kitchen.

Hermione stifled a smile as she heard Ron's affectionate, “There she is! Inglewood's Imp! Your mother punished you yet?”

“Yeah… aside from Saturday detention at school, I can't go with Julien and Aunt Fleur to the Beauxbaton carnival.”

Hermione walked in just then. Ron was shaking his head with a tragic expression on his face while Angelica sat on the high stool beside him, eating Molly's treacle tart like there was no tomorrow.

“Such cruelty, Hermione,” Ron said with affected gravity.

Hermione tossed her bag and keys on the central kitchen counter. “Oh, just wait until I can send her Howlers. Then you'll see cruelty.” She poured a glass of orange juice for herself with several flicks of her wand.

Ron hadn't changed a lot in the last seven years. He was still tall; he still ate like a bear but never gained an ounce; was still running off at the mouth; and still more likely to argue with Hermione rather than agree with her, but she had to admit that when it came to Angelica, he knew responsibility, and that really made up for many, many things.

Most of the time… Hermione added, remembering Angelica saying that Ron still wanted to be her new dad. It bothered Hermione more than she'd like to admit. Over the years, the issue between her and Ron had been a constant point of conflict, but in the last six months, Ron had shown a considerable degree of evidence that he was finally growing past that. He even joked about it once, how he had finally kicked the habit, meaning her. Hermione had thought that the fact he could joke about it so casually was actual proof of his cooling un-platonic affections.

He also had a rather serious relationship with one Sheila Thornbrush a few months ago.

Which he broke off last month… now Angelica tells me he still wants me THAT way…

She didn't know how Angelica ever knew these things, and Hermione couldn't say for sure that Angelica understood it completely, but Angelica was hardly ever mistaken about it.

“Got my note?” he asked casually.

“Yeah,” she replied.

They shared a moment's pause—a moment's futility, before they went on to do what they were doing, as if their exchange was of little significance. It wasn't, really. Each time they ended up following a false lead, it just reminded them of how intimidating not knowing was.

Well, until the next time we catch a lead…

“You still going on this blind date?” Ron asked, reminding Hermione of now and why Ron was there to baby-sit Angelica. She remembered her concerns of him and his supposedly still-existent feelings for her.

Hermione tried to be as nonchalant as she can about observing him. “Yes. In case you haven't heard, Ginny will skin me alive if I stand him up.”

Ron rolled his eyes and sat in his own stool, grabbing some treacle tart. He was unable to hide the hint of dejection that flashed in his eyes. “As if Ginny could scare you into doing anything.”

“I agreed to this because she agreed to baby sit for Angelica that one time. Come to think of it, this is your fault. If you hadn't begged off babysitting Angelica that night, I wouldn't have had to ask Ginny.”

He shot her a sardonic grimace. “Excuse me for having a social life.”

Hermione made a face.

“Besides,” Ron continued, stuffing the treacle tart in his mouth. “It isn't my fault you didn't know how to cast that charm properly when you and Harry boinked.”

Her face collapsed into a horrified scowl. “Ron!”

“She doesn't know what that means.” He looked to Angelica. “Do you, imp?”

Angelica shook her head.

“See?”

“What does `boinked' mean?” asked the imp. “It sounds like something a clown would do.”

Ron laughed. “Clown. I like that.”

Hermione shot Ron a glare before turning to Angelica. “It's an adult word, darling. It's not appropriate in civilized conversation.”

Angelica frowned. “Then why does Uncle Ron use it?”

Hermione didn't even bother to answer that question. It was too easy. Instead she shot Ron a derisive sneer. “I have to go get ready for my date.”

“You see,” Ron began with a sigh. “I can't ever win with your mum, imp. How do you do it?”

“Ron…” said Hermione in a warning tone.

Angelica flashed Ron a beatific smile. “Easy. I'm cute and I'm my father's daughter.”

Ron's amusement vanished with a scowl.

Hermione smirked. “That's my girl,” she said, smugly, as she left.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione watched—not listened—to her date babble on and on about the most insignificant things while he cracked the most inane jokes.

Chaucer Blythe was young, trimly built, dark-haired, blue-eyed, and shadowed just right around the jaw.

Man-scaped…

The suit beneath his wizard robes was crisp, classy, and up-to-date. When he smiled, he had a perfect set of teeth. When he gestured to the waiter for wine, or more cheese, Hermione could see that he had perfectly manicured hands. He did not have a wristwatch. He kept a time-piece, and it was expensive. He had flashed it out once, already, presumably to check how much time they had before Opera started.

He was an intelligent and successful wizard. Editor-in-Chief of Wizard's Compendium, only the most reputable men's style magazine this side of reality. He was also single—just divorced from his model wife—literally a runway mannequin, and Ginny had straightaway commissioned him to be Hermione's date for that evening.

Hermione had asked Ginny why she didn't just take this so-called Adonis for herself, for Ginny was none too lavish with her “perfect” men.

Ginny's reply had been, “Oh, we work too closely together, being in the fashion business and all that. It wouldn't be professional.”

Hermione's response was, “You slept with him, didn't you?”

Ginny had seemed a little offended by this. “I did not… okay, I almost did, but he was with his wife, then, and I didn't want to be anybody's mistress. Even if it's all just for fun, I like to pretend I'm looking for someone I can take seriously.”

It didn't quite answer why Ginny had passed Chaucer on to her, but Hermione was getting a clearer picture of it now. As perfect as Chaucer seemed, the man clearly wasn't over his wife yet.

He would never talk about her continuously, but his subtle injections of things that suggested female influence had Hermione thinking that his model wife still hadn't quite left the building.

Then again, maybe Hermione was just fishing for excuses to ditch her date after Opera.

So she liked Die Walkür. If she was going to hate this date, she might as well make the most out of it.

“So are the rumors about Peacock true?”

Hermione's mind snapped back to their conversation. “Pardon me?”

“Drew Peacock.”

Hermione winced inwardly, as she always did when the author's name was said like that.

Chaucer continued without batting an eyelash. “You're his book editor, aren't you? Rumor has it you're his favorite. Is he really as demanding and impossible as they say he is? Has he ever pointed Muggle firearms at you?”

Hermione organized her thoughts. If she was going to use her date for Opera tickets, the least she could do is give an involved response.

Drew Thurston Peacock, as he preferred to be addressed on his book covers, was a fiction and non-fiction author—one of the many Hermione handled as one of the more successful Senior Book Editors of WhizzHard Books. Drew was brilliant—a genius; successfully writing and publishing sophisticated pseudo-magic fiction like the Rune saga (four thick tomes so far) and the Echo's Castle trilogy. His non-fiction books delved in ancient history, seeped in political intrigue. All his books were successful, and he was WhizzHard Books's official cash cow, but he was notoriously difficult to work with, mostly because he was stubborn, eccentric, completely unafraid of authority, and had a chip on his shoulder the size of England regarding his dreadful name. He had two infamous collections: First were the guns, thanks to his Muggle father, who used to hunt deer professionally until an agitated elk charged him in the hunt, pushing him off the slope of a hill, and effectively breaking his neck on the way down. Drew's second collection involved elk heads, for gruesomely obvious reasons. He'd been known to point the barrel of his gun down (or up) the noses of dissenting book editors in the past, as a result of which he was passed on from one book editor to another. He was handed over to Hermione five years ago, and for some reason she couldn't readily explain, he had stuck with her, and appeared to like her.

“Drew's… eccentric,” Hermione said somewhat uneasily. “And he has never pointed his guns at me, no.”

“How can you stand him? I met him in a luncheon, once. He's an ornery bastard, that.”

“Well, not that ornery,” she said, stamping down her rising temper. Drew could be impossible at times, but she had certainly grown to have some kind of fondness for him, much as she hated to admit it. Chaucer was certainly making her work for those opera tickets. “We're both professionals. We do what we have to do to finish the book.”

“Ah, yes. He's on his fourth book in the Rune series, isn't he?”

Hermione pursed her lips. “It's a saga, and he's on his fifth. The much anticipated Rune Charmer. Preceded by Rune Writer, Rune Dancer, Rune Singer, and Rune Keeper. His grasp of Alchemy and existential Arithmancy in the writing of all these books is extraordinary. Just when you think he's gotten something wrong, he proves to everyone he's right. The problem with his former editors was that they didn't know enough about Alchemic and Arithmantic theory to understand where he was headed, so they all thought he was committing mistakes, when in fact he was laying down the correct foundation. I happen to be the only one intelligent enough to be on the same page with him.”

Chaucer stared at her ever so briefly. “Okay.”

Think of those opera tickets…

Hermione flashed him a bright smile. “I'm sorry. I'm very passionate about my work.”

“Evidently,” said Chaucer. He didn't sound that much appeased.

Their dinner arrived, and Hermione tried to be more pleasant. She thought she succeeded quite well, but when it was time to have dessert, a waiter came by, telling him that there was a gentleman at the door asking for Chaucer—that it was an emergency.

Hermione watched Chaucer excuse himself to attend to the said gentleman. She said there, mildly confused as she turned this strange interruption over in her mind. When she saw Chaucer heading back, she knew what was coming before he told her.

“I'm sorry, Hermione, but that was Leon, my personal assistant. He just told me there's been—“

“A family emergency,” she finished for him, piercing her strawberry shortcake quite forcefully. “You better go. It must be serious.”

“I'm sorry,” he said apologetically as he left in a hurry.

Moments later, a waiter came by with a bottle of wine and the opera tickets she had been whoring herself for in the last hour. The wine and dinner had been paid, and the waiter had instructions to take whatever other order she wished to make.

She sighed and took some of the wine, but she asked that the tickets be given to someone else that might be interested—she didn't quite care to whom.

After she downed two glasses of wine, she packed up for home.

It wasn't very late, but Angelica should've been packed off to bed by then. Ron was still up, naturally, and he had switched on the television, a Muggle device he enjoyed from time to time.

She hung her coat up on the rack and set her wine bottle aside. Ron was watching Roman Holiday on one of the movie channels, and he looked up at her questioningly.

“You're home early,” he said.

She sniffed and summoned her dignity. “He had a family emergency.”

Ron blinked several times to process this then he made a face. “Ouch.”

“Yeah.” She dropped to the couch beside him. “He gave me wine, though, and opera tickets. Paid for dinner, too.”

“Classy of him—I mean, apart from the fact that he ditched you.”

“Yeah.”

“You should've taken the rest of the wine and used the opera tickets.”

She shot him a glare. “I'm a ditched date, not Eurotrash.”

“I wonder what Gin'll say to you when she finds out.”

“Probably chew my head off for being less fanciable than my usually more fanciable self.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Need Angelica to be dropped off at school tomorrow morning?”

“No. I'll do it,” she replied. “You've done enough.”

Ron's gaze darted sharply to her.

Defensively, she pursed her lips. She hadn't meant to say that last bit, and she'd like to think she meant no malice in it, but with Ron looking at her the way he did, she couldn't help but wish she had been more prudent in her word choice. She wasn't in any mood to soothe Ron's rather sensitive feelings for her.

“What the hell's that supposed to mean?” he asked, scowling.

“Nothing.”

“No, what?”

“It didn't mean anything. Just that you've already helped above and beyond the call of duty. Know what I mean?”

His face reddened with hurt rage. “Perfectly.” He got up to leave.

“Ron, don't walk out of here angry. I didn't mean anything by what I said.”

He looked back at her irritably. “Can't I ever do anything for you and Angelica without being suspected of wanting something in return?”

Hermione frowned, holding her temper. “Look, this argument is silly, but if you're going to bring up things like that while you're at it, I'm warning you, Ron, it's not going to be pretty when I start running off at the mouth.”

Ron glared. “And what makes you think I haven't heard the worse of it from you, Hermione? I can't even begin to count the number of times you've told me to stop trying to be like Harry. Or the number of times you've reminded me that I'm not Angelica's father—as if I could forget.”

She sighed and threw up her hands in surrender. “Alright, then. The truth is, maybe some subconscious part of me remembered what Angelica told me this afternoon in the car. She said you still think of me in that way. Is that true?”

The silence that followed and the deepening red on his face was confirmation enough.

“Oh, Ron!” she moaned miserably. “We've gone over this!”

“I couldn't help what I feel!” he yelled desperately. “And how does she do that, anyway? How does the little imp know—“

“That's beside the point! Have you been lying to me all this time? Did you really go on those dates with those women? Were the women even real?”

Ron shot her a sneer. “Oh, stop being so full of yourself. Of course they were real! And I did go out on dates with them!”

“So—what, you just used Sheila Thornbrush as some kind of pretend girlfriend. Did she know you were pretending?”

Ron glared at her. “Oooh, Hermione… you know I love you, but sometimes you can be a real bitch, you know that?” He turned and headed for the door.

She pursed her lips, watching him go. He stopped beneath the entryway of the living room and turned to look at her.

“Sheila Thornbrush was a nice girl with a big heart. I really tried with her, you know, but she joined the Peace Corps. She had to go to Africa. That's why we broke up.”

Hermione stared at him, speechless.

“So you can just stop thinking it was about you, alright?” He finally turned and left.

The door slammed shut.

Hermione then collapsed back on the couch and closed her eyes, tired.

There was a shuffle coming from the top of the stairs to the bedrooms. Hermione looked up and saw Angelica sitting at the topmost step, rubbing her eyes sleepily.

She yawned. “What're you fightin' `bout this time?”

Sighing, Hermione dragged herself from the couch and up the steps. “Did we wake you, love?”

Angelica nodded.

Hermione picked her up and Angelica instinctively curled around her mother, burying her face in the crook of her mother's shoulder.

“You fight lots,” Angelica whispered. “So I understand why you don't want him as my new daddy…”

Hermione smiled a bit, kissing Angelica's forehead. “You are your father's daughter.”

Angelica just snuggled closer.

Hermione put her back to bed, pulling the covers over Angelica and tucking the comforter around her. “Sweet dreams, baby. Don't you worry yourself about me and Uncle Ron. We'll make up. We always do.”

Angelica nodded and almost instantly dozed back to sleep.

Hermione pushed some of the dark curls off Angelica's forehead and found her eyes settling on one of the pictures on Angelica's bed stand.

It was a Wizarding picture of her, Harry, and Ron. It had been Christmas, when they were supposed to be seventh years. It was George who took the picture. There was mistletoe above them, and of course, that meant kisses all around. Harry, ever the gentleman, scooped her into his arms and pecked a kiss on her cheek, which she returned heartily, along with a warm hug. They danced a bit under the mistletoe, giggling, before she turned to get her kiss from Ron. Ron had made such a sour face that it made her scowl just as fiercely. He eventually dropped a kiss on her cheek, and she did the same, both of them doing so reluctantly.

Hermione chuckled. So telling…

Her eyes roved to her daughter's dresser. It was a mess, and with her nerves so frayed, she needed to put something—anything in order.

She sat at the dresser, flicked on the table light, and started clearing the tabletop. Books, parchments, quills, and notebooks were piled over unused barrettes, broken-toothed combs, strung beads, and one or two hand mirrors.

Hermione arranged the books, quills, and parchment on the study desk nearby, then she started putting order to the dresser, throwing away the toothless combs and sweeping the barrettes in their little decorative boxes tucked neatly in the dresser's drawers.

Opening the top-most drawer, she started putting away the mirrors in it—adding to the ever-growing collection. The mirrors were mostly smudged and scattered all over. Some had come with dolls, as toy accessories, and others had come with the combs as a set. Her daughter, with the bushy, unmanageable hair, always broke her combs.

Underneath the cheap, plastic-encased mirrors were a couple of elegant antique-set ones—baby-shower gifts, two of many gifts she received from strangers and family alike, from way back when Angelica was only just a life inside her.

Hermione picked one up, slid it out of its pouch, and snapped it open. Holding the mirror close to her eye just where the light fell on it, she randomly began to look for wrinkles.

You're only twenty-five—twenty-six in a few months. There won't be any wrinkles…

And even if the wrinkles were there, Harry wouldn't have cared…

Her thoughts began to drift anew and she looked up at the large mirror mounted on the dresser. She saw a woman with perfectly coifed hair, perfect make-up, and maybe even the perfect first-date dress.

Under the layers of “perfection,” Hermione knew she hadn't changed all that much. When she washed her face, undid the clip in her hair, and shed her clothing, she was still the plain, bushy-haired, often inflexible bookworm.

People have called her pretty, on occasion, usually when she had to dress up and play nice for galas and book launchings.

The gossip magazines were generous enough to call her “stylish” and “well-dressed” in the rare occasion her boss managed to convince her to show up for media social events legitimized as charities and benefits. She only ever went for the cause: Orphans, Free Magical Education for Impoverished Children, Feeding the Hungry. She was yet to get invited to an Elven Rights benefit—a cause no one has bothered to help her with.

She wrote and submitted articles, mostly in criticism of Ministry leadership and red tape—most of them were published in the Quibbler, and the occasional public-uproar of Ministry policy forced the Daily Prophet into publishing her opinion, usually when—on rare instances—she actually took the opposite of public opinion and saw things from the Ministry's perspective. She wrote and submitted papers to I'M of Magic, Independent Magazine of Magic—the Wizarding world's equivalent to the Muggles' Scientific Journal. They were almost always enthusiastically accepting of her research, most of which the more commercial publications had out-rightly rejected.

She had established a reputation she valued, and these were things she would've been if Harry were still alive.

Just like I promised…

She often asked herself what would've happened if he hadn't made her promise. Would she have done as much in her life?

Most days, she believed she would have, but when the overwhelming, near-debilitating sadness of having lost Harry overcame her, she could certainly imagine how her life could have ended up in ruins—or at least in mediocrity, because even now, so long after his death, she still felt the devastating effects. She wasn't quite sure if it was mostly the guilt of having him jump in front of her to take the killing curse or the maddening, unending what-ifs. All she knew was that sometimes, she missed him so much that she would dream of him alive and with them—her and Angelica, and then end up being woken by her tears.

She instantly closed her mind to those melancholy thoughts. She was spiraling downward, and her night was depressing enough.

“Lord,” she muttered to herself in disgust.

She finished tidying up what remained of the mess on the dresser in haste before she finally stood and left to retire to her room.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Between her hands, the pages of an ancient diary crackled; stained blank pages of secret after secret…

The feather quill quivered, rising from its inkwell and a drop of black hung precariously at its flinted tip.

The ink fell, blossoming on the paper like a dark flower.

~~

Hello there, Angelica…

~~

Her name disappeared, the page drying beneath her fingertips.

Not a trace…

The windowpanes shook violent and it flew open with a rogue wind, knocking the inkbottle over.

It bled all over the pages, its black, glossy coat seeping to form swirling visions of two men, one dead and the other in the throes of defeat.

The first burst into flames, reduced to ashes and receding into the wind like a black phoenix in flight. The other screamed horrendously as he collapsed within himself, skin stretching over skull and bones, life withering into overdue decay.

The book slammed shut and the wind picked up—a howling gale that took everything with it, far from her reach; questions unanswered.

~~

Angelica woke, and she saw, beneath the crack of her door, that the lights were only just being put out beyond her door. She could hear her mother's footsteps receding, and she heard the careless closing of a latch.

She hadn't had that dream in ages.

Angelica sat up in bed, wondering, and realizing as her eyes adjusted to the darkness that her mother had put order to the disarray of her dresser.

She frowned a moment, thoughtful.

It's gone now. Can't feel it.

The dream wasn't going to come back.

She thought maybe the wards needed strengthening, anyway.

Decided, she tucked herself back into bed, closing her eyes.

She did not dream of the speaking book again.

TBC

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: Like I said, this is definitely H+Hr. This isn't going to be like Paracelsus's Restoring Hope—which is brilliant and all things wonderful. If you haven't read it, you must read it, but be assured that I won't be stealing any of the clever ideas of that fic in the least. So there will be no helpful portraits, and the HHr won't be (SPOILER WARNING FOR RESTORING HOPE) strictly confined to flashbacks.

Until the next chapter!

-->

A/N: Here you go, kids. Hope you like it!

And Tome Raider always gets the details right! ^_^ You're the best.

Standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter Ten: Must Be a Full Moon

Hermione looked up from her newspaper and saw that Fleur Delacour-Weasley had arrived.

Fleur looked terribly neutral, especially with her huge designer dark glasses, as she sat across from Hermione for brunch. She set her bag on the third seat with a pointed flourish.

Hermione thought Fleur hadn't looked this intimidating since she and her coven of gorgeous girls and pretty boys first sashayed down the halls of Hogwarts.

“Ginny said she will not come today,” said Fleur, folding her hands primly on her lap.

Hermione sighed, folding her paper and setting it aside. “She's pissed about my date last night, isn't she? And you're taking her side on this one. Great. Of course you would. Chaucer Blythe was perfect.”

Fleur flagged a waiter and asked for coffee to start. She then snootily told the waiter to come back in five minutes to take their orders. The waiter most willingly complied, casting Fleur longing glances as he left.

Hermione had to watch and wait for Fleur to remove her immaculate gloves, her glasses, and then smooth her perfectly businesslike robes and suit into perfect crimps, before she settled her elbows primly on the table to talk.

“I am not taking her side,” Fleur said. “I take no sides unless I believe in ze cause, and zese is not a cause I believe in—zis throwing men at you to date. I think it is about as tasteful as Dolores Umbridge's fashion sense, so unlike ze rest of ze Wizarding World, I feel no need to pair you wiz anyone you do not wish to be paired wiz. What concerns me is zat you are getting addicted to being un'appy.”

Hermione stared at her, open-mouthed. This was too much to take in at once. And Fleur had only just arrived! “Excuse me?”

“You are wallowing in your misery. Ze angst of it gives you some kind of satisfaction—like self-inflicted punishment.”

Hermione frowned. “I absolutely resent that!”

“Of course you do. Ze truth is sometimes unpleasant. I know all about unpleasant truths. For instance, I still will not accept zat Bill will never wake up, even if it `as been a bit over seven years. We sometimes do not like to listen to certain truths. It does not make us bad people—only miserable ones.”

Hermione sighed. She knew, at least, that Fleur wasn't just talking about her now. In the last few years, Hermione realized that Fleur was quite capable of talking about Bill's coma nonchalantly enough, injecting it in casual conversation, but Fleur didn't like talking about her feelings concerning it. She was never ashamed to say it made her sad, or miserable, but she refused to appear broken, which said a lot about Fleur, even if Hermione wasn't sure it was healthy.

It was perhaps why she and Fleur had gotten along so well the last few years. Unlike all of Fleur's other women acquaintances—especially the Weasley ones—who seemed to think having emotional discussions about it would make her feel better, Hermione never pushed. Hermione sent Bill fresh flowers and chocolates at their house every few weeks. She could tell Fleur appreciated this greatly, and while Hermione liked to drop by Fleur's house, usually with Angelica with her, her visits to Bill were never made heavy by melancholy talk of what could have been.

In turn, Fleur never nagged Hermione of finding Angelica a new father, so this little tirade of Fleur's was a bit of a surprise. In fairness to Fleur, she hardly ever moralized, so really, Hermione could stand to listen to her during the rare occasion that she did.

Still, what Fleur was saying now as very hard to swallow.

Taking a deep breath, Hermione tried to compose herself and looked over the menu calmly as she spoke. “Is that what you really think, Fleur? That I want to be miserable?”

Fleur shrugged one shoulder elegantly, picking up the menu as she did so. “Eet is easier zan finding true `appiness.”

“I'm very happy. Angelica is all I need.”

Fleur's eyebrow lifted from behind her dark glasses. “Such bullshit will not work on me. I am practically a single mother myself. Losing ze man you love leaves a painful void, no matter how much we love our children.”

Hermione pursed her lips momentarily. “I do not need a man to make me happy.”

“I should certainly `ope not, but zere is no shame in wanting to `ave someone to love like zat again.”

“Good lord, Fleur! You're relentless today!”

“I am sorry if it makes you uncomfortable, but it is ze truth, and someone `ad to say it properly. Everyone keeps telling you: Find a boyfriend! Find a new daddy for Angelica! Zey are all ee-diots. Zey are missing ze point completely. I, `owever, `ave `it it right on the mark. You are a woman full of love to give and you need to share it wiz someone special. Zat is what you need to do. Mon dieu! Do I `ave to be both ze beauty and brains of zis family? I pretend to be ze dumb blonde, just to make it easier for everybody else, yet no one uses zeir heads, and so I am forced to showcase my devastating perfection. It is no longer my fault zat everyone appears ugly and stupid compared to me.” Fleur set the menu down with a slap, grabbing the glass of water to cool down with.

Hermione knew that Fleur was not being sarcastic. Fleur was dead serious—her vanity was, after all, legendary, but Hermione could never hate Fleur for it, even if at times like this, Hermione had to remind herself, “Fleur has many, many wonderful qualities that make up for her spectacularly healthy ego.”

It was true—in every way. The kindness in Fleur's heart was sincere and warm underneath the cool exterior, she was fiercely loyal, she never forgot things like birthdays or your favorite kinds of flowers, and she liked making things for her loved ones, like beautifully decorated cupcakes, edible invitations, embroidered handkerchiefs and scarves, or shimmering, delicious angel-shaped cookies.

However, when Fleur did bust out the vanity, Hermione had to search deep within her memories to remind herself that she actually did have a true, loving affection for Fleur.

This was one of those times, and checking any caustic remark that may have flown from her lips, Hermione chose one of the safest replies. “I don't know what to say.”

“It does not matter. I only wish for you to zink about it. And ze truth is Ginny did not skip lunch because of your failed date with Chaucer. I do not zink she knows of it yet. She skipped lunch because she `ad some shopping to attend to—something about a fashion show she was invited to at ze last minute.”

“Oh.”

“I am sure, `owever, zat when she finds out what `appened, she will be quite annoyed with you. She did mention zat she talked to Ron zis morning—and she said `e seemed upset about some-zing. Did you two fight again?”

“Wow. No other guess? Is that the only reason anybody can think of that could possibly get Ron upset?”

Fleur's gaze didn't flinch in the least.

At that point, Hermione didn't know what was worse—being miserable or being predictable.

“It was a stupid argument,” she muttered.

“I am shocked.”

Hermione glared at Fleur for a bit. “And I found out he still has feelings for me.”

“Again, I am shocked.”

Hermione stared at her incredulously. “Why am I the only one upset by this?”

“You are not ze only one. I shall wager zat `e is upset by it as well—probably more so. It must be terribly upsetting to be in love wiz you.”

“Now, you're just being unkind. Not everyone can be as charming and beautiful as you, Fleur.”

Fleur's facial expression softened. “'Ermione, my dear, I know my loveliness can be terribly intimidating, but what I said `ad nothing to do with your `charm' and `good looks'.”

“I like how you say charm and good looks like they were in open-closed quotations.”

Fleur dismissed her snark with a mildly impatient wave of her hand. “All I mean is zat `e is not ze only one `ung up on someone `e cannot `ave.”

Hermione frowned. “I'm not hung up on Harry!”

“I dizn't even say `Arry's name.”

“Right! But that's what you were zink—er, thinking!!”

Fleur paused, a thoughtful look on her face. “My dear, I was recently informed that you `ave a picture of `im in ze Muggle refrigerator, where you keep ze eggs, and you spelled it so no one but you would see. Zis is the main reason I brought up your addiction to misery.”

Hermione's eyes widened, feeling her face grow hot. “Who told!” she demanded.

“Angelica told Julien, and Julien told his grandmother, and Molly told me. Do not worry. Molly zid not tell Ginny. Merlin knows, zat girl is exasperated enough of you as it is.”

“I'm just everyone's little project, aren't I?”

“It is ze only thing zat makes you interesting.”

The waiter brought the breadbasket and Hermione took a piece. “Ah, yes. I keep forgetting how utterly blasé I could be.”

“I joke. People like to `elp other people to make zem feel good about zemselves. Zar are worse ways to feel good, so you must not take it against zem. Zey are zinking of you, and it is not `ealthy to `ave your ex-boyfriend's face—“

“Father of my child,” Hermione corrected.

“Comme il faut! It is not `ealthy to `ave the father of your child's face pasted on ze egg-rack.”

It actually gave Hermione pause.

“When you say it that way, it does sound wrong,” she grumbled. “If I had known that I would hear nothing but lectures from you this morning, I would've faked a headache.”

“Zat is to get out of sex, cherie. Ze only excuse I will accept for you to miss brunch is getting run over by ze Knight Bus.”

Hermione sighed, buttering her toast. “One can only hope.”

“Getting run over by a trolley is not glamorous,” Fleur said absentmindedly as she summoned the waiter back to take their orders.

If Hermione thought getting expelled was worse than death, Fleur thought looking unglamorous was the worse possible fate.

The waiter returned and he took their orders. Fleur stopped lecturing after that, reverting conversation to French artists, English playwrights, and a Bulgarian Bonbon who just happened to be on the cover of the latest issue of Which Broom.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Olivia popped her head through Hermione's office door. “Ms. Weasley is at the Floo. She sounds upset. Should I tell her you're out?”

Good ole Olivia…

“I'd love it if you did that, but I'll take her Floo, anyway. Might as well get all the scolding over with in one day…” Hermione was sure she sounded as tired as she felt. Dragging her bottom out of her seat, she trudged to her in-office fireplace.

Olivia's eyebrow shot up questioningly, but did not voice her inquiries. Nodding, she disappeared to transfer Ginny's Floo.

Hermione settled on the comfortable sofa chair as her fireplace burst to life. Ginny materialized through the green flames, a deep scowl casting scary shadows on her face.

“How did your shopping go?” Hermione chimed, a smile pasted on her lips.

“I can't believe you ruined your date with Chaucer,” Ginny said. “Do you even realize how eligible he is?”

Hermione matched her scowl. “Did he forget to tell you that he was the one with the family emergency?”

“Ugh, I couldn't even begin to imagine how horrible you must have been. He wouldn't give any details. He's too nice for that, but to think he actually admired you before the date! Now, he doesn't even want to talk about you!”

“Now, wait a minute. I was in my best behavior! Especially because I wanted to see that opera!”

“The opera! Oh, I see. Never mind that he's good-looking, self-made, intelligent, and an overall nice guy. You were nice to him for opera tickets! Now it makes absolutely no sense why he ditched you.”

The sarcasm was palpable.

When Ginny said it like that, it made Hermione feel wretched about her behavior.

This was a whole new perspective that Hermione hadn't bothered to give thought to until now. She bit her lip for an anxious moment. “Could he tell? Lord, that's embarrassing. I think he could. He left me the opera tickets after all…”

“Goodness, I don't know, Hermione. He didn't say. Argh! You're impossible, you know that?”

“You're not the first Weasley to say so, believe me.”

“I believe you!”

With that, Ginny disappeared from the Floo in an explosive puff of green smoke and soot.

It was the Wizarding equivalent of slamming a phone down, except that it was ten times as unpleasant. Hermione had to get a wet wipe to clean the soot from her nose and she had to Scourgify the stains from her suit.

She rose and went back to her desk just as the department director walked through her door.

He was middle-aged man with graying hair. He was small of frame and quite thin. He wore conservative black robes and a quirky red bowtie. His kind eyes masked the killer-instinct that merited him the directorship in their prestigious little publishing house. Although he claimed to be glad that he got sorted into Ravenclaw, rather than Slytherin, like his father, there was that bit of Slytherin in him, still.

Olivia trailed after him looking severely displeased. “Mr. Shrewdbury is here to see you,” she said, as if it wasn't already obvious enough.

“It's Shrewsbury, actually,” said the director, scowling.

“Oh,” said Olivia dryly. “Shrewsbury. My mistake.”

Before Olivia could say anything else, Hermione hastily interrupted. “Erm, thanks, Olivia. I can take it from here.”

Olivia left in a huff.

Hermione gestured for her boss to sit, and they settled in their seats, her desk between them.

Mr. Shrewsbury looked pensive for a moment before he spoke. “A budding new author has requested your expertise and I simply cannot say no.”

Hermione cast him a suspicious look. “The last time you looked like this, you assigned Drew Peacock to me.”

“Trust me when I say this author makes Mr. Peacock seem as charismatic as a Veela.”

Hermione decided to withhold her opinion about Veelas—particularly part-Veelas. “It's Rita Skeeter, isn't it? Oh, God, I've been dreading this day ever since I found out she started writing romance novels.”

“No, no. It isn't Ms. Skeeter.”

Hermione waited for him to go on. When he didn't, she said, “Any minute now.”

Mr. Shrewsbury looked chagrined. “Well, I'll just say it, then. It's Mr. Malfoy. Draco Malfoy.”

She stared at him, frozen with shock. There was a ringing in her ears and she turned absolutely red with suppressed annoyance. “And your excuse is that you cannot say no? Couldn't come up with a better one? How about he held you at wand-point? I would've believed you, you know!”

“He's on the board of directors for this year's Reader's Desk Awards. Quite a few of our pubs have been nominated, and if I may remind you—Mr. Peacock's Rune Singer is one of the nominees for Best Fantasy Fiction novel.”

Hermione seethed inwardly. “Again, you could've said he held you at wand-point!”

Mr. Shrewsbury shifted on his seat. A sure sign that he was going to take a different approach. “I read Mr. Malfoy's manuscript. It's solid content, but he isn't a natural writer, so he'll need quite a bit of help. He said that he wanted you or he'll go to another publishing house. I simply cannot pass up the chance of publishing him. His book will make a killing—I can already tell. It's about his life and times in forced service of Voldemort, from Hogwarts to the last days of the Death Eaters, to his time in Azkaban. His association with Lucius Malfoy and Bellatrix Lestrange is enough to make this book a best seller!”

Hermione pursed her lips. “Does he mention Harry?”

Mr. Shrewsbury paused. “Not in a bad way. The animosity between them is apparent, but Mr. Malfoy defers to him as some sort of annoying hero…”

“Does he mention me? Did he mention that he called me Mudblood? Are you going to let me have that printed if he does?”

Mr. Shrewsbury winced at the term, but he nodded. “Mr. Malfoy does not pretend to be a saint, if that's what you mean. Yes, he does mention that word several times, but it falls within the context of his intentions, that this is an unabridged autobiographical story. It is the main reason, after all, that he wants you to be its book editor, so that there is no doubt that the racism on paper is looked upon as a telling of his tale, rather than a blatant display at bigotry.”

“Doesn't want to lose the Muggle-born market, does he?”

“I'm quite sure that comes into play.”

“Well then, I won't do it. I refuse to do the assignment.”

“At least read the manuscript first before you refuse,” begged Mr. Shrewsbury.

“No. Like I'd want to read the sordid details of his degenerate life.”

“But you testified for him before the Wizengamut! You shortened his sentence in Azkaban!”

“I didn't shorten his sentence, Mr. Shrewsbury, his solicitor did, and the only reason I testified for him was because I believe in justice. It doesn't mean I like him.”

“If you don't take this assignment, I'll fire you.”

“Fine,” replied Hermione with a stubborn frown.

For a moment, it looked as if Mr. Shrewsbury would make good on his threat, but then his shoulders sagged. “Please? If I can't get you to agree, I'll be fired.”

Hermione looked at him suspiciously. “Is that true?”

“Well, not really—“

“Then my answer is still no.”

Mr. Shrewsbury appeared to have one last shot in his locker. “He's going to publish this book anyway, whether you take him or not. If you accept this assignment, you'd at least be able to screen the manuscript for lies—particularly about you, Mr. Potter, and Mr. Weasley.”

Hermione paused. Mr. Shrewsbury had finally presented a point worth considering. “That's unethical. As a book editor, I can only correct errors in spelling, grammar, and creative context, fact or not. We publish books, not the news…”

“I'm just saying.”

Hermione leaned back on her cushioned seat and swiveled her chair, turning to the row of framed pictures artfully arranged on one of her shelves. The smiling faces of her loved ones taunted her.

What would Harry and Ron say?

“You've gone mad!” likely.

She turned to face Mr. Shrewsbury again. “I'll read his manuscript.”

“Excellent!”

“But if it's really bad, I'm not doing it. I don't care if he publishes lies about me with another publishing company. I have half-a-mind to believe that my word is more credible than his when it comes to public opinion.”

Mr. Shrewsbury grinned broadly. “I'll go tell him the good news. He's waiting in my office, you see…”

“But, of course,” said Hermione, dryly.

“I'll have him come over right away.

“No time like the present.”

Mr. Shrewsbury took off looking far too pleased with himself for Hermione's tastes.

Hermione took several minutes telling herself that she had done something very stupid, and that the entire thing was a mistake. Also, that this company did not pay her enough to put up with shit like this.

She hadn't had much to do with Draco Malfoy the last few years since she testified for him in court. She had avoided him on purpose and much preferred to stay away from his circle of friends. It might have been different if he had anything to do with the disappearance of Excalibur, him being one of the three people—him, Ron, and Snape—outside of Avalon who knew of its existence, but when Draco Malfoy was found unconscious in one of the barges out of Portree to Britain, apparently Stupfied by Snape since their meeting in Voldemort's castle, there was hardly any question about whether or not he had taken the sword and hidden it.

Hermione admitted that she was a glad about that. It meant she didn't have to be forced to socialize with him on any level.

Except now…

After several minutes of pensive silence, she was called out of her thoughts by Olivia's “hemm!” outside. Hermione wearily called her in.

Olivia stood at the door.

“Draco Malfoy,” began Hermione tiredly, “will be arriving shortly.”

She heard Draco's voice outside, asking someone the way to “Granger's” office.

“Offer him something to drink. If possible, something poisonous,” Hermione added carelessly.

“I heard that,” Draco said from outside.

“To kill him?” asked Olivia. “Or just to weaken him sufficiently?”

Draco poked his head through and sneered. “Oh, you have this one trained really well.”

Olivia looked indignant at the word “trained.” She shot Malfoy a glare then left in a huff, practically pushing Draco aside to let herself out.

“Charmed!” Draco called after her.

Hermione cast him a glare of her own. “Give me your manuscript, sit, and don't talk. I have better things to do than listen to your prattle.”

“And I'm the one who spent a year in Azkaban.”

“You got off easy if you ask me.”

Draco walked into her office, his expensive suit underneath the expensive robes was tailored to perfection. His platinum blonde hair was long and tied back in a ponytail.

Hermione had seen him in the papers, but she hadn't made an effort to see him up close and in person, even if they happened to attend the same events in the past few years. Now that they stood in her office face to face, she could only stare in shock.

“Good lord,” Hermione breathed. “You really do look like your father.”

Draco frowned. “Ugh. I'm much better looking than my father.”

“No comment,” Hermione said, holding her hand out and snapped her fingers impatiently. “Fork over the manuscript.”

Scoffing, Draco swished his wand and levitated a palm-sized stack of parchment sheets tied with twine on her hand. It enlarged in the next second, weighing Hermione's arms enough to have them thumping heavily to her desk.

“As usual, you can't shut up about yourself,” Hermione muttered, hauling the stack closer and untying the twine. “A quarter of it are probably lies and half of it probably isn't interesting.”

“It's at least more interesting than that boring drivel you submit to those swotty magazines.”

“They weren't meant for the entertainment of the dimwitted, if that's what you meant,” she said absently, turning to the first page of his manuscript.

Immediately, she grabbed a quill and dipped it in red ink, scribbling corrections and notations all over the page before flipping on to the next. She did the same thing, marking up the page with her vicious red-inked quill, slashing, looping, and dotting with symbols that her staff of copy editors and proofreaders would understand. When she got to the third page, she was relentless, and at the fourth page, she looked up, and Draco was staring at the marked-up sheets she had set aside to dry.

“Rate you're going, it'll bleed to death,” he said, staring at his pages with a raised eyebrow, his earlier bravado slightly diminished.

“Yes,” said Hermione haughtily. “Your grammar and spelling is passable, but it's atrociously styled, your text is full of unnecessary contradictions, improperly grouped ideas, and at times tedious diatribe. You overdo the descriptions, and sometimes, it reads like you've detached yourself from your own experiences. It seems like you want to tell a good story, but you just want to get it over with.”

Draco huffed, gesturing to the manuscript. “It's finished isn't it?”

“Do you mean that literally or figuratively?”

A scowl darkened his pale face. “Mr. Shrewsbury said you agreed to take this book.”

“That doesn't mean I'll kiss your arse, Malfoy. I didn't become this good of a book editor by inflating the egos of novel writers. That's Mr. Shrewsbury's job.”

Draco glared at her and bolted from his seat, gathering the marked and unmarked pages of his manuscript within the circle of his arms.

“Aw,” said Hermione, her voice dripping with acidic sweetness. “Did I hurt your feelings?”

“Should've known… Muggle-borns with a chip on their shoulder the size of England…” he muttered on his way to the door.

Hermione gave a derisive laugh. “Oh, is that what you think? That it's about blood again? Typical Slytherin.”

“Self-righteous. Typical Gryffindor!” he shot back, disappearing beyond the door, his footsteps receding.

Olivia popped back into the room. “Humph. Pompous asses, those Malfoys.”

Hermione sniffed. “Three, two, one…”

Mr. Shrewsbury stormed back into her office. “What in Merlin's name did you do, Ms. Granger?”

“Paper cuts, I think,” Hermione replied, calmly putting to rights her work desk. She suppressed the hidden smile that threatened to emerge from he lips. She didn't want to upset Mr. Shrewsbury anymore than she already has.

Mr. Shrewsbury's jaw dropped. “You just cost us his vote on every Reader's Desk Awards category we got nominated in!”

“If his opinion in the Reader's Desk Awards mean anything, then it's not much of an award-giving body, is it?”

Mr. Shrewsbury reddened dangerously. His hands fisted and he looked like he was ready to explode, but he said nothing, and turning, he stalked out of her office without a backward glance.

Olivia watched him go. “He seems displeased.”

“Indeed. I seemed to have displeased far too many people today. Must be a full moon.”

“Well, as a matter of fact, it is.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione swiveled the tea in her cup, listening to the mingling laughter of Angelica and Julien outside the drawing room.

The children loved Grimmauld Place. Its dark and haunted hallways fired their imaginations, the forbidding décor the perfect backdrop for reenacting tales of secret societies gathering to fight an unspeakable evil.

She sighed. Such tales Remus told around the time of the full moon.

He was locked in the dungeons now, there to remain until the full moon passed. In the darkness of captivity, he was free from the rays of the moon, and he was secure in the thought that he could harm no one. Around this time, Hermione always paid Remus and Tonks a visit. They could always use the company around full-moon nights.

Remus and Tonks lived in Grimmauld Place. Its ownership remained with Harry up until his death, its title automatically accruing to Angelica as soon as she was born. Technically, Hermione had legal rights to the guardianship of the house, but she ceded the right to Remus, who appeared to need it most, anyway.

Hermione had no intention of taking the house back, and while Angelica would have to make the choice of what to do with the house when she came of age, Hermione doubted she would throw the Lupins out.

It was odd how Wizarding magic worked when she gave birth to Angelica. Hermione remembered that it began with Grigott's and the goblins. She had been at St. Mungo's nursing a newly born baby when the letter from Gringott's arrived.

Upon reading the note's contents, she found out that according to their records, the rightful heir of “one Harry Potter” had been born on the 28^th of July, and that therefore, all rights to his vault had been officially transferred to the newborn's name. The “newborn's” accounts were ready for official guardianship. Guardianship then naturally fell to her, the mother of Harry Potter's heir.

Odder still was the fact that the Hall of Records in the Ministry immediately confirmed that Angelica was indeed Harry's daughter.

Hermione at first thought that it certainly made proving paternity easier in Wizarding society, but she later found out that while the magic governing the Hall of Records was always accurate in terms of the information it recorded, documents could very well be taken, hidden, or destroyed. Of course, while it was never easy to simply erase or alter a person's history with the stroke of anyone's wand, especially considering the Record of Births and Deaths Library was synchronized with institutions like Gringott's, Wizarding schools, maternity wards all over Britain (Wizarding or Muggle), and other such related departments in the Hall of Records like the Archive of Family Trees and the Room of Prophecies, it was not completely impossible. There have been a few cases in the last one thousand years that a few questionable individuals attempted to manipulate the records to suit their criminal schemes, though it has been put on record that each attempt had been thwarted. Of course, it only meant that the Hall of Records was not infallible, and that it was entirely possible that a handful of manipulations might have worked, just that nobody knew it, which was the way it went with successful deceptions.

“Didn't Remus just put a fresh coat of paint on that wall three months ago, Tonks?” Hermione asked, eyeing one of the drawing-room walls. Its newly-beige paint was redeveloping the yellowing patches the new coat of paint had attempted to cover in the first place.

Tonks sighed. “Yes. I swear, this house… anything Remus does to it gets spoilt. It's deliberate. It's because he's a werewolf, and the house's old blood refuses to give him the courtesy of being considerate of his efforts. It's not as bad with me, you understand. Even if I'm half-blood, I've got the Black blood in me, so it acknowledges me, but Remus? Forget about it.” Her blue hair flashed several different shades in her agitation.

Hermione reddened. “I'm sorry.”

Tonks reddened in turn. “Oh, that was horrible of me, wasn't it? I'm a wretched bitch. Remus and I are very grateful you gave him guardianship of this house, Hermione.”

Hermione waved away her apologies. “And it's what Sirius and Harry would've wanted, anyway. You have every right to complain about the moods of this house as anyone does. It really is a cantankerous place. I only hope it's worth the trouble.”

“Oh, it is. It truly is. You don't know how many times Remus and I have been thankful that we don't have to pay rent for a flat in London, especially with the prices these days. And of course, when the full-moon comes around, the dungeons of the house are perfect for him.”

Julien and Angelica came bursting through the drawing room doors. Julien, Fleur's eight-year-old son, was possibly the most beautiful boy Hermione had ever seen. His hair, instead of being a bright, Weasley red, was strawberry blonde. His blue eyes were lovely and he was long-limbed enough for everyone to suppose that he would grow up to be tall and trim. There was no doubt that his Veela blood would only make him more irresistible as he got older. For now, he was only a boy who played games and rolled through the dusty secret-doors of Grimmauld Place with Angelica.

“Mum!” Angelica cried. “Can Julien sleep over at our house? I told him about Shrek, and how funny it is, so now he wants to see the movie and I can't really lend him the DVD because they obviously don't have a player at their house. And maybe I'll invite Millhouse and Pramilla, too, may I? It would be loads of fun! Please?”

Hermione's eyebrow arched. “Darling, even if it's Friday, have you forgotten that tomorrow's a school day for you? Detention, remember?”

Angelica's excitement deflated and Julien frowned.

“What did you do? Fight someone else's fight again?” Julien huffed, stomping off. “Honestly, you've got to stop defending those swots. If they can't fight for themselves—“

Angelica went after him. “Mum said we should always fight for those who can't fight for themselves, and she said dad used to do it all the time back then, too. But that's beside the point. It was really my fight this time, I swear.”

“But, of course,” Julien said dryly, in a perfect imitation of his French elders, accent and all.

They slipped out the door and Hermione could still hear them discussing.

“This wouldn't have happened if you were home schooling with the rest of us, you know,” Julien grumbled.

“I'm part-Muggle. I want to know that side of me. Hey, listen Jules, I had that dream again…”

Their voices faded.

“It's uncanny how you can see Harry in that little tornado,” Tonks muttered.

“You mean the way trouble seems to follow her around?”

Tonks chuckled. “That, too, but I was thinking more along the lines of having a saving-people thing.”

Hermione sniffed. “Yes, well… so long as there are no prophecies about her and a madman, I think I'll be able to cope.”

They were silent for a bit, each drifting into their own thoughts.

Hermione thought about Tonks and Remus.

Tonks had remained with the Ministry as an Auror. Still as clumsy as ever, but still a worthy Morphmagi. She was invaluable in catching Dark Wizards, and while real missions were few and far between during these days of peace, the Aurors have kept busy by policing the portals between the dark creature underworld and humans. They weren't real portals, of course, but Tonks insisted that there was a line that kept the human Wizarding populace safe from the creatures' darker pursuits. Hermione didn't ask for details. The Auror department had enough bored Aurors to see to it. They certainly didn't need a Know-It-All nosing in on it, whether or not Hermione was dying to ask just how sentient these dark creatures were.

She let her mind wander to Remus. He still lived his harried life of taking odd jobs here and there, but on a more regular basis, he acted as a journalist for the Quibbler. Remus pursued the more unsavory stories of the occasional murders and robberies in the seedy cracks and crevices of Wizarding London. Every once in a while, he would break out with something more popular, like the last Quidditch World Cup, or Dolores Umbridge getting sacked from the Ministry for suspicion of using Unforgivable Curses, but Remus mostly liked keeping to the shadows.

“I have a confession to make,” Tonks suddenly said, her face reddening—naturally, not like a Morphmagi.

Hermione eyed her warily. This was most unusual.

“I checked the Hebrides Confrontation files again,” Tonks continued.

Hermione frowned as her stomach turned. She wasn't upset with Tonks, but talk of that final battle always unsettled her. “Oh.”

Tonks cast an embarrassed smile. “I couldn't help it. It's that unsolved case that continues to plague me, even after all these years. Doesn't it plague you?”

Hermione wasn't going to argue with her about what she felt for that particular incident. Every time she happened to think about what happened, it left her emotionally drained, so each time it resurfaced in her mind, she told herself, again and again, that all possible sources and clues to solving that mystery had either died, been destroyed, withered by time, or simply disappeared.

It was the Horcrux of her worse memory. It took a piece of her soul and made the memory live that terrible life in her head.

No, she couldn't blame Tonks for obsessing over it all these years, returning to it every so try to find new clues; new ideas, as if thoughts of those hadn't been exhausted the last time.

And really, it wasn't Tonks's fault, either, that it brought Hermione such pain each time it was brought up.

Hermione nodded calmly, taking a biscuit from their plate of pastries. “Every once in a while, I recall it, and think about it.”

“I read through the file again. Checked back on past leads. Read all the reports… still points to the same thing, doesn't it?”

Hermione sighed quietly. “We don't know that to be fact, Tonks.”

“But H-Harry said so, didn't he? He said there was a traitor. In the Order.”

“He didn't say there was. We discussed the possibility, because he said Voldemort had other ways to find out where we were—and I think Harry just… he had a hunch, maybe, but he didn't out-rightly say there was a traitor.”

“How else could Voldemort had known, then? How could he have known that you, Ron, and Harry were headed to the McFusty's? There were only a handful of us who knew why we were even there, and they were all accounted for—Shacklebolt, Arthur, McGonagall, Mad-Eye, Remus, and me.”

Wearily, Hermione counted off the possibilities. She had done this hundreds of times. “It wouldn't have taken a Quantum Arithmancist to make the connection, Tonks. You and a platoon of Order members head to the McFusty clan's castle in the Hebrides… it would be entirely probable to suppose that you were there on a rescue mission, because everyone must've known we'd been taken.”

“Yes, but apart from the six of us, nobody even knew we were going there until the Portkeys brought us, so whoever this traitor is, he had to have informed Voldemort or his minions about our location when we were already there. Every single member of that outfit was accounted for at all times. Nobody snuck out; nobody sent owls; nobody used the Floos, messenger spells, or Patronuses. I was the only one who sent a Patronus out, and the only Patronus coming in was Harry's…”

“Perhaps Harry's Patronus led them to you,” Hermione said tiredly. “Or perhaps it was simply that we got tracked. We were careful to cover our tracks, but our trail could have been found, anyway, and they might have headed us off.”

“But you said Harry confirmed how they didn't know until the last hour…”

Hermione shrugged. “Sometimes Harry had visions, and sometimes they were just dreams, but Voldemort had used visions to trick Harry before…”

“What would be the purpose of making him think there was a traitor?”

“To sow dissent? Mistrust? If he didn't succeed in capturing us the first time, suspicion like that could tear the Order apart from the inside while he swallowed England whole.”

Tonks sighed, slumping on her seat. “Just doesn't make sense, is all…”

Hermione nodded. “Yes, well… anyone who could shed light about it is dead, gone, or both. Bellatrix and Snape disappeared from the face of the earth, Harry is dead… a lot of people are dead. That trail is cold, for now, and we don't even know if Bellatrix or Snape knew anything. It could've been Voldemort's itty-bitty secret.”

“Have you given up on it completely, then?”

Hermione thought about it and felt the usual sense of misery. “I don't know… but the leads have been exhausted years ago, and it—it hurts me to keep thinking about it when there's nothing…”

Tonks looked apologetic. “I'm sorry. I should've been considerate of your—“

“No, no. Tonks, if you ever, ever find a new lead, you must tell me. You must, alright? But other than that…”

“I understand.” Tonks then steered conversation to other things, and Hermione was grateful for it.

Later, they kept Remus company in the dungeons until Hermione begged off, telling them she had to get the children home.

Hermione dropped Julien off first. Fleur was very grateful that Hermione had taken Julien from her that night. It was always quite difficult for Fleur around the time of the full moon, too.

With Julien dropped off, Hermione and Angelica headed home.

Hermione Apparated them from the nearest Apparating station and they walked the rest of the way home.

It wasn't very late in the evening. It was possibly no later than 8:30, but the residential streets surrounding their home were quiet. There was still lively activity coming from most of the lit windows of the houses lining up the streets, but there were seldom any people out, walking.

Holding Angelica's tiny hand, Hermione looked up through the canopy of manicured trees and saw full the moon.

“Mum, can I borrow your pink pendant again?”

Shook out of her thoughts, Hermione peered at Angelica with open curiosity. “Of course, darling, but what for, if you don't mind me asking?”

Angelica shrugged. “It's pretty. I like to look at it. Sometimes I play pretend with it.”

“Pretty…” said Hermione, turning the strangely inappropriate word in her mind. “It's got a hairline fracture inside it.”

“I like that it does. It's different. Has a story in it.”

Hermione had never liked that story in particular, but Angelica didn't have to know it. She had always told Angelica, “It was the pendant I was wearing when your father saved my life.”

And that was what Angelica knew of it, so Angelica's constant fascination of the pendant was no surprise.

“It's in my secret place,” Hermione said. “You know the password, don't you?”

Angelica grinned and shook her head. “Nooo.”

Hermione smiled, squeezing her daughter's hand affectionately. “Let's see how good in math you are. Complete the last two in this sequence: If 1=3, 2=3, 3=5, 4=4, 5=4, 6=3, 7=5, 8=5, 9=4, and 10=3, then what equals 11 and 12? Complete the sequence and you have your complete password.”

Angelica giggled. It was a melodious staccato sound.

Sometimes, Hermione thought that giggle was everything she lived for.

“Oh, mum, but that's so easy!”

“For you, maybe. But it'll stump quite a few people. Give me the answer, anyway. I can't have you pretending you know when you really don't!”

Angelica rolled her eyes. “11=6 and 12=6!”

“Clever girl. Now, use the pendant well, because the password will be changed next time, and you'll have to figure the riddle out again.”

“I always figure your riddles out.”

“One day, I might stump you.”

Angelica giggled again. Evidently, she didn't think Hermione would ever stump her.

They reached home and Crookshanks met them at the door. He circled Hermione's ankles as Angelica shot up the stairs to Hermione's room. Hermione followed at a more leisurely pace, picking Crookshanks up in her arms. When Hermione reached the landing, Angelica was already shooting out of Hermione's bedroom with the crystal in her hand.

Angelica was grinning. “I've a riddle for you, mum!”

Hermione laughed. “Let's hear it.”

“Finish this sentence: `Sums are not set as a—.' If you finish that sentence, you have your password.”

“What—password for what?”

“Not telling!”

“Alright, but your riddle—“

“That's the only clue you'll get!” She rushed into her room and shut the door.

It actually gave Hermione pause, and she grudgingly admitted that the riddle had her stumped for now.

Trust the genius imp to stump her own mother with a riddle.

She set Crookshanks aside and peeled off her shoes. She took a moment to relax on her reading chair. In a few minutes, she would have to make sure that Angelica cleaned up before bed. For the meantime, she wanted to just close her eyes and forget the events of the day.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

With Angelica cleaned up and tucked into bed, Hermione readied for bed, as well.

As she finished up and emerged from the bath in her nightwear, a gust of wind blew through her balcony doors, lifting the filmy green curtains in gentle cascades of sliver-grey embroidered vines.

Crookshanks's ears perked and he lifted his head from his paws, eyes affixed on the balcony outside just before he bolted from the bed and past the glass doors.

“Crookshanks,” Hermione whined softly.

She was ready for bed in her tank and boy-shorts. She didn't want to be stepping out of her room, even if it was in her own balcony, but she didn't want to be leaving the balcony doors open for Crookshanks, either.

She could see him sitting precariously on one of the corners of her railing, looking through the bars and down the street.

Rubbing her bare arms, she hastened from her bathroom to her balcony, grabbing her robe and throwing it over herself along the way. With the robe loosely worn, she stepped out to the balcony to fetch Crookshanks. The mosaic-tile flooring was chilly against her bare feet so she hurried her task.

The bare streets below were quiet and dimly lit, the decorative trees alternating on both sides.

Crookshanks gave a plaintive little mew as Hermione picked him up, his tail swishing from one side to the other in irritation.

She tried to lean Crookshanks over her shoulder but found him to be difficult. He craned his neck, just so he could keep his eyes on whatever it was he appeared to target.

Crookshanks gave a somewhat mournful wail.

“Now, what are you on about?” Hermione looked and saw no sign of another cat, ground-hopping birds, stray squirrels, or even flying ladybugs.

As she turned to go back inside, Crookshanks scampered to return to his earlier spot.

Sighing in exasperation, Hermione tried to get Crookshanks again when from out of the darkness, she saw a flash of snowy white flit by the corner of her eye, so sudden that it sent her heart racing.

She gasped, looking frantically up and around her, peering at her surroundings. She checked the trees and power lines for any sort of bird.

She saw a few Starlings, and oddly, a crow, but there were no snowy white birds.

The disappointment was startling, and after a moment's consideration, she rolled her eyes in disgust.

Really, Hermione… what are you going to do with Hedwig?

She turned her attention back to Crookshanks and practically yipped when she saw a man, or a maybe a shadow of a man, down in the street, just where Crookshanks's attention was affixed.

Hermione blinked, and there was nobody there.

There was absolutely nothing to suggest that there had been someone standing there.

“You've driven me insane,” Hermione grumbled, picking Crookshanks up more firmly and rushing back into her room.

She slid the glass panel shut and locked it.

Crookshanks hopped to the floor, sitting on his haunches to stare out the glass door.

Shaking her head, Hermione slipped beneath her sheets and paused when she noticed that one of her wall hangings—a montage of quaintly drawn and colored animated characters, signed by the artist—was tilted.

She frowned. Like someone knocked it—

“Oh, for heavens sake, Hermione,” she whispered disdainfully.

You've gone and spooked yourself.

She adamantly decided that she would right the picture in the morning. She was not going to let her paranoia take her out of bed.

Reaching for her lamp, she shut the lights, and closing her eyes, she drifted off to sleep with Crookshanks standing guard by her glass doors.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A muffled shuffling of pages and the violent rattling of shelves—the sound of a book bound into silence.

Angelica glanced at the spectacle with mild curiosity, resisting the urge to pull it out of its shelf.

Tearing her gaze, her eyes fell upon an unfamiliar door, and it was cracked open.

She stepped closer, afraid that the answers would evade her before she knew them, but she reached the door, and she pushed it open.

It was a garden under the light of a clouded moon, with thick strangling vines, vicious thorns, and knotted trees. The ground felt damp beneath her feet.

The forbidding chill of isolation penetrated through her with the piercing sounds of unfriendly animals. There was the distant roar of beasts, shrieking prey, and scuttling bottom-feeders all around her.

She was planted on the spot, like her feet were taking root. Movement was futile, and she realized to her horror that slowly, she was growing petrified from the toes up.

Her scream pierced the night, sending the crows in startled flight. Leaves overhead shook and fell. Crawlies and creatures scampered away from her, yet, something approached. Something was heading in her direction.

She couldn't move, and she tried—tried so desperately to wake from the dream, but she couldn't. She was trapped and powerless.

Then she saw it. It was there.

At first she thought they were pinpricks of red in the shadows. Beastly eyes that had no soul to warm them, but the red faded, as if they were never there. Perhaps it was just her fear that tainted her imagination.

A man stepped out of the dark, his face masked by a streak of shadow.

Angelica tried to speak; to ask for help, but she couldn't even move her lips.

He came closer, and for a heartbeat, the moon cast a light upon his features, before he fell to the shadows once more.

He reached for her. Or she thought he did.

“You can't be here,” he said in a gently admonishing tone. “It's poison…”

It made no sense, no matter how she turned the words in her head. This was nothing like her mother's riddles. This had no trick or logic. No answers.

The deep kindness in his voice did not help relieve the powerful itch of curiosity, nor the petrifying enchantment that threatened to suffocate her.

The paralysis crawled higher up her legs, stiffening her joints.

“You have to go,” he insisted.

And before she could cry out in frustration—try to make him understand that she couldn't move, couldn't leave, she felt the magic—his magic—pushing her away, an invisible force shoving her back through the portal from whence she came.

The door slammed after her, and she fell rolling on the cobbled floor.

She could move again, and her voice had returned. She was unhurt. Unharmed.

Scrambling to her feet, she tried the door again. This time it was sealed shut. Immovable.

The wooden door began to meld with the stone, grain rippling into hard adobe slabs.

She thumped her fists on the disappearing door, crying for it—for him to let her back in, but no one responded, and her memories of him were fading as she began to wake from the dream.

~~

Angelica squeezed her eyes shut even as sleep left her. She clung to remembrance desperately, looking back on what she saw when the moonlight fell upon his face.

It had been too fast. She was unable to make out the details—except for one.

His eyes had been her own—the same, striking green.

TBC

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: I'm working on the next chapter as we speak. Have a wonderful weekend!

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A/N: Hope you like it. ^_^

Standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter Eleven: Face of a Stranger

Saturday dawned bright and clear.

Perhaps that should have been the first sign that things didn't feel as normal as it should be, because London wasn't exactly known for such days.

Hermione stumbled out of bed, grumbling about how her weekend was already shot to hell. She quickly got herself ready for the rest of the day before she padded to Angelica's room and woke up her daughter. Today, Angelica would be serving detention at school.

Angelica whined and moaned as she rolled out of bed, saying she didn't want to go to school. That she needed more sleep. That her eyes hurt.

At first, Hermione was about to lecture Angelica on how this was all her fault, that if she hadn't been so naughty in school, she wouldn't have had to give up her weekend lie-in, but a closer look at Angelica gave Hermione cause for true concern.

The skin around Angelica's eyes seemed unusually dark. Like she hadn't gotten much sleep.

“Halt, imp,” said Hermione in a gently playful tone. “Let me have a look at you.”

Angelica padded sleepily to her mother.

Hermione checked her for a temperature and felt her hands and feet. There didn't seem to be anything wrong with her. “How long did you stay up after I put you to bed?”

Angelica rubbed at her eyes, yawning. “Didn't. Slept. Had dreams, though.”

Hermione remembered Angelica mentioning a recurring dream to Julien.

She tried to shut out the roiling anxieties such talk brought. Harry dreamed true once upon a time, but it didn't necessarily mean Angelica could do the same. Besides, Voldemort was gone. There would be no dreaming true for Angelica.

“Nightmares?” Hermione asked.

“Thought it was, but it wasn't. I woke up and I couldn't stop thinking about it.”

Hermione stifled a sigh. “And that kept you up most of the night. Next time that happens, you can always come to me. I'll help get you back to sleep, alright?”

Angelica nodded.

“Do you want to tell me about the dream? Just so it won't plague you tonight.”

“It's alright, mum. Won't bother me again. Promise.” Angelica headed to her bathroom, as if she had decided that the discussion was over.

Hermione wasn't going to push for now, but she would be keeping an eye on Angelica's sleeping habits.

She helped Angelica get ready and fixed them both a quick breakfast.

They had to take the car to drop Angelica off at school, just because it was likely Ms. Blake, the maths teacher, would be waiting for them at the school steps.

True enough, Hermione had the opportunity to meet Ms. Blake and was relieved to discover that she seemed like a very kind woman, and that Angelica seemed glad to have her for company. Hermione left the school grounds feeling secure that Angelica would be alright in spite of the generally undesirable circumstances.

Hermione spent the rest of her morning running errands while she was out.

The entire time, Hermione felt oddly un-alone. She had walked the streets of both Wizarding and non-Wizarding London, and often, she felt that someone—or something?—was watching her. Following even. It was unnerving, and she stayed within well-populated areas. It wouldn't be the first time some crazy stalked her. She had had a few minor incidents through the years—one major one, which led to arrests, and a big snit in the papers, so being stalked right now wasn't a far-fetched concept.

Still, she didn't want to be crying wolf at every opportunity she got. She'd rather try to shake off the feeling, else she would develop an unsavory habit of being paranoid.

She felt more secure when she got home, but when she left the house to pick Angelica up again, the feeling of being watched returned.

She drove into Angelica's school, and the first thing Angelica said when she hopped into the car was, “I'm never going to be naughty again! I am so tired, mum! I had to scrub ten blackboards! It was such hard work! I bet it would've been easier with magic.”

Hermione shot Angelica a warning glance over her shoulder.

“I didn't use magic, mum,” Angelica said, rolling her eyes.

“Of course you didn't. You'd need a wand to do it properly and you're not allowed to have one until you're eleven.”

“Right! Ms. Blake was really nice, though. I always liked her. She let me help check test papers. You wouldn't believe the mistakes they made. Pramilla and Millhouse got stellar scores, though. Owls for them both.” Angelica grinned.

“Good for them! Now… are you up for having lunch out? Just before you spend the rest of the day at home.”

Angelica sighed at the reminder that she would not be going to the Beauxbaton fair with Aunt Fleur and Julien, but she did smile, the prospect of eating out brightening her gradually darkening day.

“Ooh! Can we lunch at Lundum's?”

It was a bit pricey, but Hermione loved that restaurant as well, and it was always a nice place to spend time with Angelica.

“Lundum's it is.”

Hermione drove them to the heart of London, and while Lundum's was packed, it was always easier to get a table for two in the family-oriented restaurant. At any rate, if they ever had problems getting a table anywhere, Angelica was superb at turning on the charm. Her pretty baby face, combined with her hidden genius, had unwitting adults gushing to give in to her every whim.

As they sat on their table and read their menus, Angelica happened to glance up and caught the eye of a passing waiter. She smiled brightly and waved.

“Hullo there, little girl,” said the waiter. “Have you and your mum been served yet?”

“No,” said Angelica with a cute shake of her head. “But that's alright. Mum and I aren't quite ready to order.”

“I'll give you a few minutes then. And maybe later, if it's alright with your mum, I can get you a free dessert. How's that?”

Angelica was supremely delighted and she cast her mother a pleading look.

“We'd love that, thank you,” Hermione said.

The waiter smiled and gave Angelica a wink before he left to attend to other guests.

Hermione rolled her eyes and shook her head. “I don't know why I let you do that. It's almost criminal.”

“Aunt Fleur said we should never feel guilty about the good fortune our skills and looks brings us,” said Angelica, her legs swinging as she took the toothpicks from their fancy containers and began to arrange them on the table.

Hermione's eyebrow arched. “She'd say that, wouldn't she? But don't you forget that you must never use your gifts at the expense of another.”

“Yes mum… oh, look here, mum! I've got a riddle for you. There are twelve toothpicks. Take away one and you have nine. How is that possible?”

Hermione sighed. “Ah cherie… that's very easy.” She took one of the twelve toothpicks and rearranged the remaining eleven to spell the word NINE. “You think too little of your mother.”

Angelica giggled. “Of course not! Try this, then. O-T-T-F-F-S-S. What are the next three letters in the sequence?”

Hermione shook her head. “The next letters are E, N, and T.”

Angelica frowned. “I was sure I had you.”

“I used the same principle with my last password. Try something harder.”

“Alright, then! How long is a string?”

Hermione was caught this time. “What kind of a string?”

Angelica smirked. “Just a string. How long is it?”

“Well, I can't—“

“I can,” Angelica said, smugly.

“Of course you can! You thought of the riddle!”

“You can, too, if you think hard enough!”

Hermione tried to figure it out. “It's impossible without more facts.”

“No it's not.”

“It's a trick, then.”

“No trick. Just logic, mathematics, and clever wording.”

Mathematics…

It clicked in Hermione's mind.

Lord, she's brilliant. If she hadn't given me that last hint…

“Very clever Angelica,” said Hermione with a shake of her head.

Angelica grinned. “Well? How long is a string?”

“Twice the distance from the center.”

“Absolutely correct, mum! You're so smart!”

Hermione made a face at her daughter and pinched her cheek. “You're too brilliant for your own good, my little impette.”

Angelica's eyes sparkled. “Though this be madness, yet there is method in`t—“

Hermione laughed. “'Into my grave?' Hamlet, act two. `So wise so young, they say do never live long.'” She said this with affected gravity.

Angelica giggled, getting the mildly teasing joke. “King Richard III, act three. `Be not afraid of greatness: some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.'”

I know that all too well…

The thought came so suddenly to Hermione that she didn't realize just how deeply it affected her until she spoke her next Shakespearean quote.

With her smile faded ever so slightly, she replied. “Twelfth Knight, act two… `Journeys end in lovers meeting, every wise man's son doth know…”

Why didn't my journey end like that, then?

“Twelfth Knight, act two,” chimed Angelica with a roll of her eyes. “`Oh, how this spring of love resembleth the uncertain glory of an April day…' mum?”

“The Two Gentlemen of Verona…” Hermione looked up and over her shoulder, the feeling of being watched overcoming her sudden melancholy.

Her eyes scanned the crowd of diners and restaurant staff. There didn't seem to be anything usual. No one seemed to be acting shiftily or suspiciously.

“Mum? Are you alright?”

Hermione didn't want to make a fuss about her over-active imagination. “We should really decide on what to order, already. My brain's shutting down and it needs nourishment.”

Angelica eyed her for a bit then seemed to decide she would do as her mother told her.

Hermione tried to concentrate on her menu, no longer in the mood to play games.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They arrived home at mid-afternoon and Hermione spent the rest of the day trying to occupy her daughter with productive pursuits. Admittedly, it wasn't very difficult to keep a six-year-old genius occupied. Sit Angelica in front of a piano and she would probably play lovely music all day, and if Hermione didn't mind cleaning up after her, Angelica could be given paint materials, a workspace, and inspiration and she'd paint a masterpiece, but Hermione wanted to spend time with Angelica, so she brought out a Scrabble game board. Sprawled out on the carpeted floor of Hermione's office at home, they played their game, laughing at the ridiculous made-up words, issuing challenges, and meting punishment when one was caught inventing a word. It was what made the game fun, after all.

They spent hours, and before they knew it, it was dark out, and Hermione said she had to fix their supper.

“I want to help,” Angelica said, arching her back in an attempt to touch her toes to her back. She was not successful.

“Of course you can help, sweetheart. Let's put this away and then we can go to the kitchen.”

They put away the Scrabble pieces quickly and they headed to the kitchen.

Hermione was instructing Angel on which ingredients to get ready when the doorbell rang.

“I'll get it,” said Hermione. “You go break up the greens and clean it.”

Angelica bustled to push her stepper near the sink.

Hermione went to the door and peeped out. She was astonished to see Draco Malfoy. He wasn't smiling—which was no surprise, but she could see that he had something tucked beneath his arm. It looked like a manuscript.

“Unbelievable,” she muttered. Undoing the locks, she swung the door open, her gaze unwelcoming. “What do you want?” She froze, her eyes falling beyond him to the power lines where at least half-a-dozen crows were perched.

Draco didn't seem concerned about what she was looking at. “I want to talk to you. It's about my book.”

Though immensely distracted, she turned her attention back to him. “What about it? You walked out of my office and took it away.”

“I want you to be my book editor. I won't accept no for an answer.”

Her irritation mounted. “Oh, won't you? Well, watch me make you.” She began to close the door.

He jammed his foot against the door. “Oh, no you don't!”

She stared at him, shocked. “What are you—back off, Malfoy! Or I'll make you sorry, I swear.” She pulled the door back and quickly slammed it back to close.

His foot was still there, and the door was still jammed. Draco gave a cry of pain. “Ouch! You—“ he grunted and fought against the door. “You are an absolute shrew!”

“That the best you can do?” she growled, slamming the door again. This time, he began to push with his shoulder.

“Just—would you just listen for a moment?” Draco implored. “I was going to a… a… a…”

Hermione frowned. “Sneeze, maybe? Get it over with, then!”

“Apologize!” Draco said through grit teeth.

“Oh! I see. That what your agent told you to do?”

“Of course! Did you think I'd do this because I actually liked you? Go find something else to get off on!”

Hermione gasped and her anger intensified. “I'm not the one trying to get into your home, Malfoy, so you can go fuck yourself—“

“Oh, mum! That was such a bad word!” Angelica cried from behind her.

Hermione whirled and pressed her back to the door, pushing against Draco. “He's a terrible, terrible man and he brings out the worse in me, sweety. Now, go back into the kitchen.”

Angelica looked horribly displeased, but she did as she was told.

Hermione turned back to her unwelcome guest.

Draco whipped out his wand. “I'll use it, I swear!”

The crows began to squawk, agitated, and they all took off all at once, flitting across the moon like bats.

Furious, Hermione didn't even warn him when she whipped out her own wand and shot a minor curse that sent him stumbling back.

He fell down the porch steps with a cry, landing on his butt as his manuscript scattered all over.

“I can't believe you used it!” Draco yelled, cringing.

Breathing with anger, she flipped her disheveled hair off her face. “Now, go away!”

Draco lumbered to his feet, groaning. “You bitch! I think you broke my pelvis!”

“Oh, well, then you can just walk yourself to St. Mungo's.”

Holding his hip, Draco gathered some pages from the top of his manuscript and held it out to her from the ground. “Read it. They're the pages you corrected, and I've revised them. Ought to be better, else you suck as a book editor.”

“I'd say you suck as a writer!” she hissed, slamming the door closed.

She had barely taken a few steps when Draco's voice penetrated through the door. “Read it!” The sheets slid beneath her door. “Or I'll blow this door down and… and make you!”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Oh, I'm afraid. I really am!”

“You better be! I'm not fucking around, Granger!”

Angelica emerged from the kitchen again, scowling. “Mum, he's really noisy. Let's just tell Uncle Ron he's bothering us. I'm sure he'd be more than glad to take care of it. He's always protective of us.”

Hermione turned her nose up at this. “No. I can get rid of Malfoy myself.”

“No, you can't!” cried Draco.

Hermione frowned.

“Uncle Ron will be able to help,” Angelica pointed out.

“Darling,” said Hermione. “Right now, I won't even ask your Uncle Ron's help to open a jar of mayonnaise. Understand what I'm saying?”

Angelica stamped her foot. “You're being silly! You said you and Uncle Ron would make up! You should, you know!”

“Not today. Maybe tomorrow,” said Hermione. “Now, go back to the kitchen. Malfoy, I can have you arrested for harassment!”

Malfoy gave a cry of fear and he slammed himself against her door.

Hermione gave a yelp, and she grew more alarmed as the sound of a scuffle ensued. She felt frozen to her spot at Malfoy's eerie response, and it took another moment before she realized that she had to see what was going on.

Wand at the ready, she swung her door open.

The pages of his manuscript were scattered all over her front porch, just about drifting to the ground like someone had just thrown them into the air.

There was no sign of Draco.

“What… Draco? This isn't funny, you know!”

There was complete silence. She looked at the mess on her front porch and wondered whether she did indeed manage to scare Draco with the threat of arrest. He did, after all, spend a year in Azkaban. Perhaps he thought the experience so horrible that he wouldn't want to risk incarceration again.

Though still highly uncertain of what was going on, she couldn't help but start gathering the fallen manuscript. No matter who the author of it was she couldn't just leave a book at the mercy of the elements.

She put them on a neat, though unorganized pile.

She grabbed a page and felt a wetness on her fingers.

The spot of red on her hand seemed to glow under the light of the moon. She saw the edge of her porch railing, slick with a small splatter of blood.

Her heart rate accelerated, and the hair on the back of her neck rose with a horrible chill.

That odd feeling of being watched returned once more. It was a powerful wave of paranoia and she sat there, forcing herself to think rationally, but she saw that strange flash of white from the corner of her eye and heard the piercing squawk of crows.

That was it. She wasn't imagining things anymore.

She scrambled back into the house with a yelp, slamming the front door and pulling the locks and bolts.

Visions of escaped Death Eaters peppered her fear before she forced herself to take deep, calming breaths.

“There has to be a perfectly good explanation for all this,” Hermione muttered. She looked at her fingers.

It's blood. I can smell it…

“Oh, God.”

Angelica rushed out of the kitchen looking terribly surprised. “Mum, what are you—“

Hermione took her by the arm as she shut the lights, telling her to be quiet. She rushed both of them to the kitchen and Hermione grabbed a small wooden box from one of the higher shelves before she enveloped them in complete darkness.

With a dim Lumos, Hermione guided them around the house.

She gave the box to Angelica. “Inside this box is a Portkey, so whatever you do, don't you ever let go of this box until I tell you to. Understand?”

Angelica was beginning to look frightened. “Portkey? To where, mum?”

“Just keep it handy for a while. I'm not very sure about what's going on.” Hermione tried to sound calm and in control, but it was difficult. She'd felt it all day—being followed, and she could feel the blood crusting on her fingers already. The blood was real, and Draco disappearing very oddly was real.

Had someone attacked him…?

“Mum, you're really scaring me…”

“It's going to be alright, baby. We're safe, alright? Just do as I say.” She led them to the cupboard under the stair and she reached inside, pulling out a cloak that Angelica had never seen.

Angelica's eyes bugged out. “Mum, that's a—“

“It's an invisibility cloak. It was your father's. Here. Put this on, but keep the hood off for the meantime. I'd like to be able to see my little girl… there now, you look like a floating head.”

Angelica giggled, and Hermione was glad she was able to put Angelica at ease, even for a bit.

Creeping to the Floo, she crouched over it and Flooed Grimmauld Place for Tonks.

Tonks looked immediately worried, probably sensing that something was wrong. “Is everything all right?”

“No. I think I've got a stalker outside my house, Tonks. And I think Draco Malfoy's been attacked. I found blood—“

“H-Hold on, blood? I won't even ask what Draco Malfoy's doing there—“

“He's not here. He's gone. I think someone took him, and he's possibly hurt. I didn't want to be a bother to you and your department, Tonks, but it's different now. I've been feeling followed all day and now—“

“We'll be there in a few minutes,” said Tonks. As calm as Tonks seemed, Hermione could see the glint of anxiety in Tonks's eyes. “Stay put. Don't try to do anything—“

“Just get here as soon as you can,” Hermione said distractedly, shutting off the Floo.

She led Angelica to the cupboard under the stairs. They would hide there until the Aurors came.

Hermione swung the door open when she saw something move outside the large bay windows.

Pursing her lips to stifle her scream, she shoved Angelica into the closet and pulled the hood of the cloak over her head. She began to close Angelica in.

Angelica gave a cry of protest. “But Aunt Tonks said not to—“

“No. Listen to your mother!” Her tone was so authoritative that Angelica's protests died to a whimper. Hermione used the same tone to tell her to use the Portkey only when necessary.

Without waiting for a response, Hermione shut Angelica in.

There were only two known Death Eaters that haven't yet been caught: Bellatrix and Snape. Whoever it was, she wasn't going to risk Angelica, and she wasn't going to risk letting either get away.

Instincts she thought had gone away with the dangers of war surfaced back up.

Creeping out through the back door, she circled the house, peeking from the corner so she could get a good look at who it was.

The figure was too tall and broad to belong to a woman, though she could be completely mistaken. It looked like a man, standing on her walkway in a hooded black robe. He stood there, staring at her door, as if he hadn't yet quite decided what to do.

The crows were nowhere to be found, but their annoying, disembodied cries caught his attention for a bit before it went back to her front door.

His arm rose and the sleeve of his robe fell away from his hand. He pushed back his hood but she lost her view of his face as he proceeded to walk up her steps. He stood on her porch, once again unmoving.

Creeping along the perimeter gates of her front lawn, she crouched low to get around him. From the edge of her walkway, she could see his back and his hair. His hair was a mess, like someone who didn't know how cut it.

She lifted her wand and she accidentally pushed her gate slightly open. The hinges shrieked and the man's shoulders stiffened.

There was no help for it. She pointed her wand purposefully and spoke. “Turn around nice and slow, and identify yourself.”

He didn't move for a moment then slowly, he began to raise his hands. “H-Hermione?”

His voice struck her. She would know that voice anywhere, yet it wasn't in the realm of possibility. In the last seven years, she had thought she heard his voice here and there, only to find someone else, and that it hadn't really resembled his voice at all. Yet, this voice was shockingly real. Shockingly his.

It angered her—that this stranger would be so cruel as to pretend he was Harry Potter.

Her hand shook, but she steadied herself. “I said turn around and identify yourself. Are you a stalker? You wouldn't be the first, you know. I've called the authorities, and they'll be here in a few minutes, so you might as well surrender—“

“I'm not going to hurt you,” he said, turning his head slightly to look over his shoulder. “I promise…”

It was the tone, and the words—and the sentiment of his words.

“I'm not going to hurt you. I promise…”

Hermione swore that if it wasn't for Angelica's safety, she could have very well burst into tears from sheer fury.

“Turn around!” she shrieked angrily.

Carefully, he turned, and the light fell upon his features.

Even under the dim light of the moon and streetlamps, she could tell that he looked somewhat mangy. The front of his robes were open, and she could see that his clothes looked a bit worn, especially with his jeans torn at the knees. She noticed that he carried a travel pack, and that it was mended within every stitch. Overall, he seemed nondescript. Ordinary, but when her gaze fell upon his face, Hermione felt her heart stop and her jaw drop. Completely shocked, her wand arm slackened and she stared, stupefied by the image and likeness of Harry James Potter.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It couldn't be him, of course. Harry was dead, and gone. She saw him die, held his body in her arms. And then Ron watched him burn to ashes.

This was not Harry. This was not her Harry.

Polyjuiced.

The moment she thought this, her wand arm snapped back up.

She scowled fiercely, more angered than ever. To her utter dismay, her rage made her eyes water with tears. “How dare you? Whoever you are, coming here Polyjuiced as Harry… it's sick! It's a twisted, sick joke and it's not funny!”

His eyes widened behind all-too-familiar glasses. “Hermione… no. I'm not… Hermione, lower the wand…”

She gripped her wand, her knuckles whitening at the outrageous way this doppelganger was imitating the very vulnerable look in his eyes, or the way he spoke to her with such gentleness. He even looked aged—not at all like the seventeen year old she remembered. He looked perhaps even a bit older. This imposter looked like the years had affected him.

He stepped towards her, his worn trainers soundless and painfully familiar.

“Don't come any closer!” she shouted. Her hand was trembling now, and it hurt to watch this man impersonating Harry so well. “Just don't!”

Her tears spilled, and she was infuriated with herself for showing such emotion in the face of this stranger. “Please don't. Just stop. Just stop! Do you even know what you're doing?” The emotions kept rolling off her tongue, and she had to struggle to keep herself steady on her feet.

His hands lowered, and he looked at her with such warm apology. “Oh, Hermione… don't cry. It's me. It's really—“ He began to walk towards her.

She couldn't think. Her emotions were too powerful, and Angelica's face came to the forefront of her mind. Her daughter's safety was paramount. She would do anything for Angelica.

Her face hardened. “I said stop.”

He shook his head, openly unheeding, and he left her with no choice.

“Stupefy!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She wouldn't touch him, not even with him absolutely unconscious on her front steps. She could only stare at the unmoving body as she shook with a thousand emotions.

It was how the Aurors found her, and him.

Stupefying him had taken more from her than she realized. She had felt an overwhelming sense of guilt, that she could raise her wand to Harry's likeness and image.

But he's an imposter, she told herself over and over.

Ron had arrived with the Aurors, and it was he who shook her gently out of her stupor.

His strong hands were upon her shoulders, squeezing gently. And as if they'd never had that bitter row a few nights ago, she sank into his embrace, still shaking. Just like that, they'd made up. It was always like that when they'd had a fight. They wouldn't speak to one another for days then they'd slip back into their friendship as if nothing happened.

“Angelica's inside the house,” she managed to say. “Someone please get her… someone she knows, or else she'll Portkey to Grimmauld—“

“I'll go,” said Ron. “You going to be okay?”

Hermione nodded, bidding him go.

The lights in the house came on, and soon enough, Angelica, with Ron behind her, was pressing her face against the glass windows, watching everything with unveiled awe.

“Found Malfoy yet?” Tonks asked.

Hermione shook her head. “I haven't the slightest clue where he is.”

“How long between his disappearance and this bloke showing up at your doorstep?”

“Couldn't have been very long. A few minutes.”

Tonks nodded. “I'll have my team search the area for Malfoy. He couldn't be far, then. I hope he's still alive… never thought I'd ever say that about a Malfoy.” She began to bark orders to her team and several of them began to spread out in different directions.

The front door opened and Ron stepped out, staring at the slouched over body of her intruder, half covered in robes.

“Now, what have we here?” Tonks said, gesturing for more of her team to assist her. “We have to get this pack off. Can someone please take this? Hello! Evidence needs gathering!”

Hermione let the bustling Aurors pass.

Tonks turned over their perpetrator and stepped back with a gasp.

A hush fell on everyone as they stared, open-mouthed at the face of the stalker. Everyone knew what Harry looked like, be it friend, acquaintance, or stranger.

It was Angelica, popping out of the front door, which broke the tension.

“What's happening, mum?” she asked.

It was Ron who spoke first. “Bloody hell!”

“Uncle Ron!” gasped Angelica.

Ron, unlike Hermione, paid her no heed. “He looks exactly like Harry!”

Hermione couldn't help but think that that was the least of it.

“Merlin, no wonder Hermione's so shaken,” Tonks said, crouching to straighten the impersonator's slumped form on level ground. Her subordinates helped her, and soon, they were levitating the unconscious man on his back.

Tonks said they were ready to bring the perpetrator to the Ministry, and that the Obliviators would be hard at work most of the night in the neighborhood.

“I'll get word to you if we find Malfoy, alright?” Tonks said.

Ron looked utterly surprised. “Malfoy? What's he got to do with this?”

Tonks waved off his question, knowing Hermione would explain.

Hermione then herded Ron and Angelica back into the house as the Aurors left. She gathered Draco's manuscript again, no longer caring about how neatly she did it. She dumped the manuscript on her table and left it there for the meantime,

“What's this about Malfoy?” Ron demanded as she entered the kitchen.

“He arrived this evening insisting that I read his manuscript,” Hermione said tiredly. “I didn't want to, and we had a rather interesting scuffle. He didn't want to go away, but he wasn't really threatening, just annoying.”

“Well, why didn't you Floo me? I would've gotten rid of him for you!”

“Mum could've done that by herself if she wanted to,” Angelica chimed.

This was why Hermione loved her daughter dearly. She was a very loyal child.

“So now Tonks is looking for him,” Ron said. “Why? Did he do anything—“

Hermione tsked impatiently, wondering why she had to explain herself to Ron. She took out some pie and ice-cream from the refrigerator and began to fix Angelica a snack.

“No, he didn't,” she began patiently. “He disappeared all of a sudden, and I found his blood all over my front porch. It's why I called Tonks.”

“Humph. Good riddance, if you ask me,” Ron muttered.

Hermione pursed her lips. “Does it work like a light switch, Ron? You can just turn your intelligence on and off? Because it's like it's there one minute then gone the next!”

Angelica made a face, like she'd rather not be where the adults were fighting. She took her plate of pie and ice cream and ran out of the kitchen to hide out in the living room.

Ron watched her go and sighed. He shook his head and sat on one of the kitchen counter stools. “Take it easy, alright? I just want to make sure you're okay. I couldn't—I couldn't imagine how you feel looking at that stalker and seeing… it must have been horrible.”

Hermione tried to settle the emotions Ron's words had set to roiling, but no matter how hard she tried, she kept remembering the look on the stranger's face, the look in his eyes, and the tone of his voice. If she hadn't seen Harry killed with her own eyes, it most definitely could have been him.

But that can't be him… could it?

“It was a nightmare,” she said hastily. “How did you know? About this?”

He shrugged. “I was at Grimmauld Place. Visiting Remus…”

“Ah.”

“I was really afraid it was Bellatrix, or some unknown Death Eater they forgot to catch back then…”

Hermione nodded, expelling a breath. “I was afraid of that, too. I don't know… I don't know if this isn't worse, though. God, Ron. When I saw that face… I couldn't hex him at first. I just froze and all I kept thinking was that if I hurt him, I would be hurting Harry. He's still…” She groped for a word.

“There?” suggested Ron quietly.

Hermione sighed and looked away. “Fleur's right. I've a death-grip on his memory. It's like I'm afraid I'd stop loving him if I find someone else, and that it'll kill me. He was everything I lived for back then and I couldn't seem to let go of that.”

Ron fidgeted uncomfortably on his seat, unable to meet her eyes, as well.

She felt that she had to start making a conscious effort to let go. She had let her misery and longing for Harry hold sway for too long, thinking that it was the only way she could live.

No more.

Fleur was right. It wasn't healthy.

She stalked over to her refrigerator. “Ron, look at this. Look.”

He stared for a moment, more perplexed than he ever had been. “At the egg rack?”

“Can you just please come closer?”

Ron dragged himself off his seat and stood beside her.

She held him in place as she began to manipulate the flap on the egg rack. “Watch closely.”

It was a crude charm she fashioned out of a standard cloaking spell. A cloaking spell would prevent her from seeing Harry's picture if she didn't end the spell, so she would have to cast the spell over and over again, not to mention the fact that she was likely to get caught every time she undid the spell, so this spell, while not as undetectable as a cloaking spell, did cast a rather effective optical illusion.

One would be able to see the picture if the flap was flipped slowly enough, and if you held it at a certain angle, the picture could be seen plain as day.

Hermione waited until Ron saw it, and when he did, she could see the look of sheer exasperation on his face.

“Oh, Hermione, you didn't!” he cried.

She nodded, embarrassed. “It's been there for seven years. No one but Angelica has noticed. It's one of many I have around the house… and in the car… and in my purse… it's a security blanket of sorts. It's pathetic. It's crazy, but I don't think I could've survived my misery without it. Do you think I've gone mad?”

“Completely.”

She rolled her eyes and closed the refrigerator door. “Starting tonight, I'm going to take all of it down and… and… d'you think I should burn them?”

“Well, there's no need for that melodrama. Just store them some place. Keep `em in a box in the attic.”

“Will you help me?”

“Absolutely. Come on, then. Let's start with the refrigerator.”

Taking a deep breath, Hermione nodded.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It became a game for Angelica—finding the pictures. They were everywhere in the house, and they filled up a hatbox really quickly. The only pictures they left were the ones in Angelica's room and the one Hermione secretly had kept between the mattresses of her bed, which she would put away when she was all by herself. It was her favorite one of him and her in sixth year, taken by Creevey while they were giggling over gossip about Madame Pince and Filch. It was special, and setting it aside would be hardest for her, so it would require some quiet time by herself.

Hermione and Ron trudged up the dusty, but orderly attic, and set the box in one of the more inconspicuous corners.

“Blimey, Hermione, I didn't know you had all this junk,” Ron grumbled.

Hermione shrugged. “Most of them were gifts from people I don't know. I still get the sort from time to time, don't you?”

“Yeah, I guess… this a good place for the box?”

She nodded. “That'll do. Listen, Ron… I'm—I'm really sorry when I get on your case about—about Angelica. I know… I know you just care, and that you love her very much.”

He began to look uncomfortable again, and his face had gone really, really red. “Yes, well… she's not the only reason why I'm sticking around, if you know what I mean.”

She shouldn't really resent him for it. Men have done worse things to get her attention, and at least with Ron, she knew he was sincere about his affection for her daughter.

She wondered if…

No. Don't go there. Harry would want me to be happy, but he'd want me to be with someone I truly thought of as a lover, and not just as a best friend…

Another mental picture of the stranger standing on her front walkway surfaced. She couldn't get over how like Harry the stranger was. It was almost as if she was ready to believe that it really was Harry—that she'd imagined his death, and that somehow, he had returned after seven years of absence.

Who was he? Why would he do this? Why?

Was he really a stalker? It seemed like an awful lot of trouble to get into her life, Polyjuicing himself as and acting exactly like Harry…

Where would he even get the tissue samples to turn into Harry?

It seemed so impossible, yet it was the only logical explanation for now…

That's not true, and you've thought about it on other nights.

Yes, when my brain is on Depression Crack—

You didn't see him burn. You didn't see his body disappear. Perhaps he hadn't really been burning. Perhaps he…

“Goodness, I have to talk to Tonks,” Hermione grumbled, pushing herself to her feet.

Ron seemed surprised. “What? Why?”

“I have to talk to her about Ha—the suspect. I'm going to drive myself insane thinking. I just—I'm going to the Ministry.”

“Mum!” Angelica shrieked from beneath the attic door. “Auntie Tonks is here!”

“Perfect timing!” Hermione said resolutely—a woman on a mission.

Hastily, she scurried down the attic steps and Tonks met them, looking absolutely confused.

“I think perhaps you two have to come to the Ministry right now,” said Tonks. She looked horribly distracted, her hair was rapidly changing color, and she was tripping over floor rugs again. “Go play in the living room, dear,” she hastily told Angelica.

Angelica pouted and rolled her eyes, but she did as she was told, sitting on the bay window seat.

Hermione nodded. “Yes, I was just going to Floo you about it.”

Tonks shook her head, then nodded, then shook her head. “Alright, you have to calm down.”

Ron looked at her uncertainly. “Erm, we are calm, Tonks. You're the one who needs to breathe.”

Tonks waved his words away. “It's about that stalker. Okay, first and foremost, he managed to stand up to all those Polyjuice tests. Whatever potion he used, it's not responding to any of the antidotes we have in our cupboards.”

Hermione could feel her eyes bugging out as Tonks's words began to register.

Tonks went on. “So we revived him, and first thing he asks for is you, Hermione. He's said very little at first. He just kept saying he wanted to talk to you, but then he began to talk crazy.”

“Crazy?” asked Ron.

Tonks nodded. “He began… he began to spout stuff off. At first they were sthings about the Order—you know, during that time. Most of them were Order secrets, but since a lot of those secrets have been revealed, I kept second-guessing myself. Then he began talking about Avalon, and King Arthur's sword, and… and… he said you two would know…”

Hermione had stepped back. She had lost feeling from the neck down. She struggled against passing out.

“I don't know what it all means,” Tonks said. “But he did have a sword with him. In his pack. Nutters as all—“

“He what!” Ron cried.

“Really plain, though. I don't think King Arthur would've carried a sword as plain as that…”

Hermione felt herself pale.

“It's all very weird,” said Tonks. “He kept babbling, and he said that Zack—no, Zeke. Zeke's turtles, or something. I don't know what the bloody hell he's talking about… erm, Hermione, please tell me this is not making sense to you, because if it is…”

She was cold. Very cold. Yet this strange sweat had broken out of her forehead.

She couldn't move. Not yet. It was all so very strange.

Angelica gave a delighted yell, giggling and pointing at something outside the window. “Oh, mum, look! Come see! The prettiest owl's sitting on our porch railing! Oh, mum, it's so beautiful! It's all white and—“

Hermione didn't wait to hear anymore. She bounded to the door and swung it open.

Sitting just where Angelica said it would be was Hedwig, and tied to her claw was a wand. Harry's wand.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As soon as Fleur arrived with Julien to baby sit Angelica, Hermione, Ron, and Tonks left for the Ministry.

They trailed Tonks at a fast pace.

“I don't even know why we're so freaked out about this,” Hermione grumbled as they speed-walked through the halls of the ministry, Tonks's boots clacking noisily as they went. “He could just be a really, really clever imposter.”

Just keep telling yourself that, Hermione, and you'll be fine.

Tonks said nothing as they continued to lead the way to the Auror department.

They were led to a room where the perpetrator's backpack and its contents were laid out on a table. Most of the things were quite standard for camping. He had a few Galleons, and pounds as well. The only thing that really stood out was the sword, and Hermione went straight to it.

She picked it up, and instantly, she felt that strange vibration—heard the melodious hum. She dropped the sword, stepping away. She read the runes, and it said, “Live for justice and courage, and you shall be immortal.”

“Hermione?” came Ron's voice. “Is it—“

“It's the sword,” she said.

“Bloody hell…”

Hermione turned to Tonks. “I want to talk to him. Alone.”

Tonks and Ron began to protest at the same time, but Tonks silenced Ron with a glare.

“I didn't say you can talk to him alone,” Tonks pointed out. “He can be dangerous. We don't know who this person is. All he keeps saying is that he's Harry, he's Harry—“

Hermione stood to full height and summoned her haughtiest expression. There was no denying the reality of the situation anymore. With everything she had seen, she finally had to face the possibility she had been denying since she found him standing on her porch.

“What if he is?”

Tonks and Ron stared at her.

“You can't be serious!” Tonks cried. “Hermione—“

“I spoke to this person, Tonks. Every word he said, and every look in his eyes—“ Hermione paused, clenching her fists as she fought to find the words. “He was perfect. I don't even know if it's in the realm of possibility that someone can successfully imitate anyone so closely that you'd—you'd be shaking to your very bones at the sheer there-ness of the impersonation…”

“But Hermione,” Ron said, the disbelief in his gaze palpable. “You can't seriously—all of it could be faked! You know this, don't you?”

“But the sword is real. Only five people knew about it, Ron. You, me, Harry, Snape, and Malfoy. We know Malfoy never got his hands on it. They found him unconscious in a storage room after the battle, remember? They brought him straight to the Ministry!”

Ron kept shaking his head. “Harry's—I saw him burn! I saw—“

“Did you watch every second of it, Ron? Did you see flesh burning from bone?”

Ron looked revolted. “What are you—I couldn't! I couldn't stand there and keep watching! You know that. Nobody could! And it took only a few seconds. The next time anybody looked, it was just ash, and—and nothing. There was nothing left! And we had to take you to St. Mungo's!”

“And I was the one who was Muggle-raised,” Hermione hissed at the sheer irony—that she, Muggle-born, would be the only one in the room thinking that magic could make anyone believe anything. “I need to talk to him. I need to see this person and decide for myself—“

“That's not Harry!” yelled Ron.

“Nobody knows that! Look around you! There are pieces of him everywhere! Hedwig! His wand! The sword! Did you see what that bloke was wearing? He even dresses the same way as Harry!”

Ron's eyes widened. “So what are you saying? That his burning was all an illusion?”

“Maybe. I don't know! Which is why I have to speak to this person. I need to figure it out for myself.”

Ron looked to Tonks, and Tonks looked quite tired.

“Have you asked him where Malfoy is?” Hermione asked.

Tonks nodded. “He put Malfoy on the Knight Bus. Sent him home unconscious. I've sent a detail to fetch him…”

“Well, that actually does sound a bit like Harry, doesn't it?” Ron remarked sardonically.

“Tonks, please,” Hermione said. “It's not like I'd be completely alone. You and Ron will be here. And you've got other Aurors on back-up. You'll have everything said in there on record…”

Sighing, Tonks nodded to one of the Aurors who immediately left the room.

“Alright,” said Tonks. “But give me your wand.”

Hermione did.

“Follow me.”

Tonks led the way, following the path the Auror had taken. They walked through two doors and found themselves in a room with a one-way wall.

In it, the Auror was telling the imposter, “I don't want any funny business when she's in here, understand?”

The stranger stared at the Auror for a moment, and Hermione could have sworn she could detect indignation, like the Auror's suggestion that he would ever hurt her angered him. It sent her heart thumping wildly, and she had to tell herself to calm down.

“I understand,” the stranger said, hands balling to fists on the tabletop.

“Hold out your hands,” the Auror said.

The stranger did as he was told, and the Auror bound them with shackles.

“And your feet?”

The stranger turned on his seat and his ankles were bound in the same manner.

As the Auror made sure that the shackles were secured, the stranger spoke.

“I can remove them if I wanted to, you know.”

Hermione didn't know why, but that sent quite an unpleasant chill through her. That hadn't sounded like the Harry she knew. Oh, there was no doubt that Harry would have said something like that to their enemies, but if this was really Harry, he would not have considered the Auror an enemy, and he would not have spoken such a chilling warning.

For a moment, the Auror seemed uncertain in the stranger's gaze, but the Auror's facial expression hardened and he shook his head.

The Auror stepped out, meeting them as he closed the door behind him. “He's ready. Ms. Granger, if we feel you're being threatened in any way, we're going in there whether you like it or not, so keep the conversation nice and easy. Understand?”

Hermione nodded, taking a deep breath as she readied herself to enter the interrogation room.

Bracing herself, she finally pushed the door open.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They could only stare at one another once she stepped into the room.

She couldn't find the words, and it looked as if neither could he.

It was because of his eyes. So many times she had dreamed of him looking at her just like this, and now that she wasn't dreaming—knew that she was awake and that it was all real, she couldn't bear it. She had to tell herself: You don't know if it's him. It couldn't be him. It's not him!

She closed the door firmly behind him and slowly sat herself down across him on the table. She glanced briefly at the wall, where she should've been seeing Tonks and Ron, but the wall was blank, like it was solid. It was hard to feel that she was being watched over.

But for the presence of the stranger, she felt true isolation.

“I won't hurt you, so you don't have to worry if they can see you,” he said quietly.

She didn't quite know what to say, or where to begin. On the one hand, it seemed silly to demand from him who he was, since he was probably just going to say that he was Harry, and yet, she had to ask, and she had to hear it from him.

“Who are you?” she asked.

He took a deep breath, like she had struck him, and she felt so guilty, but she hardened her heart, watching for how he was going to answer.

“It's me,” he said, meeting her gaze without the slightest waver. “It's Harry, and you know I'm telling the truth. You would know I'm telling the truth.”

Her fingers curled into fists, willing herself not to get lost in the tide of his oh-so-familiar voice, and the warmth in his eyes. “Why are you doing this?”

He didn't seem discouraged by her frosty tone. “I wanted to see you. Talk to you.”

“Why did you have to hurt Malfoy? Harry would've never—“

His gaze hardened. “Never? He was harassing you. He took out his wand. I thought he was going to hurt you. And since when were you concerned about what happens to Malfoy?”

She refused to be baited. “You were following me all day, weren't you? I felt it, you know.”

He paused a moment and smiled ever so slightly. “It wasn't me. I wasn't following you, but there were… creatures that were. They told me about Malfoy, and so I came, and I got rid of him for you.”

She could only stare at him in disbelief. “I got rid of him for you,” he had said. Just like that, he had disposed of Malfoy because he thought Malfoy was threatening her.

Ron had said the exact same thing…

Hermione glared at the stranger—at this impostor. “Then why did you have to be so secretive about it? Why did you have to spirit him away and—and act like it was so mysterious and—“

“I have my reasons,” he said, somewhat gruffly. “One of which, I didn't want our first meeting in seven years to be you watching me clobber Malfoy.”

“Oh, well, our meeting, without Malfoy, turned out much better, didn't it?” she said sardonically.

He actually smirked. “Could've been better, yes.”

She refused to get sidetracked by that grin.

“There were crows,” she said. “And Hedwig was there, too. What are they, your familiars?”

“Crows…” The stranger shrugged. “Only one of them is mine. I suppose Imogen likes the company of her kind.”

He had evaded her real question.

“And Hedwig… she's usually better at hiding herself,” he continued. “You saw her?”

She pursed her lips momentarily. “I wasn't sure at first, but she's at my house right now…”

“With my wand. Yeah, I asked her to do that. You know… just in case none of you believed me.”

Hermione felt her hands growing cold. “It doesn't prove anything.”

He finally turned his gaze away. He looked tired. After a bit, he looked up at her again, the intensity of his gaze taking her breath away. “Ask me something only the two of us would know.”

A hot flush rose from her chest, up her neck, and then her face. The countless things only she and Harry would know was not for everyone to hear, and it irked her that she could think such unholy thoughts in such an un-private setting—and in the presence of this stranger, too. But the look his eyes, so deeply green, was so involving. It could make her think of nothing else.

Frantically, she tried to think of something less intimate, something that could be said out loud without scandalizing anyone.

“Stick figures,” she began. “You once drew them on my notepad seven years ago. What did they look like?”

His eyebrow arched, and for a moment, she didn't think he would bite, but he smiled, and he began to chuckle softly. “They were of you, me, and Ron. My stick figure had a scar and a snitch. Ron had a broken wand and a dun's—ahem, wizard's hat—“

Hermione felt herself begin to shake.

“And you,” he continued with a knowing smirk. “You had a book and spew buttons. Two of them. Evenly round.”

His descriptions were perfect, and yet, for some reason, she refused to believe. It was too great, the surrender. Letting herself believe that this was Harry could lead to a world of pain if it turned out it wasn't.

And maybe worse if it was…

“Anything else?” he asked gently when she said nothing for a good while.

She just sat there, telling herself that this wasn't happening. It couldn't possibly be real.

“In Avalon,” he began without prompting. “We were sitting by the lake, and we talked about us. You told me why you acted the way you did in sixth year, and I told you how much you meant to me. You remember, don't you?”

Every word. She didn't say it out loud, and she showed no outer reaction, but she kept staring at him, waiting for him to falter, make some kind of mistake. That conversation had meant the world to her. It had healed so many wounds, and it was the reason she named her daughter—their daughter Angelica. If he made the slightest indication that he was faking it, she would possibly spit on his face and leave that room forever.

He went on. “I told you that I thought of you—I thought of you as my guardian angel. I still do. I couldn't have—I couldn't have survived these last few years without remembering you like that. You wouldn't believe what I had to go through to get here, and yet still… you have to believe it's me, because if you don't, then no one will. Nobody knows me better than you do.”

“Nobody knows me better than you do.”

Hermione shook and she pulled away as he reached for her. She stood so quickly that her chair toppled back on its legs.

He seemed alarmed. “I-I'm sorry.”

She realized she was crying, and at first she didn't know why, but in another heartbeat, she realized that if she had to accept that this person was Harry, that Harry hadn't died, and that he had been alive all these years, she'd have to ask the questions “Where have you been?” and “Why did you keep away from us?”

Because that was the reality of it, wasn't it? He hadn't been there when he needed her, and that she had been crying herself to sleep and waking these last seven years for the wrong reasons.

Stop it, Hermione! You can't go down that road yet! You don't know what's going on!

She needed to think. Turning, she stormed out of the room and slammed the door close behind her. She pressed her hands to her face and she felt Ron's arms enfold her. She wasn't in the mood to be comforted.

She pushed him away. “Not now, Ron! Did you hear what he said in there?”

Ron scowled, and he looked like he was ready to argue, but Tonks cut in.

“Were all of those things he said true?” Tonks demanded.

“Yes. Everything,” Hermione replied. She began to take deep breaths to try and calm herself. “And nobody else could've known about it. No one!”

Tonks paled. “W-Well, what does that mean? Hermione—“

“I don't know what that means!” Hermione yelled, yet she was lying, because she knew what it meant. She just couldn't say it just yet. “I mean—Lord, Tonks, Harry's dead, isn't he? He's gone and he's—“

Sharp raps on the door interrupted her and an Auror came in holding up a sealed envelope.

“There's a letter for Ms. Granger. It's spelled as important and it's from Gringotts. The owl kicked up a fantastic fuss when we told it to wait until Ms. Granger was done—“

Hermione didn't even wait for him to finish. She had a strong feeling she knew what would be in the Gringotts correspondence. She snatched the envelope, broke the seal and read its contents.

~~

Ms. Hermione Granger,

This letter purports to inform you that your Guardianship of the contents of Vault No. 687, with respect to its owner, Ms. Angelica Grace Granger, heir of Mr. Harry James Potter, has been rescinded. We were recently informed by the Hall of Records that as of half past the nineteenth hour of the 15^th of May, Mr. Harry James Potter regained corporeal existence, and therefore all estate transactions resulting from his previously reported death will thus be ratified. In this vein, ownership of the same vault shall, at present, be held in trust for Ms. Angelica Grace Granger by Mr. Harry James Potter. He may then file for a request in person thereof, that ownership be reverted back to him, upon which case Ms. Angelica Grace Granger must submit her confirmation of that ownership with the signature of her legal guardian, or parent, as defined by the Wizarding Family Laws of the Kingdom of Britain.

Please surrender the key of Vault No. 687 to Gringotts within fifteen (15) days of receipt of this letter.

Yours, in service,

Sk.

Mr. Safekeep

Vaults Manager

Gringotts Bank

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

TBC

-->

A/N: Like—finally, I get this done!!!!

Thanks to Tome Raider, I was able to even out something very important. Hopefully, this works better than the first version. ^_^

Chapter Twelve: Return of the Hero

Hermione noted the bank seal beside Mr. Safekeep’s signature and knew that the document was authentic.

Without flinching, she handed the note over for Tonks to read.

Hermione turned to leave the room.

Ron scowled. “Where are you going?”

“I need to think,” she said, leaving Ron to puzzle over the matter on his own.

She barged through the Ministry doors, scaring Aurors as she went. She needed air, and peace and quiet. She walked briskly to the fireplaces and Flooed to the highest level where she made her way to the lift leading to the Telephone Box.

As she entered the lift, she immediately pressed the close button to prevent anyone else from entering the car with her. She paid no attention to the complaints as she let the doors close on them all.

She stepped out of the box when it emerged on Strand and she took breaths of the London air. It was tinged with that oily, city smell, but it was better than the stifling feeling that was closing in on her down in the Ministry.

People were milling about, but everyone was minding their own business, and she found comfort in that. She could rail and scream, and no one would bother to ask if she was alright. They would all pretend that nothing was amiss and go about their way.

She set her gaze down Southhampton street. She began to walk to Convent Garden and from a block away, she could already see the street performers.

She swept past the performers and went straight for the railings overlooking the fountain. The landscaping around the fountain was lost to the dimness of the night, even if the area was relatively well lit. She watched the water’s choreographed arching, the sound of it a constant rain in her ears.

Gripping the railing, she closed her eyes and breathed in and out. The air was moist with fountain mist, but it was calming. The sounds around her were constant and reliable. It helped settle her nerves.

She remembered the man in the interrogation room and she wondered what she was so afraid of.

If it was indeed Harry—

How could it not be?

--then shouldn’t she be happy to have him back?

If only things were always that simple.

However steadfast her grip on Harry’s memory had been in the last seven years, she had never, ever held any hope—none in the slightest, that he was alive. She had thought of him as dead, and gone forever, and that her memories of him were all she had. When she cried herself to sleep, or awoke with tears in her eyes, it was always because she was so deeply saddened by the fact that she would never have him with her again.

But like Fleur had said, perhaps she had been addicted to the drama of it all, because after all the crying and all the misery, the seemingly immovable truth that he had died being hers was a very precious memory. Whenever she thought of him, she always believed that had he lived, he would be with them, and happy. He would be a proud father, a loving husband, and a wonderful man.

“I love you,” were his last words to her, and so nothing else mattered.

So to find out that he had been alive all this time, and that he was somewhere else, living another life while she thought him dead threw all those things off kilter. She was confused, if not hurt.

Where had he been? Why had he not come to them?

Those questions kept repeating in her mind.

Yet, she had to tell herself that if she really believed in Harry, she’d wait for an explanation—know that there was a good reason he had kept away.

Imprisoned somewhere, or trapped, maybe?

She shook her head, chastising herself.

Oh, honestly Hermione, surely you’re not that selfish. That would’ve been horrible for Harry…

She lifted her eyes to the London sky.

Harry… that’s Harry.

It was Harry. It couldn’t be anybody else.

He was right. Nobody knew him better than she did, and she had felt him the moment she looked into his eyes on her front walkway.

Her heart began to beat wildly in her chest.

“It’s Harry…” she whispered.

It was as if the realization flared to life when she said it out loud, and the horror of remembering him in those chains, in that room, thinking that she didn’t believe him, overwhelmed her.

“Harry!” she gasped, breaking off into a run back to the Ministry.

She wove through the milling pedestrians, dodging tourists and sightseers fluidly.

When she reached the red telephone box, she punched in the numbers quickly, telling the box to bring her to the Auror Department.

She swung the door to the box open as soon as it came to a halt and almost crashed into Ron.

“Where the hell have you been?” Ron cried, grabbing her arm to keep them both from tripping. He ushered them to the side so that they could get out of the way.

“Thinking,” Hermione said hastily. “Ron, I’m going back in there, and I’m going to have him released.”

“What!” His face had turned red with outrage. “Hermione, you can’t be serious!”

“It’s him, Ron. It’s him. I know it is—“

His lips pursed inflexibly. “Harry is dead, Hermione, and a letter from Grigotts doesn’t prove anything.”

She frowned. “If Gringotts is wrong, then the Hall of Records is wrong, too.”

Ron’s chin jutted out stubbornly. “The Hall of Records isn’t infallible.”

“The Hall of Records could only be tampered with if you use a lot of dark magic, a lot of Galleons, and oh—I’m thinking, no less than three perpetrators. No wizard, no matter how powerful, can do it all by himself!”

Ron turned red with sheer annoyance. “Then maybe he isn’t working alone!”

Hermione gave an exasperated sigh. “What advantage would tampering with that record get anyone?”

“Why, Galleons! Harry’s got loads of gold in his vault!”

Hermione rolled her eyes and shook her head. “What are you blithering about? It’s not that huge of an amount, Ron. It’s considerable, but split it three ways—less the cost of actually accomplishing it—and it just isn’t worth the trouble!”

“Oh, you’ve got that all figured out, haven’t you?” Ron shot back sardonically.

The sarcasm grated at Hermione’s nerves, and it pushed her temper to the limit. “And here I thought you’d only be too glad to have Harry alive. I almost get the feeling that you don’t actually want him to be back.”

The moment she said it, she realized the utter cruelty of her words.

She saw anger like no other spark from Ron’s eyes. His shoulders tensed and his hands balled into fist. He looked so furious that Hermione actually believed for a second that he would hit her, but of course he didn’t.

Ron simply turned and walked away from her, saying nothing as he stormed into the telephone box and disappeared up the lift.

Hermione found herself catching her breath as she closed her eyes and chastised herself for saying such a horrible thing. How could she have said those things to Ron when she herself had almost wanted the man in the interrogation room to be an imposter? Because Harry’s return would be anything but simple. She knew it, and Ron knew it.

Even now, with the firm belief that Harry had indeed returned, she couldn’t help but wonder what sort of changes seven years had wrought in him.

Does he still… feel the same way for me?

The question spun knots in her stomach.

For a moment, she considered going after Ron to apologize to him—tell him she hadn’t meant what she said, but she realized that by doing that she would only be stalling for time, and that would be most terrible of her—using Ron while making Harry wait…

It was a terrible thing to think, yes, but the years had taught her all too well that Ron could never stay mad at her for very long.

Sighing at her own bad behavior, she made her way to the Auror Department, intent on freeing Harry Potter.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He had been staring at the door for over an hour, praying each second that Hermione would walk right through it and knock him over with one of her bone-crushing embraces.

He supposed there were many things about this meeting that had turned out worse than he expected.

Sighing, he threaded his fingers through his hair.

I could hear Snape already. “I told you so.”

He had never been good at planning things, anyway. The only one he ever did trust when it came to planning was Hermione, and she hadn’t been there to plan their meeting. Snape had suggested that he actually kidnap Hermione then work on convincing her from there.

The suggestion had been vehemently rejected. Under no circumstance would Harry ever threaten her like that, not even if it was to convince her that he wasn’t an imposter.

The meeting was a result of instinct—another thing he relied on, and he was so sure that the moment he touched her—held her in his arms, she would know it was him.

He hadn’t anticipated that she would feel threatened by him—threatened enough to hex him. He thought he had her convinced. He had seen it in her eyes, that she wanted to believe him, but something happened—like she had remembered something, and she found the strength to Stupefy him unconscious.

She remembered that she’d lived the last seven years with the firm reality that you were dead, genius.

The fact that that misconception existed always slipped his mind, even while he had constantly worried in the last few years how terrible it would be for Hermione and Ron.

He wondered if Ron was out there, watching him.

There are a lot of things I wonder about when it comes to Ron…

Snape had stalwartly refused to give him any kind of access to news about the lives of Ron and Hermione, just that they were alive and well. To a certain degree, Harry could understand why. By keeping him in the dark about their lives, Harry could focus on what he had to do.

“If you want to see them, you have to get better,” Snape had said without the slightest hint that he cared one way or the other.

Get better…

He scoffed at the thought.

On the other hand, it wasn’t as if Snape liked being there, either. He was somewhat of a prisoner and Snape’s release was contingent upon Harry “getting better” as Snape termed it.

Well, I’m not better, but I have to be here, or else—

The door opened and Tonks walked in with Aurors behind her. One of the Aurors approached him and began to undo his bindings. When he was free, the Aurors walked out, leaving Tonks alone, though the door was kept open.

Tonks seemed to wait for the Aurors to leave completely, the slamming of another door seeming to prompt her to continue.

“You’re free to go… Harry,” Tonks said, her eyes reflecting caution, as well as hope.

He would let her figure it out in her own time. He had more important things to think about right now, like why he was being released. “Just like that I’m free to go?”

“Hermione arranged it,” Tonks said evenly. “She submitted some paperwork… lots of red tape. I’m also working on keeping the press out of this. You ought to be free of ‘em in the next few days as long as you lie low… Harry—if you really are Harry—“

“I am,” he said quietly. His heart was thumping in his chest—excitement, maybe, that Hermione was, just like old times, getting him out of trouble, because she believed him. She must. She must.

Tonks’s eyes amazingly began to tear up, though she blinked quickly, and the glassy look in her gaze was gone. “I’m only letting you go because I trust Hermione’s judgment. She would never put An—anyone in danger by setting you free, she trusts that you will do no one harm.”

Harry wasn’t quite sure what to say.

Tonks wasn’t expecting a response. She turned and led him out of the room and through the Auror department. He got a few curious stares from the personnel, but they didn’t seem overly astonished by his appearance. A few onlookers shrugged casually, and signaled that he was some crazy person. He found that he much preferred no one else believed he was back. It would make things less complicated, at least for the first few days.

Tonks stopped them at a door and she held its knob tentatively. “I’d like to bring Remus to see you, if you don’t mind. Tomorrow, perhaps. Day after that if you prefer.”

Remus…

Of course he would like to see Remus. “Tomorrow would be fine.”

Tonks nodded and pushed open the door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Harry walked through the door, Hermione stood from her cushioned seat, her hands fidgeting nervously. She never thought she would ever feel like she was eighteen again, uncertain of where she stood in the heart of Harry Potter.

It had been seven years since he last saw her, and many things had happened between now and then. She found that in spite of her certainty, in his absence, that he would love her—well, forever, she realized that it was all very different when faced with the reality that they had actually been separated by distance, not death, for seven years.

How did she look to him? What did he think of her? Had he kept his feelings for her all these years like she had for him, or had he been so occupied with whatever his ordeal had been to be thinking of silly notions of love? Or worse, maybe he had found someone else…?

He had said the thought of her had gotten him through all these years, but had he thought of her as a lover, or his best friend?

That he had gone through something, she did not doubt. Harry was of course older than when she last saw him, but he was still young being in his early twenties. Still, when she stared into his eyes in the interrogation room, saw the details of the shadows on his face, she could see how exhausted he was—worn. There were fading scars on his arms, and his hands were rough with use. His body, though broader, was lean, like the muscles had been stretched tight over him. His shoulders were slightly hunched.

He had reminded her of Remus, long ago, when no one cared for him, when the toll of his lycanthropy seemed to wear at him day after day after day.

She suddenly wished she didn’t look so—as Fleur would term it—unglamorous.

It was difficult to stand there and look confident in old jeans, sneakers, and a plain blue v-neck tee shirt.

His penetrating gaze did nothing to ease her uncertainty.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice sending her insides in turmoil. “Tonks said you processed my release. Y-You didn’t have to.”

It sounded too formal in spite of the warmth in his voice, and it broke her. She remembered the boy who didn’t think he deserved anything good because he had been raised to believe he had been a burden. She saw the boy who talked about being made to sleep in the cupboard under the stairs, and she remembered the boy who had never received any kind of human affection before she came around and embraced him, telling him to be careful.

She didn’t even think about it when she launched herself into his arms, stifling her tears, and whispering, “I can’t believe it. I can’t, but it’s you, isn’t it? You’re back! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hex you. Oh, you’re back! You’re back, Harry!”

For a moment, it was all her arms, and her murmured words, but then she felt his arms, and they were around her, embracing her so fiercely that she felt herself lifted from the ground.

She didn’t know why she was so surprised. She had felt his arms around her before, and she believed she would never forget what it felt like, but the impact of reality left her blinking from shock, and she realized that memories could only recall so much.

His embrace was warm. It was a hundred times better than she remembered.

She felt his breath on her neck, and she heard the gentle timbre of his voice.

“It’s alright. I’m alright. It’s going to be okay…” he murmured.

His voice rippled down her spine, like satin threads spindling down her body.

It was unnerving, the way he affected her so quickly, and she pulled away from him slowly, but surely. She turned to lead him to another door. She was already asking him if he had a place to stay when his hand slid into hers. His grip was strong and reassuring.

“Do you really believe it’s me?” he asked. There was no demand; just complete surrender.

Her heart wrenched. “Yes, Harry. I know it’s you.”

He smiled, and it was just as she remembered it.

She smiled right back, tearfully. She couldn’t help it. “And you’re coming home… with me.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione pushed her front door open, taking a deep breath to steady her nerves. She was about to deal with Fleur and it was not going to be easy.

Fleur was asleep on the couch, paperwork scattered on the coffee table right next to Draco’s manuscript. The paperwork was filled with curse breaking spells.

Julien was probably already asleep in the guestroom.

Hermione owed Fleur one. She hadn’t realized her trip to the Ministry would take so long, and she knew Fleur and Julien must be exhausted from their trip to France for the Beauxbaton fair.

She turned to Harry who was stepping across the threshold, his eyes roving to his surroundings. He hitched his backpack higher, as if he wasn’t willing to let it go.

He had been quiet as they traveled. When they stepped out of the telephone box from the Ministry, he had taken her hand, and while that had given her numerous flutters, he hadn’t said anything—hadn’t even looked like he was thinking anything. He just walked beside her, his hand in hers, as they made their way to the Apparition point together.

She had Side-alonged him. He didn’t have his wand, and when they appeared on the other side, he had simply given her a tiny smile before going back to surveying his surroundings.

She had a feeling he was doing it to avoid conversation. It wasn’t as if it was the first time he saw her street, but she didn’t push. Besides, he was still holding her hand, and that made up for a lot of things.

Now they were in her house, and he was still looking around him.

“Um, Harry?”

His gaze fell on her expectantly, and she felt undone all over again. She was brought back several years, that first time he ever laid eyes on her on the Hogwarts Express. She remembered the open curiosity in his eyes, like they said, “Whatever you have to say, I know I’ll find it interesting,” because everything else around him had been one amazing thing after the next, and that she couldn’t possibly be any less fantastic. She could tell by his eyes that she hadn’t disappointed him. It had felt good, and now she was reliving that feeling again, though she couldn’t imagine that what she had to say next was anything as closely fascinating.

“Give me a moment, won’t you?” she whispered, closing the door behind him and turning the locks.

He nodded, the corner of his lip lifting slightly as he shoved his hands in his pockets. Slightly flustered, she hastened to go to Fleur.

She gently nudged Fleur awake.

Fleur cracked open her beautiful blue eyes. “You are back…” she murmured, rubbing her eyes. “’Ow did eet go at ze Ministry?”

Hermione chose her words. “Very confusingly. Ron and I fought again.”

Fleur rolled her eyes and pushed herself up to sit. “Floo me when you ‘ave shagged. Zis fighting is getting tedious.”

Hermione felt her face grow hot, hoping to God that Harry hadn’t heard that. “Oh, Fleur, really! Where’s Julien?”

“In ze guestroom. I will get go get ‘im. If ‘e was not so tired, ‘e would ‘ave insisted on staying up late wiz Angelica. I cannot believe I was able to send them off to bed so early.”

“Thank you for this, Fleur. I know you have better things to do with your time—“

Fleur waved off her words as she got up to head for the guestroom. “You would ‘ave done ze same for me.” She disappeared at the bend, and from the corner of her eye, Hermione saw Harry discretely making his way to the kitchen and behind its swinging door.

Hermione hadn’t told Harry to do that, but she was grateful he had the sensitivity to lie low for the meantime.

Fleur came back out with Julien sleepily rubbing his eyes.

Hermione smiled at him apologetically. “I’m sorry I interrupted your sleep, monsieur. I didn’t mean to stay out so late. Thank you for keeping Angelica company.”

Julien yawed. “You’re very welcome, Aunt Hermione. ”

Fleur nudge her son gently. “Now go kiss Auntie goodbye and goodnight.”

Hermione leaned over for the kiss and Julien pecked it on her cheek.

“Bonne nuit, tantine,” murmured Julien.

“Bonne nuit,” Hermione replied, ruffling his hair affectionately.

“I shall see you, cherie,” Fleur said, exchanging cheek kisses with her. “I ‘id a jar of bonbon au chocolat for you and Angelica in your kitchen cabinet. Tell ‘er it is a reward from me for serving ‘er detention well.”

Hermione kept thanking her and she saw them to the door.

When she walked back into the living room, two things happened.

One, Harry walked out of the kitchen, and two, Angelica appeared at the top of the staircase.

Hermione had intended to talk to Harry about Angelica, of course, but she had hoped she could do it carefully—with proper deliberation, but now she saw that plan detonating before her very eyes. She panicked, and just stood there, watching it unravel at the seams.

Angelica rubbed at her eyes sleepily. “Mum, did Aunt Fleur say chocolate bonbons?”

Hermione saw Harry freeze mid-step, then he looked up, and Angelica looked down.

For several seconds, they stared at one another wordlessly.

Hermione had to remind herself to breathe.

Hastily, she made her way up the staircase and ushered Angelica back to her room. “I’m sorry sweetheart. Did we wake you? Aunt Fleur did indeed bring bonbons, but you can’t have them until tomorrow. Back to bed you go.”

“Mum, who’s that man downstairs?” Angelica asked softly, trying to get another glimpse of Harry. “He looks an awful lot like—“

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow, darling. Mum’s a little out of sorts right now and must not be trusted to speak sense at the moment.”

Angelica shot her mother an odd look but said nothing.

Hermione tucked Angelica into bed.

“Mum?” Angelica asked as Hermione pulled the covers over her.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

Angelica started for a bit then pursed her lips. Her eyes roved to the picture of Harry on her bedside table and Hermione held her breath, seeing the intelligence in her daughter’s eyes gleaming brighter than ever.

She knows, thought Hermione wearily, and suddenly, she wished she could talk to her daughter about Harry now, but she had too many questions of her own, and she might give Angelica the wrong answers. Nevertheless, she didn’t want Angelica to feel like she was being shut out. “Angelica? Something you want to say? You can tell me. I’ll listen.”

Angelica shook her head. “Nothing, mum. I want to go to sleep now.”

The sigh that escaped Hermione was equal parts weariness and relief.

Tucking the covers more snugly around Angelica, Hermione sang a simple lullaby, running her fingers lightly in Angelica’s hair until clear green eyes disappeared completely behind fluttering lids and her breathing rose and fell to an even rhythm.

Quietly, Hermione crept out of Angelica’s room and braced herself for her meeting with Harry downstairs.

She saw that Harry had seated himself on the couch, hunched over with his elbows on his legs and his fingers laced behind his head.

Crookshanks sat at his feet staring up at him and mewling quietly. His tail whipped back and forth. Harry reached out and petted him and Crookshanks rose on all fours, rubbing his furry head against Harry’s hand.

She wondered how she should approach it and decided she would start by making tea.

“She nodded right off to sleep,” Hermione said nonchalantly. “Right considerate of her, I think. Let me make us some tea and we can talk, alright?”

He looked up, his eyes filled with confusion and amazement, but he said nothing, and she thought perhaps he would let her make tea.

She had just put the kettle on the fire when the kitchen door swung open and he was there.

For a moment, all they could do was stare at one another. She didn’t quite know what to say.

He shoved his hands in his pockets, fidgeted, and said, “You call her Angelica?”

For a moment, Hermione wondered if he knew about Angelica the whole time he was gone.

“I heard Fleur mention the name,” he explained, possibly seeing the question in her eyes. “Then you mentioned it, too. Just guessing…”

He didn’t know, then, which brought a bunch of other questions to mind.

She fidgeted and replied. “Her name’s Angelica Grace Granger.”

He seemed mildly surprised. “Granger?”

That jolted her. She didn’t know what he was asking. Was he… surprised that Angelica didn’t have someone else’s last name?

“Well… she’s my daughter,” she explained lamely.

He shrugged. “Yes, well… took you and I to make her, didn’t it?”

She needed to take a seat, realizing that the only surname he had expected Angelica to have was his own. What was she going to say to him? “Sorry, we weren’t married when I had Angelica,”?

Even if she tried to make it sound like a mild joke, she’d probably mess it up and sound as un-funny as she felt, because the brooding Harry Potter seemed to have complete control of this damnably serious conversation.

A look of uneasiness fell on his expression. “I am her father, aren’t I?”

That shook her out of her daze. “Yes. Of course you are, Harry. There was no one else…”

Silence fell upon them once more.

He reddened. “She got her hair and eyes from me.”

She nodded.

“But she’s prettier. She got that from her mother,” he added.

The compliment was oddly unsettling.

“I’m sorry,” he said hastily, seeming frustrated with himself. “That was completely inappropriate. I’m just—I’m a little—bit much to take in, you know?”

Her hands curled on her lap and she didn’t know why, but something inside her clicked, like a trigger, and the bullet shot out before she knew it. “You’re overwhelmed? Harry, I’ve lived the last seven years thinking you were dead! I—it was beyond the realm of hope to think that you would ever come back. I plotted the rest of my life thinking that you were—you were gone. I feel like I’ve woken up from some strange alternative reality and here you are, and you hadn’t been dead at all!”

She had to breathe. She hadn’t realized she had said all that in one go. And she didn’t know if she was angry. It didn’t feel much like anger. It just felt very intense.

He lowered his gaze. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” she wailed softly. “Don’t be sorry. Just explain to me how this happened. How—did you know about Angelica at all?”

“No,” he said without pause or hesitation as he looked her straight in the eyes. “I didn’t know. I swear. I had no idea.”

She paused to consider. “Would you have shown up if you had known?”

He tore his gaze away. He reddened, and he seemed to tense, but slowly, he nodded. “Yes…” he whispered.

Hermione breathed and there was a quiver. That, perhaps, made up for many, many things. She felt that whatever his reasons for his absence were, couldn’t possibly hurt her so badly anymore. He was still Harry, and just like she always thought, he would have been a caring father, even if by some tragedy, he didn’t love her the way she felt he used to.

She leaned back a bit, getting her emotions under control. She didn’t want to be a babbling mess. She had things to ask him, and she needed herself to be level-headed, no matter how glad she was at the confirmation that Harry would care for Angelica.

“I know I should be happy you’re back, Harry,” she said carefully. “I am. I swear, but there’s so much confusion, too. So much of it…”

Before Harry could say anything, the kettle began to whistle.

Hermione hastily attended to it, putting off the fire and gathering the cups and tea set. She fished his wand from one of the utility drawers and set it on the tray with the rest of the things.

She worked quite mechanically, and when she turned to set the tea on the kitchen island, she found that he had shifted seats, choosing a stool nearer hers. Her grip on the tray between her hands tightened.

He looked sheepish. “I can’t promise to answer all your questions, but I’ll answer all I can.”

She didn’t move. She wasn’t sure if she was ready for the answers.

“Please,” he whispered.

It was hard to say no to him when he looked at her that way. It always had been.

She set the tea on the table and took the stool near him, handing him his wand. He gave his thanks softly, pocketing the wand at his back.

He had his forearm on the table, and he leaned a bit toward her, but he wasn’t touching her.

No distractions, she thought as she fixed their tea.

She set his tea in front of him when she was done.

A small, almost melancholy smile lifted his lips. “You still know how to make my tea.”

She felt her face flame. “Yes, well… I’m still a Know-It-All even after all these years, unfortunately.”

He shook his head, though he looked quite amused. He said nothing, though, and opted to have some of his tea, waiting for her to speak.

She summoned her courage and asked the question. “Where have you been these last seven years?”

He paused. “I’ve been in Avalon.”

Her breath caught at that, and before she could stop herself, she had whispered, “Avalon… all this time?”

He seemed pained all of a sudden, and it took another moment for her to realize that it was because he was looking at her, and that her eyes were filling.

She blinked back her tears. She didn’t want them to fall.

His hand fidgeted, and it looked like he wanted to take her hand to bridge the distance between them, but he didn’t, and he just kept his hands around his teacup. “That’s what the priestesses tell me.”

That surprised her. “You—You didn’t know how long—?”

“I didn’t,” he replied quietly, his fingers tracing the patterns on the cup and his eyes following it. “I don’t—beyond the last two and half years everything was a blur…”

She tried to understand what he was saying. “Like amnesia?”

He paused, giving it a moment’s thought, then his fingers began tracing the patterns again. “I suppose you can say it was something like that.”

“Not amnesia, then?”

“Not… exactly.”

She was getting a bit more confused, and his sparing use of words, something she remembered Harry tended to do, was not much help. “So it isn’t that you forgot? Just that you… can’t make sense of the things you remember?”

“Yeah… something like that.”

He didn’t sound like he was convinced of the explanation himself, but he offered no corrections.

She let it go. If he can’t explain it himself, then there was little point in prodding, for now. “But you remember the last two and a half years clearly?”

He nodded.

“Then why didn’t you come back to me—to us?” The question had stumbled out of her before she could give it some thought, and now she had to face his answers.

His brows knotted behind his glasses. “It’s—It’s complicated. I wanted to, but I couldn’t.”

She frowned. “They kept you there? Like a prisoner?”

He finally looked at her, and he seemed shocked by her assumptions. “No. No, it wasn’t like that. I wasn’t a prisoner. I was free to come back any time, but I—“

She couldn’t speak. She waited for him to go on.

He did, but his answer confused her even more. “I just couldn’t. It was for your own good. It was better for everyone that way.”

This time, she could not hold back her tears. “No. You got it wrong. How could you say that? I watched you die, and I had to relive that moment every single time someone said your name, and whenever I read about what happened in the papers, and all those nine months I carried Angelica… I needed you, and when Angelica was born, she needed a father, and there was nothing I wanted more than to have you back, but you were gone. Do you understand what I’m saying, Harry?” She wept, and she didn’t care if he saw.

Maybe she longed for him to put his arms around her; comfort her like he used to, but he didn’t. Instead, he watched her cry with his own secret pain hiding behind the shadow of his eyes.

He reached out, and he squeezed her shoulder. He handed her his handkerchief as he softly whispered, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Hermione. I didn’t mean to hurt you like that, I swear…”

She took the offered handkerchief, using it to dry her tears.

“So now you just decided that it would be alright to show up after all these years?” she asked, her voice gone nasal.

He paused again, considering. He caressed her arm. “It was time. I—I felt I had to, no matter what.”

She couldn’t even begin to comprehend what that meant, if it meant anything at all. “So you never knew about Angelica?”

He shook his head. “Never. News about you and everyone else was kept from me, and this is the first time in seven years I’ve ever set foot outside of Avalon.”

She raised her eyebrow skeptically. “Ever?”

“Yes, ever. The first time was this evening, when I got rid of Malfoy for you.”

“Never before that?”

He shook his head.

“You were never outside my bedroom window? Never followed me around London?”

He actually smirked. “No. Never. Imogen and Hedwig were the ones following you, and they were outside your bedroom window that one time, I think.”

She shook her head. “I believed there was someone outside my house the other night and he was human—“

“He?” Harry frowned. “Malfoy, then. Creepy little bugger—“

She scowled. “It wasn’t Draco. He’s an arse, but he’s not crazy. He wouldn’t be stalking anyone, much less me. His ego wouldn’t let him.”

This did not seem to improve Harry’s disposition, but he didn’t seem to want to argue it further. “Then I have no idea who it was. I was in Avalon. I couldn’t have been anywhere near your house.”

Hermione gave it serious thought and realized that explained why the Gringotts letter stated that he “gained corporeal existence as of half past the nineteenth hour” and no sooner. Avalon existed in a different plane. It didn’t exist within the synchronized network of the Hall of Records, Gringotts, and Wizarding Schools. If anything, his story was consistent.

She sighed, hating that she kept thinking when maybe she ought to be feeling.

Finally, she took some of her tea.

“Did the papers give you a hard time?” he asked. “When they found out you were… pregnant?”

It was interesting, having to explain it to him. When all of if was happening, everyone knew on some level what she was going through. She never had to explain.

She shrugged. “It wasn’t quite so bad for me. The Daily Prophet churned out quite a bit of bull crap about who the father was. You wouldn’t believe their guesses. Rita Skeeter kept naming Death Eaters, and a few nutters cropped up claiming they were the father. I never gave out interviews, so many readers got tired of it all, eventually. I didn’t let it bother me. Ignoring them worked best, and I spent most of my leisure time in Muggle London when I was out, so people didn’t stare at me.”

He kept staring at his hands, glancing up briefly just to indicate that he was listening.

She went on. “When I gave birth, we managed to keep Angelica’s pictures off the papers. Luna and her father helped a lot with the press. I’m still very grateful to the Lovegoods for staying out of the circus. They had to publish something, of course, but they didn’t buy into the intrigue of it all. And then all the others started saying the baby was Ron’s, and that the only reason he hadn’t come out and said it was because he was denying that the baby was his.”

Harry’s brows knotted. “How did Ron take it?”

“He was livid, of course. The worst part was that of course he was going to deny it was his baby, because it really wasn’t his, but he was willing to lie to the press, tell them that Angelica was his and that he wasn’t going to deny it to anybody… you know how he gets when he’s protective and angry, he gets silly notions in his head. I told him to suck it up and he really had no choice but to do as he was told. It was quite hard for him, the poor dear. A lot of people didn’t like him for the stories they were telling about him, but the Quibbler helped. They finally came out with a ‘gossip’ column and they published many pictures of Ron keeping me company through most of my pregnancy. I think that warmed Ron to the public quickly enough.”

Harry didn’t say anything for several seconds, fiddling with the teaspoon and staring at it quite thoughtfully. “Ron took good care of you, didn’t he?”

“I suppose he did, in his own way. He’s always around when I need him, and he helps me take care of Angelica. She adores him…”

“Are you and Ron together?”

She felt her face grow hideously warm. “No, we aren’t.”

“He tries, though, doesn’t he?”

Her lips pursed. “Ask him. That’s not for me to say.”

He seemed unfazed when he nodded. “Does Angelica know who her father is?”

“Yes. She knows everything. She has your picture on her bedside table and she has a Muggle picture of you that she brings around with her.”

There was that tiny smile again, but it was fleeting.

He said nothing after that. He seemed to have run out of questions.

She had many questions, still, but she felt it best to let things unfold as the days went along. There was one question, though, that she felt compelled to ask, and it only came to her at that very moment.

“Harry, are you… are you back for good?” she asked.

He gave it a thought. “I hope so.”

And that was all he had to say about that.

She decided not to prod. She didn’t know if she could take the answers.

“You must be exhausted,” she said, rising from her seat. “Let me show you to your room.”

She really didn’t wait for him to reply, and he followed her out of the kitchen without a word. He grabbed his backpack from the living room and she brought him to the guestroom just off the kitchen.

Fleur had tidied up after Julien, so it looked neat and unused.

Hermione had always made it a point to keep the closet space clutter-free and she made sure that no dust settled in the room.

He set his pack down and she found herself standing with him at the foot of his bed, staring up at him as she thought about what to say.

“Um… if you get hungry, feel free to pop into the kitchen… there ought to be something in the refrigerator,” she said lamely. “I think I have some ice cream…”

“Thank you. I’ll remember that.”

She couldn’t think of anything else to say except goodnight, and that meant she had to leave. She didn’t want to leave, she realized, and she wondered if she seriously had the gumption to throw herself at him and kiss him.

With the bed so conveniently close…

Oh, goodness, you hadn’t slept with a man in years, Hermione, and that last one was such a heat of the moment thing that you haven’t recovered from the shame of it…

But this is Harry! No shame in it, at all. He’s the father of my child. He’s—He’s—

Probably slept with so many…

Oh, God, I’m so inexperienced. What if he thinks I’m pants at it? I haven’t had any practice!

“Goodnight,” he said.

She blinked, jolted out of her frantic thoughts. Goodnight, he had said. Could also be translated as “Goodbye, for now.”

It was difficult to let the thought register. His eyes were so intense, and his tone had seemed so honeyed. Did he really want her to go?

Snap out of it!

She did, and she nodded. “Goodnight.”

Willing herself, she left the room, closing the door behind her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning, Hermione dressed and hastened down to the kitchens. She hadn’t gotten much sleep thinking about Harry and how things seemed so impossibly the same when she felt that things had to be drastically different.

Before pushing into the kitchen, she chanced a glance at the guestroom door. She was surprised to see it open.

Gingerly, she made her way to it and cautiously peered inside.

Harry was seated on the edge of his bed, his face towards the sunny window. He appeared dressed for the day.

“Harry?” she asked.

He looked over his shoulder and smiled. “Morning.”

“Good morning. I’m making breakfast. It would be nice to have company.”

He nodded and stood. “I don’t mind helping.”

His shirt was old, and his jeans were ill-fitting again. She wondered if he would think it odd that she kept his clothes in a box in the attic. She could certainly offer it for him to wear.

She led them to the kitchen where she began to gather the ingredients for breakfast. She put some cereal and milk in front of him. “You could have some of this while you wait. It shouldn’t be long, though.”

She gave him a bowl and a spoon. He nodded at her appreciatively and eagerly partook of the cereal.

“So,” he began as she began setting out the pans. “Does Angelica go to school or do you home school her?”

It was almost funny, the flutter she felt in her stomach because he was taking an interest. “I send her to Inglewood. She wanted to go to school. She said she wanted to go like—like you and I did.”

“How does she like it?”

Hermione chose her words well. “I think she likes it well enough. Partly the way I do and partly the way you do.”

He paused. “Brilliant in school but gets in trouble all the time, does she?”

“Yes, how did you know?” she said dryly, though it still astounded her, the depth of Harry’s understanding of the things she said.

He shrugged. “Lucky guess. She’s six, isn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“When’s her birthday?”

Hermione gave him a plaintive smile. “28^th of July.”

He looked mildly surprised. “Huh… as the seventh month dies.”

Hermione gasped and dropped the spatula she was holding. It clattered over the pots and plates, creating a racket. She frantically got the situation under control.

“Are you alright?” Harry asked.

“I’m fine!” she cried, steadying her nerves. “Just… was being clumsy.” She hadn’t heard the words of the prophecy in years and they still rattled her. Perhaps it was worse when Harry had applied it to Angelica’s birthday like that.

She never recalled Harry being so blasé about it either.

Harry was picking at his cereal, and she could tell there was something more on his mind.

Hermione let him be, waiting for him to ask whatever question he had, when Hedwig fluttered through the kitchen window with a note.

The sight of Hedwig shook Hermione, the normalcy of everything striking her once more.

As casually as she could, she took the letter from Hedwig and saw that it was for her, from Tonks.

~~

Hermione,

Malfoy’s in St. Mungo’s recovering noisily from his attack. He wishes to press charges against his “unknown” assailant and has threatened to sue you for it, too, because it happened on your stoop, if you don’t agree to be his book editor.

Tonks

~~

Hermione grit her teeth and crumpled the note. “A Howler,” Hermione grumbled under her breath, plotting. “A Howler ought to annoy that little bugger into shutting up.”

She turned and caught Harry looking at her strangely.

“Did you just say something?” he asked

“No. I was just talking to myself.”

His eyebrow arched and Hermione realized right then that what she said must have sounded really strange.

She was about to explain when the kitchen door swung open and Angelica walked in. She was in her Sunday best, red plaid pinafore over a white blouse, white stockings, and black buckle shoes. Her hair, which she always preferred to be in braids, was tied back in a relatively neat, bushy ponytail. It was the only hairstyle Angelica could do by herself, everything else she needed her mum’s help. She looked picture perfect, except for her eyes. The dark circles were still there. Darker, even.

Angelica looked at Harry apprehensively, like she didn’t quite know what to do, and she fidgeted where she stood, trying to look Harry in the eyes but failing miserably.

“I know you…” she told him in a soft, plaintive tone.

Hermione blinked, surprised. She had no doubt that Angelica spoke the truth, but she hadn’t expected Angelica would come out and say it—just like that, and all dressed up, too. What was this all about? Did she dress up for her father?

Perhaps it made sense. Seeing one’s father for the first time probably required dressing up a bit.

“Mum told me you were dead,” Angelica went on uncertainly. “And she was always very sad when she said it… so I believed her, and I think maybe she—she began to believe it, too. Did you—did you run away from us because of me? I swear I’m well behaved… mostly, so you needn’t run away again.”

Hermione gasped, horrified as it all become clear. Angelica thought she had lied about Harry to cover up that he had left them, and now Angelica had concluded that he had left because of her, which explained why she had dressed up. She had wanted to impress upon her father that she wasn’t a bad child, so that he would stay.

Hermione had no idea Angelica would react this way.

Good Lord, has she been thinking about this all night? Yes, she has! The eye bags. Don’t you see? You should’ve known—should’ve taken care. Angelica doesn’t think like other kids! What kind of mother are you?

Harry looked stricken. “I—I didn’t—“

The front door slammed shut and Hermione jerked in shock.

“Where’s my little imp? I’ve got Chocolate Frogs!” came Ron’s voice from the living room.

Before Hermione could run to intercept him, he was in the kitchen, and the jovial grin on his face instantly began to fade as he took in the scene.

Hermione wondered when she began losing control of everything. Things were unraveling before her very eyes.

“Hullo, Uncle Ron! Chocolate Frogs? I’d love some, thank you!” Angelica cried with eerie cheerfulness.

She’s pretending, Hermione thought, her heart breaking. She knows something is terribly wrong between Ron and Harry, or that there ought to be something wrong between them. Of course she’d conclude that. Harry had “run away” on them, after all!

Angelica didn’t want things to go wrong anymore. She didn’t want things to be any worst. She was desperate.

“You…” Ron growled, his gaze on Harry narrowing.

“R-Ron!” Hermione cried, emulating Angelica’s cheerfulness and hoping to distract him. “Well, I guess we aren’t fighting anymore, are we? Come sit. I’ll have breakfast ready—“

Ron wasn’t going to get sidetracked. He bounded towards Harry in powerful strides.

Harry stood just as Ron grabbed him by the collar of his worn shirt.

“Ron!” Hermione shrieked.

Hedwig gave an alarmed hoot and she flew off, spooked.

Harry wrenched himself free and pushed Ron away, stepping back to get away from Ron’s reach. Hermione was completely aware of the fact that Harry, or Ron, could have grabbed their wands, but both didn’t, probably knowing that wand-fire in the house could be very dangerous.

“Get out!” Ron hissed furiously. “You can fool Hermione, but not me. You’re an imposter!”

“What!” Hermione cried. “I resent that! If anyone can be fooled, it isn’t me!”

“Relax Ron,” Harry said, his tone level. “There’s no need to get physical. If you want me to get out, I will—“

Angelica began to cry, her façade crumbling. “No! D-Don’t go! Oh, Uncle Ron, you’re ruining everything!”

Ron suddenly looked shocked, then angry, his gaze on Harry becoming even more bitter. “What have you done to Angelica?”

Harry’s eyes widened. “I’ve done nothing!”

Angelica stomped her foot, tears streaming down her face. “Stop fighting! Stop it! I’ll scream, I swear!”

“Sweetheart, please!” Hermione moaned desperately, afraid of what would happen if Angelica got more upset. “Calm down!”

“You’ve bespelled them!” Ron cried, pointing an accusing finger at Harry.

“DON’T be daft!” Harry yelled back, annoyance replacing calm.

This did not sit well for Ron at all. Ron lunged, throwing a punch. Harry ducked and used Ron’s momentum to throw him against the island.

Ron rolled on the counter top, taking everything on the tabletop down with him as he crashed to the floor. His hand snagged the toaster’s cord and plug and it fell right smack on his head.

Angelica screamed, its sound piercing and sharp, and everything spun out of control.

The light overhead exploded, raining glass all over them.

Hermione fell upon Angelica, taking her in a protective embrace.

Wine bottles exploded on their rack, spraying the room in red and foamy gold.

Hermione could hear the clinks of glass around her as she squeezed her eyes shut for a moment.

The stove flared to life, the fire enlarging and reaching for the exhaust, and Hermione gave shriek of warning as Ron stumbled too close to the stove in his dazed state and his shirt sleeve caught fire.

Hermione was torn. She couldn’t let Angelica go. If her powerful daughter got more upset, there was no telling what else would happen, yet she had to help Ron. He couldn’t even stand properly. The toaster had done quite a number on him.

Someone swore viciously, and suddenly, Harry was in the middle of it all. He stamped the fire on Ron’s arm away with his bare hands in spite of Ron’s slurred protests just before Harry sent Ron sprawling away from the stove at Hermione’s feet.

“Stay there!” Harry yelled when Ron tried to scramble back to his feet.

Harry whipped out his wand, extinguishing the fire on the stove until there was nothing but a smoking, waning heat.

It took another minute, but it finally began to sink in on Hermione that it was over.

Angelica was still crying in her arms, and the hair on Ron’s arm was still smoldering slightly, but the worse was past. There was broken glass everywhere, and her stove was probably ruined, but this was now the aftermath.

Harry stood in front of the stove, his back to them. He was breathing heavily, and Hermione could tell that the hands he had used to put out Ron’s fiery arm was blistered and burnt.

There was a fluttering from the kitchen window, then a caw. It was Imogen. She settled on the window sill, rubbing her beak against the wood on both sides to preen them.

“Is Ron alright?” Harry asked in an oddly ragged tone.

Hermione looked over at Ron. He was staring at Harry’s back, his gaze widening as if he’d only just realized something. He looked at Hermione, his eyes surveying her surroundings, and his jaw dropped.

“Bloody hell…” Ron gasped. “It’s—It’s really him, isn’t it?”

Without looking at them, Harry stalked out of the ruined kitchen to the living room.

It was only after he’d gone that Hermione saw it. In a perfect circle around her and Angelica were bits of glass and liquid, like someone had encased them in a protective circle that had kept the harmful debris out.

Harry…

She hadn’t even noticed him casting the Protego, and yet there was the evidence, plain as anything.

Hermione turned to Angelica and wiped her tears away, knowing that she was alright. She took her daughter’s hand before crouching to see to Ron.

“Are you alright?” Hermione asked.

“Y-Yeah… a bit burnt, but I’ll be—Merlin, that was Harry. It was him! I saw it in his eyes when he was helping me—he’s still a bloody hero…” Ron’s tore his gaze from her. She didn’t know if she saw shame or the many times he felt like a shadow compared to Harry’s light.

Hermione sighed. “I’m going to go see to him… if you two hadn’t scared him off already.”

Angelica looked stricken and Hermione regretted what she said.

“I was joking, sweetheart,” Hermione told her gently. “He’s not going anywhere. Now stay here and keep Uncle Ron company while I fetch some burn salve.”

Angelica nodded, sitting on her heels beside Ron and asking him if his arm hurt.

Hermione left them in the kitchen as she made her way to the bathroom for the salves.

Harry was on the bay windows, slouched over as he stared out to the street. She had to admit that she was a bit relieved that he hadn’t actually walked out the door.

She grabbed the potions and some gauze then hurried back to the kitchen.

Ron’s burns weren’t very bad. After she dabbed on a few patches of salve, Ron could do without extensive bandaging. He offered to start cleaning up the kitchen.

With a stern warning to Angelica to listen to what Ron told her to do, Hermione left to attend to Harry.

She sat beside him on the bay windows, first-aid kit on hand.

He was still looking out through the windows as if he were alone. He did not look at her.

“Harry?” she said gently. “Harry, let me—“

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

It seemed like it was all he said since he came back. “It’s not—“

“I bring chaos wherever I go. It’s always been that way, and I know it’s never going to change.”

She didn’t know what to say to that, so she gently asked him if she could see his hands.

He held them out and she saw the raw, weeping blisters. It looked painful and Hermione had to be very careful when she applied the salve. Harry hardly flinched. It was like he was too deep in thought to be bothered by pain.

When the salve was applied, she whispered a gentle numbing charm on his hands before wrapping them in non-stick gauze. Most of the damage was on his palms. The injuries on his fingers could be covered by band-aids.

Harry looked at his bandaged hands. “I look like a prizefighter.”

She imagined that he probably really did, without his shirt on. There was no fat on him, that was for sure. “Feather weight?” she joked mildly.

He laughed softly at that, but the laughter dissipated as quickly as it came. He looked at the kitchen door. “Is Angelica alright?”

Hermione thought about it. She wasn’t quite sure yet. “Crying, but she’s unhurt.”

He nodded and said nothing else. She wondered if she should suggest that he have a talk with her and decided that she wasn’t going to be pushy. If he cared for Angelica, she would let him do so at his own pace. She at least understood that finding out that you had a child, or in her experience—that she was going to have a child unexpectedly, was a concept one had to get used to for a bit.

She hastened back to the kitchen where Angelica was seated on one of the stools. Her cheeks were still streaked with tears, but she wasn’t crying anymore. Hermione went over to her and rearranged her hair.

Ron said nothing as he continued to sweep at the debris.

“You look pretty,” Hermione told Angelica.

Angelica didn’t say anything, though she did lean against her mother’s side.

“I never lied to you, sweetheart,” Hermione said. “Nobody did. We all really thought he was dead.”

Angelica looked up then, a hint of challenge in her eyes. “He lied, then?”

Hermione gave it some thought. “He didn’t mean to. That’s what he says, at least. He was alive, and he had no way of telling us, and even if he did, he didn’t remember us for quite a long time…” She would leave out the fact that Harry had remembered the last two years, for the meantime. There were things about it that Hermione needed an explanation for, herself. Until Harry supplied the answers, she wouldn’t know what to tell Angelica.

Angelica’s lips pursed, but the challenge waned, and now she merely looked thoughtful. “I always wondered if he really was dead. I was always looking out to catch a lie.”

Hermione was surprised, and Ron seemed to stop sweeping. They met gazes, questioning each other silently.

“Why did you think that way?” Hermione asked.

Angelica shrugged. “I just wondered, is all.”

Hermione sighed. “Let’s go back up to your room, alright? We’ll talk a bit… Ron, do you mind if—“

“Go,” he said. “I’ll be fine down here.”

She smiled at him appreciatively and hefted Angelica against her waist. Angelica often objected to being carried. She was six and she thought herself too old to be swung around, but this time Angelica wrapped around her mother, leaning her chin on her mother’s shoulder as they went.

Hermione held her tight, and she wondered about who was clinging to who right now.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry saw them emerge from the kitchen, Hermione carrying their daughter against her.

Hermione stopped when she saw him and looked like she was going to say something, but she seemed to change her mind and kept going, heading for the bedrooms upstairs.

When Hermione’s back was turned, Angelica’s baleful gaze fell upon him.

For the second time that day, the familiarity of her face shocked him, and he had to wonder if he’d ever seen her before.

That’s ridiculous, of course. Maybe… she just looks awfully like me…

It still amazed him, that he had a daughter—with Hermione. Not that the thought that he’d have a family with Hermione never crossed his mind.

He remembered being eighteen and thinking that he might never have the chance to live his dreams of having a family with her. The memory seemed so long ago, now, even when last night, standing at the foot of his bed, the slightly perfumed smell of her and rich curls in her hair beckoned to him to touch.

He hadn’t felt that kind of desire in a long time. It was almost alarming, and before he could think about it, he had told her goodnight. Dismissed her. It was all he could do.

It required no stretch of the imagination to understand what had happened to him. He had always thought of Hermione in varying degrees of longing. He had missed her friendship, at times it was her love, and sometimes, he had missed her passion. He made no denials that his feelings for her remained strong, but to have her so close and having such feelings magnified in her presence caught him off guard, and he panicked.

Somehow, deep down, he knew that he had to take things slow—very slow, for now. He didn’t know if he could handle going back to the way things were. Things were much more complicated now.

Hermione and Angelica disappeared behind a corner and he sighed, recalling Angelica’s words. She looked like she was six, but she didn’t talk like one. Even the child-like quality of her words was lost to the adult complexities they formed.

His heart wrenched every time he thought of Angelica. She was his child—that he would never—couldn’t ever—deny, and when he saw her perched aloft that first time, he might have felt that leap of shared blood, knowing at that very moment that he had sired a daughter. He had looked at her and thought that a part of him was inside her—the best parts, and that he couldn’t possibly care for someone so deeply and unconditionally at first sight. She would be part Hermione, too, so how could he resist? Yet… he had to wonder, because it was necessary, what it meant—to have Angelica, and a twinge of unease knotted his belly.

Something inside him, instinct maybe, was telling him that things were not so simple. He loved this beautiful child, but…

At what cost?

It pained him to have to think like that, but his life had been anything but easy pleasures.

The kitchen door opened again and Harry saw Ron.

Ron was staring at him in quiet disbelief.

Harry wondered if Ron was going to attack him again, but seeing as Ron didn’t seem angry anymore, nor did he have his wand out, it seemed relatively safe to assume that the fight was gone from Ron.

“Alright, there?” Harry asked for lack of anything better to say.

Ron held out his hands. They were bandaged, but only in parts. “Not as bad as you.”

Harry shrugged. “I’ve felt worse, believe me.”

Ron frowned. “Yeah, I believe you. I—I saw you burn. I watched your ashes scatter in the wind. H-How…?”

Harry’s stomach wrenched, just like it always did when the subject of his “death” came up, but he calmed himself down and replied. “It wasn’t the sort of burn that destroys.”

Ron looked pained. “Felt that way to me… to us.”

Harry felt mild surprise at what Ron said. Of course he knew Ron would’ve cared, but it was unusual to hear Ron expressing himself so well—how he had said in so few words what losing Harry had felt for them all, and how it just meant that there would be so many things to talk about, yet.

“Sorry,” Harry muttered. “It wasn’t something I could’ve helped.”

Ron nodded, looking at his feet. “Welcome back, then,” he grumbled.

It didn’t sound very enthusiastic, but he preferred it to any kind of upbeat, cheerful hi and hello. He hadn’t felt much like celebrating anything in the last few years.

He wondered perversely if Ron was just the tiniest bit unhappy about his return. In the split second that Ron’s eyes fell upon Hermione in the kitchen, Harry could tell Ron felt much more for Hermione than he did seven years ago.

Ron had a key to Hermione’s house, and he had pet names for Angelica. He even brought Angelica chocolates. Ron was a fixture in this household, and he cared for Hermione and Angelica the way Harry should have in the last seven years.

Harry didn’t know what he felt about that. Probably like the old jealousies, that Ron had a normal life, while he didn’t, but he didn’t want to feel those negative things, just yet. Not when he’d only just arrived and he was sorting out many, many things, the most important of which being what he should be feeling for Hermione, Angelica, and Ron.

“You kept your promise,” Harry said.

Ron looked up. “What?”

“I made you promise in the bus—that you would take care of Hermione as if she never broke your heart.”

Ron reddened, and for a moment, he looked resentful, but then the flush faded from his cheeks, and he nodded without a hint of hesitation. “Had less to do with the promise than it did about Hermione and Angelica.”

Harry figured as much. “Well, whatever it was that drove you, thank you. It helped me—knowing you’d keep your promise.”

“Helped you what?”

“Survive.”

Ron seemed perplexed for a moment. “Would you explain to me what that meant if I asked you to?”

Harry didn’t reply.

Sighing, Ron plopped on the nearby couch. “Merlin… you haven’t changed a bit, have you?”

Harry tried to smile, but it came out more as a grimace.

Ron, you’ve never been more wrong.

TBC

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: Hopefully, the next chapter won’t take as long as this one.

A/N: Dumbledore’s gay. Wow, that makes everything so different. ‘-_-

Many thanks to my beta reader, Tome Raider!

Standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter Thirteen: Past and Present Lives

“I didn’t mean to hurt anybody,” Angelica said quietly while her mother wiped the streaks of tears from her face with a cool, wet towel.

Hermione thought that was something they could talk about later. First, she had to know what possessed Angelica to have such a distorted perception of Harry’s absence and return.

She wasn’t sure where to start. “Did you really think I would lie to you about your father, Angelica?”

Angelica looked horribly guilty. “To protect me, maybe. There are lots of things you haven’t told me about the day dad died… or supposedly did.”

Hermione tried to settle her thoughts at the onslaught of turmoil Angelica’s words wrought on her. “That’s true, but I never lied about any of it. I held back because…” Hermione paused to give it a thought and she sighed. “I held back because I couldn’t talk about all of it without losing it. That was wrong of me, and selfish, but I would never tell you a bold-faced lie, such as saying your father died when he’s actually alive. I had absolutely no idea that your father was alive until last night. All these years, I thought he was dead. I never lied to you about that.”

Angelica fidgeted, like she had something more to say about it. “It’s just that… I dreamed about him all the time, mum. The dreams felt very real. Sometimes he saw me, but sometimes, he seemed so lost that he saw nothing else…”

Hermione sighed. “Those were just dreams, baby. I dreamed about him so many times.”

“Yes, but it made me wonder sometimes if you were telling me the whole truth about him…”

Hermione remembered Angelica’s fight with that boy in her school—how terribly affected Angelica had been by his taunts of Harry having left instead of being dead. Hermione understood it now—Angelica’s extreme reaction to Connor. It was deeper than a bully’s cruel words. It was a secret fear that Hermione wished Angelica had spoken to her about.

She put an arm around Angelica, pulling her closer. Angelica snuggled in her mother’s embrace.

“I’m sorry,” Hermione said. “I’m sorry you felt you couldn’t come to me to talk about it.

“I wasn’t your fault, mum. I was afraid,” Angelica whimpered. “Of the answers. What if I was right? What if he’d really left us… because of me?”

Hermione believed that Angelica’s secrecy was her fault, just that Angelica didn’t blame her for it. Whatever Angelica had been feeling, it was a result of Hermione’s reluctance to talk about any of it in detail. Angelica had felt that wall—she was very perceptive, and she didn’t bring her troubles to Hermione, because Hermione prevented it.

“He never would have left because of you,” said Hermione. “Why would he? You’re the most adorable imp.” She pinched Angelica’s nose.

Angelica smiled through her tears for a moment before it waned once more. “I’m not natural. I’m a freak. I’m smarter than any child I know and smarter than a few grown-ups, too. And I—I have powerful magic.

Hermione stared at her, shocked all over again. “Who called you that? Did someone call you a freak?”

Angelica’s lips trembled. “Some kids at school…”

Hermione had to settle her growing anger. “Do you—do you wish to transfer to another school, Angelica? I know I told you I won’t let you, anymore, but if they’re hurting you this way—“

“No! Please don’t, mum. I like Inglewood, and Pramilla and Millhouse stand up for me too, sometimes. It’s not so bad that I’d like to leave it. It just got me thinking this time, is all…”

Hermione thought about it for a moment. “You know, Harry used to get called a freak by Muggles, too.”

Angelica’s eyes widened before they narrowed in disbelief. “Is that true?”

“Every word of it. I swear,” Hermione said, placing a hand on her heart. “His Muggle Aunt and Uncle, your grandmother’s sister, used to call him a freak all the time.”

This time, Angelica looked like she believed. “What did he do about it?”

“He couldn’t do anything about it for a long time. He just accepted it because for a while, he believed he was. Then he found Hogwarts… or Hogwarts found him, rather, and he realized he wasn’t a freak, and he found people who loved him, and that was mostly enough. Besides that, he grew up to be a good man in spite of his difficult childhood. He was very brave and noble, and he never would have let anyone be called a freak, much less think it of his own daughter.”

Angelica sniffed, and her eyes were finally dry. “Why didn’t he come back to us, then? If he was alive, why did he hide from us?”

Hermione tightened her embrace. “I don’t know, sweetheart. I’ve asked him, and he told me he’s not ready to explain all of it. I think he was suffering something, and he couldn’t quite tell me what it’s all about, but he said he always wanted to come back… whenever he remembered, but he couldn’t, for some reason. That’s all I can tell you now, but when I learn more, I’ll pass it on. Is that alright?”

Angelica nodded.

After a few moments of silence, Hermione asked, “Are you better now?”

Angelica nodded again.

Hermione kissed her forehead. “Good. Now wash your face so we could down for breakfast. If the stove still works, I’ll make it. If it’s wrecked, I’ll order take-away. That ought to be quicker, anyway.”

Angelica looked guilty again. “Sorry for the kitchen, mum… I’ll help clean it.”

“As soon as Uncle Ron’s finished sweeping off all the glass, I’ll let you help.” And that was all Hermione said about it. “Let’s get you changed into more comfortable clothing. I’m surprised you put on stockings at all. You hate the things.”

She sat obediently at the edge of her bed as her mother began to unbuckle her shoes.

Hermione tickled the underside of her foot and she giggled, complaining merrily about how her mum wasn’t playing fair.

It was the easiest thing, putting Angelica in a better mood, but there was still Harry to think about, and she hoped that this next meeting would be better conducted than the first.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry was cooking something on the stove while Ron cleaned the kitchen. There wasn’t much mess left, which surprised Hermione. Ron had cleaned up fast.

Angelica watched the scene with seemingly mild thoughtfulness. Hermione thought that was better than the awkward despair she had displayed earlier that morning.

“Well, that was a quick clean-up, Ron. I’m impressed,” she said, ushering Angelica to the seat next to Ron before attempting to help Harry with the cooking.

She saw him glance briefly at Angelica while Ron was pulling Angelica on his lap. Angelica shrieked with laughter when Ron attempted to tickle her.

“Uncle Ron!” she laughed, wiggling to get back to her seat.

Ron grinned and mussed Angelica’s hair before he jerked his chin in Harry’s direction, a hint of derision in his smirk. “Harry did most of it. I’m just finishing up. Now he’s cooking. Maybe he could do your laundry later.”

Harry shot him a withering look.

Hermione found herself stifling a laugh. “Really, Harry, you don’t have to do that.”

He looked over his shoulder. “And why not?”

The question surprised her, and as she thought on it, she couldn’t think of a proper answer. She couldn’t tell him he was guest, because that would be too weird. If she told him this was her house, Ron would say something embarrassing like, “Well, I noticed I have to do an awful lot of chores here, even if it is ‘your’ house,” which would probably make Harry feel even more alienated.

Her lack of response seemed to satisfy him. “Thought so. What do you like in your omelet?”

“Um…”

“Ham, cheese, and a bit of green bell pepper,” Ron said.

She shot Ron a glare and Harry’s eyebrow arched, but he only said, “Okay. And how about you, Angelica? Would you like an omelet?”

Angelica seemed to visibly fidget. She didn’t like omelets, and Hermione could see her struggling to form a polite response.

Hermione hastened to help her. “She’s not an omelet fan. She loves bangers and toast, though, don’t you, darling?”

“Bangers are my favorite,” she said half-shyly, half-enthusiastically.

Harry cast a lopsided smile. “Mine too.”

Those two little words seemed to put the glow back in Angelica’s face, and Hermione thought she needed a distraction, or else she’d fly at Harry and snog him stupid. She fished bangers out of the refrigerator and handed them to Harry who was already pulling out a frying pan.

“The skin has to be slightly charred at the edges!” Angelica said more brightly. “And I like crunchy toast with blueberry jam.”

“Hmm, just like your mum… only she likes marmalade,” he said, glancing at Hermione briefly.

Hermione stifled a sigh. How in the world does he remember wonderful details like that?

This was not going to be easy for her.

She smiled and busied herself with the toast. She noticed that the toaster was dented, and it was about the shape of Ron’s head.

She glanced at Ron. He seemed oddly quiet. “How about you, Ron? What would you like for breakfast?”

“Mum sent over food this morning,” Ron grumbled. “I’m good.”

“Pie and ice-cream, then. I’m sure your mum won’t object,” she teased lightly.

Ron scowled. “I don’t always have to run things by my mum, you know.”

Her lips pursed at the familiar, argumentative tone.

She was about to say, “That’s not what I meant!” when Angelica frowned and said, “You ought to. Mums always know what’s best.”

That seemed to catch her short and Ron snorted. “Your mother certainly seems to think so, imp.”

“Well, she does know what’s best!” Angelica cried.

Ron was about to say something else more sarcastic, probably for the fun of it.

“Yes, she does,” Harry said, just finishing with the omelet ingredients. “I always listened to her before.”

Hermione couldn’t help but beam.

“Now, that’s a lie,” Ron grumbled.

Harry chuckled. “Well, you might have caught me there… “ He tilted his gaze back to Angelica. “But best you try to be better at it than I was. I reckon it’s good for you.”

Angelica giggled. “Well, I already know that.”

He grinned and shot Hermione a look. “Silly me.”

Hermione felt her face warm intolerably. The bread slices in her hand ripped against the awkward strokes of her butter knife. When she looked up, Ron was staring at her, and he was frowning.

He fished a time-piece from his pocket and stood.

For some reason, it irked her. He came by and wreaked havoc then he was going to leave, just like that? “Where are you going?” she demanded.

“I have some errands to run if I want to make it for my plans tonight.”

She scowled, her chin jutting out stubbornly. She set her knife down and rounded on him, grabbing his arm as she led him out of the kitchen.

Ron wrenched his arm away as the kitchen door swung closed behind them.

She let him go and got in his face. “What is wrong with you? You’ve been simply intolerable, and now you’re walking out on us like you hadn’t meant to stick around in the first place! You’re too old to sulk!”

“Sulk! I am not sulking!”

“It’s not just that! You’re snappish, and impossible. Now you’re walking out because—“

Ron looked immensely irritated. “I made plans with Harry, tonight. We’re going to see each other later and talk. Needless to say, I hadn’t expected tonight’s get-together, so all my plans had to change. So once again, this isn’t about you.”

Hermione’s annoyance wilted to shame. She stepped back. “Oh. I—goodness.”

Ron sighed. “Well, if it makes you feel better, it wasn’t entirely your fault for thinking all that. I have to start getting used to the way you look at him, again, but for now I can’t bear it. I’m not even going to start on how he looks at you and—Merlin, just give me a bit of time, alright? I’m glad he’s back, and I’m looking forward to have that Butterbeer with him later. I’ve missed that… just us two, but cut me some slack, won’t you?”

She let out a breath and threw her arms around Ron, hugging him fiercely and repentantly. She should have been more sensitive to Ron. This wasn’t easy for him, either. “I’m sorry. I’m a big hag.” She kissed his cheek tenderly and his eyes showed complete forgiveness.

“It’s alright,” he whispered.

His hand came up, and the caress of it on her cheek didn’t feel the least bit platonic.

“Go then,” she said hastily, but gently.

He left, and Hermione watched him leave from her porch and down the front walkway. When he was gone, she turned and closed the door behind her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry watched Hermione and Ron leave the kitchen and he pushed back the pang of jealousy that threatened to overpower him. He knew feeling it was wrong, but it wasn’t something he could help.

He tore his gaze from the swinging door and found Angelica staring at him, a serious look in her green eyes.

“I’m sorry I hurt you,” she said, red splotches blossoming from her cheeks. “I didn’t mean to.”

He took a moment to process what she meant exactly. He looked at his bandaged hands. “It’s not your fault. You have nothing to apologize for.”

She seemed unconvinced. “Mum said I should learn to control my temper. My magic is very strong…”

He didn’t want to undermine anything Hermione told her, so he just said, “I need to control my temper, too. I’ve been trying since I was thirteen. One time, I got so angry that I blew up my Aunt. Sent her floating in the sky over London.”

Angelica stared for a second, surprised, then she giggled. “I almost did that, you know. With a classmate. I stopped myself before it got bad, but she was a bit bloated. The school nurse explained it away as an allergic reaction.”

Harry thought maybe he shouldn’t laugh, but he did, and he couldn’t help but be a little amazed. Inflating people at six? Maybe even younger? She was powerful.

He paused, wondering at the slight misgiving he was having about that fact.

“How did you do it, then?” Angelica asked. “Learn to control your temper, I mean.”

He considered his response. “I haven’t.”

She seemed thoughtful about this. “I count to ten. It works sometimes, but mostly it doesn’t.”

He chuckled. “No, it doesn’t… so, d’you want me to butter the toast before I put on the blueberry, baby girl?”

She giggled. “I’m not a baby!”

He didn’t know why, but he felt his face go warm. He hadn’t meant to call her that. It just slipped out quite naturally. “Of course you’re no—“

“But I don’t mind,” she added hastily. “I don’t mind if it’s you who calls me that…”

Harry felt a pang, but it wasn’t completely unpleasant.

“And I’d like butter, yes,” she continued.

He cocked a smile and laid out more slices of bread.

He looked briefly at the kitchen door and he felt slightly uneasy. They’re taking an awful long time out there…

“They’re probably fighting,” Angelica suddenly said.

Her words startled him, and when he met gazes with her, there was an entirely knowing look there, like she knew exactly what he was thinking. “What?”

“You said they were taking an awful long time.”

Harry hadn’t even realized he had said that out loud. “Yes, well, some things never change…”

Angelica just shrugged. Perhaps this was something she didn’t understand. “But… they don’t always fight, you know. They get along half the time, and when they do, they’re the best of friends.”

Harry didn’t quite know what to say to that. “Are they? Well, they ought to be…”

It looked like she wanted to say something else, but she stopped herself and clamped her mouth shut.

Harry nudged her gently. “Oy. You alright?”

But before she could say anything, Hermione walked through the kitchen. She seemed a bit flustered and slightly red in the face, but she smiled, and she looked incredibly fetching for it.

“You’ll be seeing Ron later, are you?” she asked.

He nodded. “Yeah. Thought we needed to talk… just us two.” He eyed her carefully.

She smiled, showing no disapproval.

He wondered why he even thought she might disapprove.

He finished with the omelets, bangers, and toast and set them on the island.

Breakfast felt a bit tense. Harry knew things weren’t going to be easy, but with Angelica staring at him frankly and Hermione doing everything but, he couldn’t really figure out what to do.

He itched to ask Hermione more about Ron and what their real relationship was, but he didn’t think the subject was open for discussion since she so quickly struck down his question about it the night before.

He decided he would concentrate on Angelica. He didn’t think it would be so difficult.

“You go to school in Inglewood, don’t you?” Harry asked. He knew nothing about the school, but pretending it was familiar made things easier.

Angelica nodded. “Yes… sir…”

Harry actually saw Hermione’s fork pause the slightest bit before she resumed what she was doing. He didn’t feel quite so comfortable about what Angelica said, either.

“Y-You don’t have to call me sir,” he grumbled, feeling his face grow warm.

Angelica looked at him inquiringly—expectantly.

“Do you have friends in Inglewood?” Harry added hastily.

She nodded again. “Pramilla and Millhouse. They’re very smart. Julien thinks they’re swots, but I don’t care. Swots make better company in school, anyway.”

“Julien… last time I saw him, he was so little. His dad was… how is Bill doing, Hermione?”

Hermione didn’t seem so enthused by the topic. “He’s still in a coma. Fleur’s been taking care of him all this time.”

Harry stared. “Oh…”

“Life is such. We do what we can.” Harry noted the slight reluctance of Hermione talking about it so he let the subject drop. She seemed reluctant to discuss a lot of things.

They finished the rest of breakfast in silence, and when they were done, they put everything away quite mechanically.

“I’ve got some of your things packed in the attic. I—I never quite knew what to do with them. Would you—you know, like to sift through them?” Hermione asked.

It was an odd offer, but he also found a secret pleasure in the fact that Hermione had kept his things. Then again, there really wasn’t much of it, so it wasn’t as if they took much storage space.

“Wouldn’t hurt,” Harry said.

Angelica turned to look at Hermione. “Would you… like me to clean my room, mum?”

Harry didn’t find the question strange, but there was a noticeable flicker in Hermione’s gaze.

Hermione smiled and she pinched Angelica’s cheek gently. “Would you mind so much, love?”

Angelica shook her head. “You’ve been telling me to clean it for ages. I’ll just go do it. It won’t take that long, anyway.”

Hermione kissed her before Angelica shot off to go to her room.

Harry was yet to fathom this bond Hermione and Angelica shared. He had only seen them together a few times, but each time he was by turns amazed and fascinated. The pictures in the hallway were one thing—the moving photographs smiling and filled with inextinguishable affection were enough to make his heart twitch, but to actually see them as mother and daughter, and what he felt whenever he saw them, was indescribable. It almost felt like the parts of him that were in Angelica gave him a sense of fulfillment, and relief, that definitely, not everything could be ruined by his touch.

Hermione led him up the stairs and he could hear Angelica busy from her bedroom. She seemed to be humming something that Harry found faintly familiar.

“The attic’s over here,” Hermione said.

She was at the other end of the second floor walk way. There was a door and it looked like a closet at first glance, but as he came up behind her, he saw the stairs leading up.

Hermione went up first and switched the lights on.

The attic was cramped, as attics tended to be, but it was neat. Everything was boxed and shelved. Some boxes were neatly stacked on the floor, and all boxes were labeled.

It was just like Hermione to have everything in order.

“I know it looks weird,” Hermione said shyly. “With everything being so organized, but believe me, if I really had my way, it would be alphabetically arranged and archived… Fleur and Ginny talked me out of it, so… this is actually a mess. By my standards, at least.”

Harry didn’t doubt it for a moment. “It’s the nicest attic I’ve ever been in.”

She cracked a grin. “I bet. Your things are over here. And…” She gestured to a stack of boxes before going off in another direction as she nudged a small sitting stool he could use.

There were three boxes, aside from his trunk, and that was surprising. He remembered leaving Privet Drive and having nothing but a bag and his half-filled trunk.

He sat on the stool and began opening the boxes. There were his text books. He smiled and picked up his history book. He opened it to a page and saw the tell-tale squiggles of a student who wasn’t paying attention. He laughed softly to himself. His charms book seemed in more scholarly shape, pages marked by many sticky papers he had mooched off Hermione’s stock in class.

He replaced the history book in the box and opened his trunk. It was full of his clothes and shoes. He never realized he had accumulated so many clothes during their supposed seventh year. There were a few knick-knacks he had gathered from their travels hunting for Horcruxes, and there were memorabilia from school.

He opened another box. In it were more school implements, like his cauldron, and a few more potions, Transfigurations, Astronomy, and Divinations equipment.

The third box contained his Quidditch equipment. His pads were there, his Quidditch breaches, and his broom polishing kit, but his broom wasn’t there, and his Jersey appeared to be missing.

“I put this somewhere else,” Hermione said from behind him. She carried a rather big box. It reached the height of her shoulder. “It’s your broom. Angelica doesn’t really know about it… I didn’t want her getting any ideas… you know, with her father’s genes and all…”

He stifled a grin and took the box from her, sitting on the stool to open it. It looked like it was professionally packed, and as he lifted the lid off the box, the sight of his old Firebolt sent his memories soaring back to those wonderful days of Quidditch.

He touched the broom lovingly. It looked to be in pristine condition. However Hermione packed it, she had used charms to keep it free from decay. It looked perfect.

He pulled the Firebolt from its box and he could feel its enchantments strong and sturdy. The Firebolt would fly as well as it once did.

“Hiding it from Angelica, eh?” He was greatly amused.

She reddened. “I couldn’t have her flying that—that thing by herself; without my permission, now could I? Because she will, you know. Fly it without my permission, because if she asked my permission, I wouldn’t give it, and since I wouldn’t give it, she’ll sneak off and fly it while I’m not looking, if I knew—know her father at all, and she can be her father’s child, I’ll have you know…”

He watched her, enchanted by the way she moved her lips with the brilliant, rambling words coming out of her mouth, and that lovely flush rising up her neck to her cheeks.

He cocked a grin. “Is that all you hid?”

“Wh-What?”

“The broom. Is that all you hid? I couldn’t find my Quidditch jersey.”

She turned redder than ever. “I—well, I didn’t think—you know, you’d need it! Seemed a waste to let it—here, moths possibly eating holes through it—how should I know you’d need it again—“

He touched her shoulder to quiet her.

The touch seemed to surprise her and she blinked up at him, astonished.

“I don’t mind you using the jersey, Hermione. I was just teasing. And I… rather like that you used it…”

She swallowed. She looked nervous. “Y-You do?”

“It’s no big deal,” he replied, turning back to his boxes lest she see the broad grin on his face. He imagined she wouldn’t use the jersey when she went out, but he was completely happy thinking that she would wear the shirt at home—when she was most comfortable.

Or to bed? Oh, Merlin… that would be so hot…

He closed his trunk and decided he would bring the entire trunk down with him.

Letting his eyes roam the other boxes, he saw odd labels like, “Gifts,” “Dried Ingredients,” and “Wonky Things.”

What other wonders did this attic hold?

He looked around and spied something covered by a sheet with pastel stars and moons. “What’s—“

“Oh, that old thing…” she began quietly. “It’s Angelica’s crib. She had to have one, you know…”

He didn’t even think to ask if he could see it. He went to it and carefully pulled the sheet back.

The beige wood of the crib still gleamed, untouched by dust. The sheet was charmed to repel dirt, and everything beneath it stayed pristine. The cushion at the bottom of the crib was soft and very light pink, with a few sprites flying to alight on the next tulip. Most of the sprites were sleeping in their flower cups, curled up like babies. The tiny white pillow at the head of the crib chimed a soothing, calming, barely audible lullaby when he touched his hand to it.

Hermione was beside him and she traced her fingers lightly over the lovely molding of the headboard. “Isn’t it precious? I couldn’t bear to part with it. I couldn’t bear to part with any of Angelica’s baby things. Some of her other baby clothes and shoes are still packed in boxes over there… I don’t why I kept them all. Maybe… I don’t know. You never know when I’d need them again, I suppose…”

Her words sent a mild pang through him, his grip on the crib’s grill tightening momentarily. There were so many things he had missed; so many things he wished he had been there for. Angelica must have been a beautiful child, and every first must have brought hours of pure, incorruptible joy. Her first word; first step; first birthday…

There was a lifetime ahead of Angelica, still, and she would have even more amazing firsts, but still, those baby months would forever be a dream to him.

He wondered momentarily about just how many “firsts” he shared with his parents before they died…

Hermione laughed. “Her first word was ‘dada,’ you know. Typical. I try to teach her to say mum and the first word she speaks is the one she learned on her own. I figured it might as well be that way. I’ll be sticking around to teach her mum. The potential for anyone to teach her ‘dada’ came later.”

“Found a few potential dads, eh?” he asked as neutrally as he could.

She seemed a bit astonished at that. “Well… I don’t mean there were… many candidates. I just… I suppose some part of me hoped that there would be.”

“Just a few, then?”

She eyed him so intently that he actually began to squirm where he stood.

She shrugged noncommittally. “Precious, precious few. Ask me about them again some other time.”

He was surprised to note that her revelation didn’t please him as much as he thought it would. He didn’t like thinking of her feeling that alone. It almost made him wish she loved Ron the way Ron loved her.

Almost.

Harry pulled the cover back on the crib.

The tension on her face waned and she smiled. “And how about you, Harry. No little black book?”

That almost made him laugh. “Filled with what? The names of priestesses and the random men that wander into Avalon? That’d be something Rita Skeeter would likely sink her teeth in. Say, how is that old hag?”

“Don’t change the subject. Some of those priestesses were pretty attractive, and they weren’t exactly sworn to chastity, either.”

“Even if I could have—and I’m not saying I could have, either—I wasn’t exactly popular over there in that way.”

Her eyebrow arched. “A bit hard to believe.”

He was completely aware that she had thrown him some sort of line, or else he was deluding himself greatly. “The priestesses didn’t see me that way. I think they thought I was… an abandoned pet, like a stray cat. I needed caring for and that’s how they treated me. Unless you’re very strange, you don’t get attracted to your stray cat.”

She seemed greatly unconvinced by the look on her face. “I’ve rescued my fair share of abandoned kitties, Harry, and trust me, you don’t look like any stray cat I’ve brought to the shelter. Now do you know what you need to bring with you?”

Dutifully, Harry nodded, waving his wand to levitate his trunk and taking his Firebolt. He had no problem with cutting their conversation short, since he didn’t particularly know how he’d deal with it if it got any farther than needy felines.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Remus arrived with Tonks nearing lunch. He still looked a bit peaky from his last encounter with the full moon, but he possibly looked paler when he gazed across the floor to Harry.

His reaction wasn’t much different from everyone else’s. There was that significant, “I can’t believe my eyes,” look, the way a Muggle audience would watch a completely baffling magic trick being performed by a magician.

He then turned to Tonks.

“Would you have believed me if I told you?” Tonks cried in response to his unspoken question.

Harry couldn’t really blame Remus. It was a rather bold move on Tonks’s part not to tell Remus what to expect when they arrived in Hermione’s house.

“Is he—“ Remus stammered. “Are you—“

“He stood up to all the Polyjuice testing,” Tonks rambled. “And he knows things only Harry would know.”

“It’s Harry, Remus,” Hermione said.

Harry felt the light caress of Hermione’s hand on his shoulder. It was reassuring and warm. He shot her a grateful look and she smiled back.

He really didn’t know how long they stood there, grinning at one another, but Remus’s voice broke through their private moment.

“Dear Merlin.”

And suddenly Remus was there, his hands upon Harry’s shoulders—as if he had to be sure Harry was real, or corporeal. Remus held Harry’s face, looking into his eyes that seemed to be so familiar to everyone else.

“Angelica’s eyes,” Remus said, which surprised Harry greatly, because he had always heard people say, “Lily’s eyes.” It felt different—a better different.

From the look on Remus’s face, he still couldn’t believe it and Harry didn’t quite know what to tell him.

Remus had always been the closest thing he had ever had to a parent. Sirius had been the impetuous uncle, but Remus had been the steady, concerned presence. It was hard to watch Remus looking so detached—almost cautious of him.

“I thought you were dead,” said Remus quietly. “This is—but how? I couldn’t fathom it. And you just—pop out of nowhere like you’d just Portkeyed in from—I don’t know, Tibet, or something. I’m beside myself with many things, right now. I couldn’t believe it, yet I’m—I think maybe I’m happy…”

“You can take your time figuring that out. I don’t mind.”

Angelica appeared behind the loft’s railing. “Hullo Auntie Tonks! Uncle Moony!” she cried, waving.

“Erm, hullo there, pumpkin,” Tonks said. “How have you been?”

“Very well, thank you! I read about Moon Magic, like Uncle Remus suggested. It’s very interesting.”

Tonks turned desperately to Remus who didn’t look like he was paying much attention to their conversation. “Um, I thought you’d like it. I’ll be up in a bit to show you something, soon as I finish helping your mum make tea, alright?”

Angelica nodded enthusiastically. “Alright, Auntie.” She flitted back to her room.

Remus’s face was filled with question and wonder. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked at Harry with some curiosity, before his gaze traveled up the loft briefly, where Angelica previously was.

“I know she’s my daughter, Remus,” Harry grumbled, reddening.

Remus nodded, stepped back, and went straight to the kitchen.

Tonks shot Harry an almost apologetic look before she followed after Remus.

“Well,” Hermione said. “That went better than I expected.”

Harry hated to think about what could be worse than that reception.

The fireplace flared green, and Harry heard a voice that sent his heart beating with panic.

“Hermione Granger! Where are you? Hermione!”

It was Ginny, and Harry—without really thinking, dove behind the couch for cover. He wasn’t quite sure why he did it, and seeing the look on Hermione’s face, he somewhat wished he had given his actions more thought. But it seemed instinctual. He felt no positive thing could come of his meeting with Ginny at the moment. Maybe it was because of all the horrible meetings he had already had—and it wasn’t even lunch time.

Hermione stared at him in shock before she seemed to come to her senses

Harry saw her scamper off to answer the Floo.

“Oh, be quiet, Ginevra, I’m here,” Hermione said.

“Fleur told me about what happened last night, and how she had to babysit for you. How many times do I have to tell you that in emergencies like that, you can absolutely messenger spell me!”

“Lord, and have you arrange another blind date for me for it?”

“Oh, shut it, you. I wouldn’t have held you to anything if it was an emergency like that. Are you alright, then? How are you feeling right now? No fever or sweats? Shock can do that to you, you know.”

“Yes… I know.”

Harry had to wonder what that was supposed to mean.

“I’m fine!” Hermione cried, as if she were interrupting another tirade from Ginny. “It’s all taken cared of, now.”

“Are you sure? I can come over and run some errands for you. Just for today, though, just so—“

“I’ll be fine, Ginny. Thank you, but you don’t have to. Goodness, are you working? It’s Sunday, for God’s sake!”

Ginny sighed. “Style editor’s work is never done. Photo shoot, today. I swear to Merlin, if I have to put up with the bitching of these models another minute, Marciano and I will croak. Marciano almost spit into their pretty, flavored teas…”

“You know I always adored Marciano.”

Harry frowned. Who was this Marciano and why was Hermione adoring him?

“Hold that thought. He’s not exactly all sunshine and rainbows these days. He and Jasper are broken up—again.”

He and Jasper… ha! He’s gay! He has to be…

“That’s three times this month,” Hermione said. “Bit early for them to hit their quota…”

“Well, I refuse to have that conversation with him again. I’ve tried and failed. If he wants to get buggered by a jerk, that’s his business. On the other hand, Jasper at least knows the concept of monogamy better than that man-whore Gianni. I don’t care if the gym is gay neutral ground. That He-Bitch needed to be neutered.”

Such language…

“Shush! Angelica might hear you!”

“Oh, please. You taught me those words.”

“Ginny!” gasped Hermione. “For God’s sake! Once. I used those words once!”

Wonders will never cease…

“And where better to learn new words than a book editor? Honestly, Hermione, you’re unbearably modest sometimes. Well, if all is well with you, I’ve got a photo shoot to finish. Merlin… these mannequins don’t eat. Do I have to shove it down their throats just to get them to finish the whole sandwich…?”

With that, Ginny seemed to fade, and the green glow emanating from the fireplace dissipated.

Harry gingerly rose from behind the couch. “Man-whore?”

Hermione frowned. “Can you explain to me what the hell that was all about?”

She wasn’t going to be distracted, it seemed.

He sighed. “Sorry. Between Angelica, Ron, and Remus, I didn’t think I could handle another shit-storm… especially from Ginny.”

Her frown melted into an icy calm. “Oh.”

For some reason, the look on her face made Harry dreadfully uncomfortable. “I mean—she and I never got to talk…”

Hermione nodded. “Well, you’re right to be afraid. I don’t even want to be there when Ginny finally finds out you’re back.” She stalked off into the kitchen, and Harry sat there wondering if he had angered her, somehow.

Moments later, Remus stumbled out of the kitchen door and Harry braced himself for the unexpected.

Remus seemed calmed, and giving Harry a kind smile, he strode over to the couch and sat next to him. “So you know you have a daughter. I figured you would. It’s not the sort of thing Hermione would keep secret for more than a few hours. Has it sunk in yet?”

Harry hadn’t expected that, but it was a welcome topic—better than Remus’s awkward disbelief. Even if he wasn’t sure whether it meant Remus believed it was him or not, he replied to Remus’s question. “Quite. Moment I saw her, I knew it immediately. Is that strange?”

Remus shook his head. “Not at all. Muggles have been known to feel that leap in the blood, and they don’t have magic to enhance it. It’s probably more pronounced in Wizards, though no controlled studies or experiments have been actually made about it—“

Harry’s eyebrow arched, amused by Remus’s indefatigable tendency to make “science” out of magic. Remus saw the look and actually smiled in surrender.

The smile put Harry at great ease.

“Does she know you’re her father?” Remus asked.

“She figured it out by herself, I reckon.”

“Sounds like her. Hardly anything escapes that child. She’s a genius. Did you know that?”

Harry shrugged. “Easy to figure. Hermione’s her mum.”

“Hermione’s brilliant, but not like this. Angelica’s gifted. Special. She’s six, but she can go to Muggle University. She can probably mix N.E.W.T.-level potions and cast N.E.W.T.-level Transfigurations. Understand what I’m trying to say?”

Harry absorbed Remus’s words. He did understand what Remus was trying to say, and it made a lot of sense. Angelica was obviously powerful, and the comprehension in her gaze was more suited to a grown-up than a child. He hadn’t actually seen her display unusual brilliance, but considering what he had observed of her, it wasn’t impossible.

Then he understood something else in Remus’s gaze. “You’re observing her, aren’t you?”

Remus didn’t quite smile. “Hermione asked me to—for Angelica’s interests, of course. She just wants someone to look after that aspect of Angelica—in a clinical way, so that in case something comes up, we’d have some idea of handling it.”

“Something?”

Remus shrugged. “Don’t ask me what it is. I don’t know, and Hermione doesn’t know, but Hermione just wants to be prepared for anything. She’s wise in thinking that Angelica’s special abilities shouldn’t be ignored. Just because she doesn’t trust Muggle Scientists to observe her daughter, it doesn’t mean she doesn’t understand the merits of keeping a close eye on Angelica. Hermione brings Angelica to me for rudimentary tests—all of them non-invasive, just so we can understand as much as we can about Angelica’s abilities. Angelica knows it, too, and she understands it’s important. She likes it, at least, because I give her books to read, and she likes taking the Intelligence Tests. She’s interested in the magical instruments I use to measure her capabilities—it’s all very two-way.”

Harry nodded. “Sounds helpful.”

“Do you really think so?”

There was another underlying message in the question, and Harry realized that Remus was telling him all this because he, Harry, was Angelica’s father. Remus was informing him of these thinks because he was a parent.

Oh, jeez…

“If Hermione thinks so,” Harry began hesitantly.

“I’d like you to think so, too. You’re her father. I’d like to think both of Angelica’s parents are for it.”

“Merlin…”

“Sinking in a bit more, isn’t it? I can give you copies of every report I’ve made on it, or you can just ask Hermione. I’m certain she has them neatly filed and catalogued in her office.”

“I’ll… I’ll just ask her, thanks.”

Remus seemed to approve.

Hermione emerged from the kitchen carrying a tea tray. She set the tray down on the table and quickly excused herself, telling them there was more in the kitchen when they were through talking privately. She disappeared back into the kitchen after that.

Remus poured them tea. “H-Harry…”

Harry stifled a wince. “That’s me,” he joked mildly.

Remus smiled, though his lips were pursed. “I always… I always wondered just how connected Angelica was to the powers you gave her. I always wished—if only for that—that I’d have the opportunity to shed some kind of light on that question. And now you’re here, and I’m only just beginning to believe… it really is you, isn’t it?”

Harry sighed.

“I have many questions for you,” Remus continued. “Like where you’ve been; why did you keep away from us, making us think you were dead? Where you planning on coming back? Or maybe you were forced to? And… and what happened, that night we watched you burn to ashes?”

Harry sighed. He had already resigned himself to the fact that he would be telling this story over and over again, and he’d have to make the same evasions on the details.

He told Remus about as much as he told Hermione, and Remus was just as confused about his reluctance to give up details. Remus, by nature a patient man, was less emotional about Harry’s secrecy, though he didn’t look any more pleased by it than Hermione was.

“Is this secrecy necessary?” Remus asked. “How can we trust you—“

“Hermione trusts me,” Harry said more curtly than he intended. He was surprised by the security he felt in what he said.

Remus leaned back on the couch. “And so she does. I believe you will tell me in time, but whatever your reasons for keeping your secrets, I urge you to trust me. You never know. I might be able to help you.”

Harry appreciated that leeway. As much as he expected that Snape would take care of his more troublesome issues with potions and magic, Remus’s offer was a welcome option.

With that, Harry hoped to change the subject, directing the conversation to Remus.

“And how have you been doing, Remus? Better adjusted, I hope.”

Remus was not fooled, but he was willing to try to ease back into what used to be. “Oh, same old—only, I’m not alone anymore. Tonks takes care of me on full moons, and I constantly have affable company during my—shall we say, sick days. I manage to keep odd jobs here and there. I don’t make much, but I at least earn a bit to contribute to mine and Tonks’s living expenses. It’s about an ideal a life as I can have. I’m quite happy.”

Harry was glad. It was good to see Remus in a state of contentment. He always seemed so tired and worn out before. “Any—erm, kids?”

Remus cocked a smile. “Well, that’s not in the works, quite yet. I don’t think Tonks and I can have children, but even if we could, I don’t know if it would be wise, considering my condition makes having children slightly irresponsible.”

“Remus…”

“It’s true. It’s all well and good to have children if it were Tonks and I, of course, but what if something happens to Tonks? I can’t take care of children all by myself, and don’t think the Ministry won’t get it in their heads to take the children away from me. They’ll be shipped off to foster homes and who-knows-what fate. There’s too much in their lives that Tonks and I aren’t willing to risk. I’m perfectly happy being Uncle Moony to your kids. Angelica and Julien are wonderful enough. Then there are Charlie’s kids, whom anyone seldom sees being in Romania most times, but they’re good boys, Artie and Will.”

“Twins?”

“Oh, no. Will’s older by a year.”

Harry looked over his shoulder slightly, wondering if Hermione could hear them. He felt uneasy about her hearing his next question.

Remus’s eyebrow arched questioningly.

“How’s Ginny doing?” Harry asked, his voice a notch lower than normal.

There was the slightest hint of surprise in Remus’s eyes. “Well… she’s doing quite well. She works as a style editor in that popular fashion magazine, Be Witch. Very accomplished and successful… quite the beautiful lady. And she’s—she’s single, if that’s what you’re wondering about…”

Harry sighed. “I’m not asking because I want to date her again, Remus. I’m asking because she was my friend, too. I couldn’t ask Hermione because I don’t want her to think I’m still interested in Ginny in that way and I couldn’t ask Ron because I don’t want him thinking I’m still interested in Ginny in that way. You understand what I mean?”

Remus seemed to relax at that. “Completely, Harry. And I’m very glad you asked about her. I think she’s quite happy where she is right now. Molly’s been pestering her about finding someone to settle down with, but she shows no sign of slowing down. Everyone else thinks she should have her fun. It’s a grand life, I think. Great career, parties, fashion, beautiful people, passionate romances—she’s really living it.”

“That’s good to hear. That’s very good to hear.” And Harry meant it. In the last seven years, a part of him had always wished he had had the chance to speak to Ginny about what used to be between them and what Hermione already was to him at the time. He wasn’t so arrogant to think that Ginny’s life would screech to a halt because they hadn’t had proper closure, but he was still grateful for the fact that Ginny had so easily moved along without holding back. It was one less life he was responsible for disrupting.

“You can ask Hermione later about how she worked things out with Ginny,” Remus continued. “I don’t think it was a very big issue, but I think for a very short while, Hermione wasn’t exactly Ginny’s favorite friend.”

Harry’s relief wilted just the slightest bit. “Oh.”

“They’re good friends now, anyway. Not as good friends as Hermione and Fleur, though. Those two found bosom companionship in one another, if you can believe it. I still don’t know how that worked out the way it has, but they really seem to like each other’s company and confidence. Ginny’s too busy partying with her single friends to bother with two mothers, is the joke.”

“Fleur Delacour-Weasley and Hermione Granger,” said Harry, slightly amazed. “Who would’ve thought?”

“Stranger things have happened,” Remus replied, his unwavering gaze making Harry understand exactly what he meant.

Before Harry could say anything, Remus suggested they join the girls for tea. Harry was glad for the distraction.

They headed to the kitchen and joined Hermione and Tonks, and after a while, Tonks left to go to Angelica.

Harry was very glad to have Hermione relaxing the tension. When lunch time came around, Remus and Tonks said their goodbyes.

They all saw their friends to the door, and Harry felt odd standing with Hermione and Angelica as he watched the easy farewell scene.

Angelica was an affectionate child, bidding her aunt and uncle goodbye with a kiss and an embrace.

Hermione was much more grown-up about it, but the warmth of her well-wishes was palpable. She seemed to exchange meaningful looks with Tonks, and Tonks just rolled her eyes in response.

Harry kept his goodbyes quite short. “I’ll see you two soon,” he said.

Tonks and Remus could not hide the flicker of suspicion in their gazes, but they went to him, with Tonks giving him a kiss and an embrace and Remus shaking his hand, squeezing his shoulder warmly.

“Glad to have you back, son,” said Remus, with no hint of wariness.

When they left, Harry felt quite drained.

Hermione patted his shoulder soothingly. “It will get easier.”

He nodded, taking her hand. She looked surprised by the gesture and Harry felt compelled to ask her about it.

But just before they could talk, Angelica gave a shocked gasp.

“Oh, mum! Oh, is that the Firebolt?” she cried, staring for a heartbeat before dashing to the broom Harry had tucked into the corner.

Harry was surprised at the fact that Hermione had talked to Angelica about his Quidditch.

But I shouldn’t be surprised, should I? he thought sheepishly.

Angelica’s hands were upon the broom, holding it by its handle and gingerly lifting it.

Hermione was visibly distressed. “Sweetheart, put that down. That’s one of Harry’s most prized—“

“It’s alright,” Harry interrupted quickly, fascinated by Angelica’s enthusiastic reaction to the thing. “She can have a look at it. No harm in that.”

Hermione shot him a vicious glare.

He ignored her and went straight to Angelica, taking her by the hand and the broom by its handle. “Let’s have a look at it, shall we?”

Angelica’s eyes lit with great interest as she scurried to the couch where Harry had set himself and the broom.

Harry successfully averted his gaze from Hermione who placed herself on a nearby sofa-chair, watching them like a protective tigress.

Harry began telling Angelica the fundamentals of broom parts and what made it go. He was surprised by how much of it he still remembered and he hardly wavered at Angelica’s complicated questions. She made him show her how to mount a broom and she insisted on trying.

Hermione didn’t protest once, but her stony face made Harry wonder if he had to flee for his life when the lecture was over.

“This broom’s too big for you at the moment. You won’t be able to mount it properly, but you can try to give it a handle,” Harry said.

He let Angelica try, and at Angelica’s first “Up!” the broom zoomed right into her tiny hands, lifting her feet off the ground an inch as the broom shot past her head for a moment before settling back down to a height just a bit past her shoulders.

Angelica’s laughter was like music. She loved handling a broom. “Oh, mum, can I fly—“

“Absolutely not,” said Hermione with clear decision. “You’re too young to handle a broom like this one and—“

“Not alone, of course!” Angelica said, unfazed. “I’d like to fly up with daddy when he goes.”

The word struck Harry like a Bludger and Hermione’s shoulders visibly tensed.

A flood of familial warmth welled inside him, and he found, to his great surprise, that being called daddy sounded wonderful coming from Angelica. He had never been anyone’s anything in quite that way. The unconditional, unmistakable trust that went with the title was overwhelming, and he would do anything to keep that trust.

That second’s pause felt like forever, and it truly appeared that Hermione didn’t know what to say.

Harry hastened to respond. The Quaffle was clearly in his court. “I’d be happy to take you, Angelica, but your mum has to approve. It’s dangerous on a broom, no matter how experienced I am. You mustn’t pout if your mum doesn’t let you.”

Instead of relaxing, Hermione seemed to tense even more. The sudden rapid blinking of her eyes began to alarm him. Was she going to cry?

“Please, oh, please, mum?” Angelica whined piteously. “I’ll listen to everything he says. I’ll be safe. He won’t ever let me fall, will you, dad?”

It was impossible not to respond with emotion. “Never ever.”

Hermione took a deep breath, her eyes remaining dry. “I’m sure your father will take good care of you. I suppose it’s alright, if he ever does get the notion to go up—“

Angelica squealed happily.

“But Harry,” Hermione interjected, her eyes casting a pleading look in his direction. “If Angelica must go with you… please don’t fly so high. Just please. I can’t bear—“

“Of course, Hermione,” he said gently. “I wouldn’t risk her safety like that for the world.” He pressed his hand to Angelica’s head, ruffling the unruly hair for a bit. Angelica giggled, shooting up the stairs.

“I’m going to owl Julien!” she cried as she went.

Hermione looked alarmed. “Angelica, you can’t just—“

“Oh, I won’t tell him about dad. I’ll tell him you’ll let me ride a broom with a professional. He’ll just think Victor’s coming to visit! I needn’t go into details!” She disappeared into the rooms.

Harry never realized how grating it was to hear Victor’s name until now.

Red faced, Hermione fidgeted on her seat. “I appreciate you—you know, letting her…”

“Are you joking? Like I’d let anyone be deprived of the pleasures of flying,” he said, laughing.

She reddened even more. “N-No, I mean—letting her call you… you know… dad.”

His heart wrenched. “Why wouldn’t I let her? I am, aren’t I?”

Her brows knotted. “Wh-When a child says it, it isn’t just a matter of biological—“

He just knew his heart would break if he let her go on. He set himself near her on the couch and took her fisted hands, gaze locked on hers. “I know what it meant—to her.”

Hermione nodded slowly. “I won’t ask for much, Harry. I have no issues raising Angelica by myself. I’ve managed quite well on my own. You needn’t worry about me demanding any kind of—any kind of financial help from you. I’m good on that. And just so you know, I am fully aware that Angelica’s welfare is completely different from us. There’s a lot to talk about still, but that’s all separate from Angelica—even if they really aren’t. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

Harry eyed her warily. “I think so.”

“She’ll expect things from you, now, but it doesn’t mean that’s equivalent to me—“ she paused, seemingly to muster the courage “—me expecting something, too. So you don’t have to worry about me taking things the wrong way. Just treat her good. She will trust you with all her heart because she grew up in—in this environment, where everyone loves her and she wants for nothing except a father. Do you understand?”

He did, and maybe it stung a bit, because what Hermione called the “wrong way” might possibly seem right to him on so many levels. But he knew she always never meant to hurt him. After all these years, she was still feeling and thinking with her mind. Instinct, to her, was an inexact science. Rules and regulations set things straight.

“I understand,” he said, somewhat morosely.

She nodded. “Good.” She looked at her watch. “Now I’ve got to put lunch together. Bit of fillet of sole ought to be nice and healthy, don’t you think?”

Harry supposed so. He could use a bit more domesticity. Hopefully forget the drama for a few hours.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lunch was a much more relaxing affair, now that Angelica seemed at ease with the arrangement of things. She chattered and laughed, mostly with Hermione, but she referred many things to Harry too, usually when it had to do with explaining some little nuance of her life, to him.

She told him who her friends were, and that Julien was her best friend in the whole world. She also mentioned that she had gone to several Muggle schools in the course of her six-year life. As she gave a brief rundown of how much she liked or disliked a school, Harry cast Hermione a questioning glance.

“Ask me about it some other time,” Hermione muttered amidst Angelica’s storytelling.

Harry decided he would.

When Angelica was done talking about her schools, she began to talk about math and science, at which point Harry became completely baffled. She spoke of formula and equations like they were regular English words, and she appeared to be applying it to numerological runes and Thaumaturgy. Hermione had to stop and concentrate on what Angelica was saying just so she could make a proper response, and Harry could tell that even then, Hermione stumbled a few times because Angelica sighed with frustration at each instance.

Finally, Hermione and Angelica seemed to come to a satisfactory conclusion, just when Angelica was finished with her lunch plate.

With her entrée done, she hopped off her seat to grab dessert from the freezer.

Harry could only lean back and stare at Hermione stupidly.

“Welcome to my world,” Hermione muttered, twirling her wand to gather the plates and put them in the sink.

“Is she always like that?” Harry whispered as Angelica zipped about, gathering the ingredients for the perfect bowl of ice cream.

“Wait until she gets to the Quantum Physics books.”

He absorbed what Hermione said. “Good heavens. Are you meaning to tell me she learned that stuff by herself?”

“They don’t teach Calculus and Logarithms in grammar school, Harry.”

Harry realized he hadn’t really understood what Lupin had told him about Angelica until now.

After dessert, Angelica dragged him around the house to show him the things she did. He didn’t know where Hermione went, but she appeared to be doing household chores. He would see her carrying a laundry basket, and then he would see her in the small backyard garden, then he would see her shuffling a thick manuscript in her office, then he’d see her march by in rubber-gloves, a bucket, and a mop.

Each time he met her eye, she would smile and gesture for him to pay attention to Angelica—not that he didn’t find the things Angelica showed him fascinating.

Angelica showed him her science project: “A Comparative Study of Molds in Relation to Muggle Chemicals, Commercial Potions, Charms, and Hexes.” She showed him some of her art. She made him listen to her poetry. She showed him her Astronomy charts. She even made him watch cartoons, which—in spite of it being the usual fare for children—was actually very surprising to him. It was hard to imagine a sophisticated mind such as Angelica’s enjoying the simple pleasures of animation.

He didn’t pay much attention to Mulan though. He sat on one end of the couch, watching Angelica while she ate pistachio nuts, almost by rote, while her eyes remained transfixed on the talking dragon on the telly.

He wondered what went on in her brilliant little head when she watched cartoons like that. He thought about what she did with her hair when she slept—there was so much of it. Didn’t she wake up choking on her curls? He saw the watercolor stains on her housedress and wondered if Hermione sighed or laughed at them when she sorted clothes into the washer. He imagined Angelica’s laughter; what it would sound like when she was riding on a broom.

“Theoretically,” Angelica said, not removing her eyes from the screen. “Dragons cannot talk even if they wanted to. Muggle myth and religion gives them wisdom and intelligence, but Dragons can’t even roar without spitting fire. Their vocal functions and pyro functions are physiologically separate, but they can’t separate the use of the two, simply because they’re too dumb to manage it.”

Harry blinked. “I… didn’t quite know that. I just knew that when they opened their mouths, you had to get out of the way.”

“Mum told me you fought a dragon once. In the Triwizards Tournament while you were at school.”

“Nice of her to put it just like that. I didn’t so much fight as I did run away—or fly away.”

“Mm. I couldn’t blame you. Uncle Charlie said Hungarian Horntails are terribly ill-tempered—‘specially the female ones.”

“I—um, didn’t have time to check what gender my dragon was.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered. Male or female, you’d have to run away from it just the same.”

Harry laughed. “You’re right, of course.”

Her attention was suddenly back to the telly. “Ooh! This is the part Mulan runs away! My favorite!”

And their conversation was done.

Harry was perfectly fine with that. He had a lot of things to puzzle out with Angelica and quiet time with her was, he realized, as pleasant as listening to her speak of brilliant things.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The whiskey was strong. It felt thick and grating in his throat, and Harry’s eyes watered as the heat of it spread through him instantly.

When he recovered from the first onslaught, he looked up through his hoodie and saw Ron smirking.

“No whiskey in Avalon?” Ron asked, tossing back his own shot without a flinch.

Harry tried to speak and realized he couldn’t, for the moment. He shook his head, wiping the droplet of whiskey left on his lips with the sleeve of his arm. He coughed and found his voice. “Zeke never brought back anything like this.”

“Zeke?”

“Ezekiel. Priestess’s son, and even if he did manage to get his hands on a brew like this one, I doubt the priestesses or S—some of the wandering guests would let me in on it. They were very careful over there about what to give me.”

Ron’s eyebrow arched but he didn’t prod further.

Harry gazed around him one more time and saw no familiar face, nor did any of the strangers show interest in him. They were not in the Leaky Cauldron. They weren’t even in Wizarding London. Ron had brought him some place dark and seedy, though the gravy on the meat pie was rich and flavorful, and the soup had been hot and filling. Harry supposed that Ron wouldn’t stand for bad food, no matter how low-key they had to be.

Dinner had been a quiet affair, apart from their meager conversation about how Ron found the place, and how he liked coming here with those closest to him, like his brothers, or Dean and Neville on occasion.

Ron hadn’t mentioned bringing Hermione, and Harry supposed it wasn’t the sort of place you brought Hermione to. The few who had walked through the chiming door were there to earn their night’s pay—from whomever was willing to take them.

“It’s a dump,” Ron had whispered. “But the food’s delicious and cheap. Nobody’s nosy, either. It’s like the Hog’s Head, but no danger of running into anyone you know.”

Harry could appreciate that since he had very little pocket money and he really didn’t want to run into anybody else right now.

After dinner, Ron had ordered the whiskey, and now there he was, suffering under the whiskey’s harsh heat.

He wondered if Ron was planning to intoxicate him—get him to say things, maybe.

He eyed the bottle suspiciously for any sign of Veritaserum.

“Did you use your time well, today?” Ron asked, replenishing their glasses. He leaned back, shaking the liquid in his glass with gentle circles.

Harry hated that Ron kept saying things that may mean something else. He had noticed the double-talk when Ron was at Hermione’s house that morning. Now he was doing it again. Since when was Ron so capable of it?

“Depends on what you mean,” Harry replied. “Found some of my things in the attic, spoke to Remus, and spent the rest of the day with Angelica.”

“Only Angelica?”

Harry resented the implication and he frowned. “Hermione was busy doing stuff.”

Ron nodded. “Sunday’s for chores… got to know Angelica better, did you?”

Harry was getting a bit steamed. “Yeah. She found my Firebolt. She was really interested in it, and she made me promise to take her up when I went. Asked Hermione’s permission, of course. She approved.”

“Did she? Well, that would be a milestone, then. She never let me take Angelica up—“

Harry had had enough. “I’m Angelica’s father. Of course she’d let me,” he spat out viciously.

Ron’s face fell and a scowl formed, mingling with what looked like hurt pride. “Believe me. I know.”

Harry’s anger evaporated and he sighed, knocking back more whiskey. It went down easier this time, but the heat still flared. “Dammit Ron… I’m sorry I had to show up and ruin your perfect little life with Hermione and Angelica.”

Ron sighed right back and ran his hands through his hair. “Shite… shut up, Harry. It’s—It’s nothing like that. I’m glad you’re back. There were many days in the past that I wished you hadn’t gone and died. Birthdays were particularly hard, and when they set up the Harry Potter Memorial Day, holing up with Ginny, or with Hermione and Angelica was all we could do to get away from the madness. There were other days, too, like when I lost my job at the Ministry that first time I tried to work there, or when we kept failing to find King Arthur’s sword… wished you were around during those times, too. And you know what? Now that you’re here, you aren’t disrupting anything. I can still see Angelica when I want to and… Hermione will treat me same as she always did…”

“You… and Hermione never dated?”

Ron shook his head, his heartbreak evident. “She never saw me that way. Merlin knows I tried everything, but none of it worked. Short of giving her Amortentia, I couldn’t get her to even consider it.”

“Sorry,” Harry muttered, not meaning it.

Ron scoffed, possibly seeing right through him. “Whatever, Harry.”

“She dated others?”

Ron’s lifted his eyebrow.

Harry prodded a bit more. “She said something about it. Didn’t go into details, though.”

Ron didn’t budge. “So what did you do in Avalon, exactly? Other than heal yourself of your mysterious malady.”

Harry figured Ron wouldn’t talk about Hermione behind her back—which was just as well.

He had spoken a bit about Avalon, and why he had to be there, mostly in the same way he explained it to Hermione. Ron had been less insistent on details, and Harry could tell it was because Ron knew it when Harry preferred to keep some things to himself. Harry was willing to let Ron keep Hermione’s secrets, because Ron was letting him keep his.

“Lots of things,” Harry replied. “There was no shortage of work for me. They made me do all sorts of heavy lifting, harvesting their crops, taking care of the beasts, teach the children magic… I did some research in the library when necessary. I wasn’t idle. There were days I was completely useless, though. It hardly bothered them. Zeke was doing almost half the work anyway.” Harry looked at his rough and calloused hands—the parts that weren’t covered in bandages. He had worked pretty hard, come to think of it.

There was a thoughtful look in Ron’s eyes. “You glad to be back here?”

Harry hadn’t quite expected that question. He had assumed everyone would think he was. “In a manner of speaking… there were times in Avalon that the prospect of coming back here terrified me, but I always wanted to see the lot of you again. I didn’t want you thinking I was dead, but…”

“They wouldn’t let you tell us you were there?”

Harry didn’t answer. He didn’t want them knowing he was there. More importantly, he didn’t want them coming to see him. Not in his condition, at least. “Things might have been different if they told me about Angelica. She’s… something.”

“Yeah. She is. Must’ve been a big shock to you when you found out.”

Harry didn’t say anything, but his eyes seemed to convey his answer because Ron actually laughed.

“I’ve been imagining that very look on your face for years,” Ron replied. “Frankly, I didn’t think you would mind all that much if you had known back then. You’re just that type of bloke, I suppose, but I reckon you still would’ve been surprised.”

Harry sniffed, smirking slightly.

“Well,” Ron continued, amused. “Maybe not that surprised. For my part I couldn’t fathom it. I kept trying to convince myself that you and Hermione put an order with the stork and the baby had come nine months later in a bundle. It only really started to sink in that—well, you put in there when she started to show.”

Harry made a face. “Nice, Ron.”

“Can you blame me? I’d only just gotten the news that you two were together. You don’t even want to know how Ginny reacted.”

Harry felt his face warm. “So I’ve been warned. Come on, Ron… Ginny and I hadn’t been together for months by that time.”

Ron sighed. “I know that, but I can understand some of where Ginny was coming from. She though you ditched her because you cared about her. She had every reason to think that you and she would resume your relationship once Voldemort was gone. She was waiting. Did you see her dating anybody else?”

Harry slumped in his seat. “That’s not my fault,” he muttered.

Ron gave him a look. “The least you could’ve done was talk to her about where things were headed…”

“Well, I didn’t know myself!”

“So you were keeping her on reserve?”

Harry turned away, somewhat shamefaced. “I didn’t—I wasn’t—“

Ron didn’t even wait for him to finish. “Even if you weren’t doing it consciously, a part of you was deliberately yanking her chain. Hell, Hermione and I felt it at the time. Neither of us could talk to you about Ginny.”

Harry starkly remembered Hermione’s insecurities with respect to that and he could only wish he had done better. “So Ginny was angry?”

Ron looked like “angry” was the understatement of the year. “Ho boy. She Who Must Not Be Named was a demon for weeks, especially since you were supposedly a dead hero and she can’t even be properly furious with you. Know what I mean? She took it out on the living, because she couldn’t really take it out on your sorry, celebrated carcass. She refused to speak to Hermione—said she wasn’t one to terrorize a pregnant woman, so I got the brunt of it, and she sort of allocated the rest of her anger to everyone else. I think only after Hermione finally cornered her and they got their little shouting match out that Ginny started to ease back to her normal self. The names she called you were awesome, and I think Hermione just kept saying, ‘Don’t call him that!’ in that bossy voice of hers. It was over when they just both broke down crying, and they made up easy. Ginny helped get the press off our backs after that. It was her make-up kiss to everyone.”

“Maybe she’s past her anger now…”

“With us. I dunno with you.”

Just once, Harry wished Ron would lie to him.

The tension between them seemed to ease after that, and their conversation began to sound like what it used to be before they were at odds, before hunting for Horcruxes, before they fell in love with the same woman.

Ron talked about old classmates, and Harry was glad to listen to Ron tell him about Dean, Seamus, Neville, Lavender, Parvati, Cho, the other Weasleys, and finally, Ron began talking a bit about himself. Harry was glad to listen, especially when Ron spoke of things other than Hermione. Ron talked about Angelica, too, and Harry saw what Ron was like when his love was unconditional.

The whiskey dwindled to nothing, and at the end of the evening, he felt a bit drunker than he should have been. Ron wasn’t quite so steady, either.

Leaning on each other as Ron walked him to Hermione’s house, they laughed at the silliest things and slurred their words ever so slightly.

“Say, Harry…” Ron said in a sing-song tone as they walked down the sidewalk. “Neat trick with your eyes this morning.”

Harry blinked to steady his gaze. “This morning?”

“In the kitchen… when I was kicking your arse!”

Harry laughed at that. “No, I was kicking your arse.”

“Nooo, I was kicking your arse, but that thing you did with your eyes distracted me. Very clever.”

Harry, amidst his semi-intoxicated state, began to get the tiniest bit nervous. “Thing… with my eyes?”

“We’re here! Merlin, Harry, tuck in your shirt! Hermione’s going to let me have it bad enough in the state you’re in…”

Harry watched Rom lumber up the walkway and steps, fishing out a key for the lock.

“If we can avoid confrontation,” Ron began, “that would be best.”

Ron proceeded to try to key them in. He swore, struggling with the lock.

“’Haps I shouldn’t have had that last drink,” he grumbled. “I was using the wrong key, no wonder…”

But before Ron could remedy his mistake, the door opened and Hermione stood there, hand to her hip and giving both of them the once over.

Harry supposed some of the alcohol was firing his libido. She looked positively luscious in pajamas and a tank-top, hair a complete mess on her head, and looking them over like she could turn them away at any moment’s notice.

“Well,” she said. “You boys reek of whiskey. I ought to leave you both out on my stoop.”

“Even Harry?” Ron asked, leaning sluggishly against the doorframe. “He only just got back from limbo, the poor thing…”

“I can smell tobacco on your shirt. Have you started up that awful habit again?”

Ron looked affronted. “What? No! Must’ve been the other patrons. I didn’t smoke, did I, Harry?”

“Not at all,” Harry replied automatically. Harry hadn’t seen him smoke, but Ron had stepped out for a bit while Harry had some coffee to counter the effects of the whiskey. Ron had come back with the perfume of tobacco on him.

Hermione leaned over Ron, and to Harry’s horror, he truly thought she was going to kiss him, but she didn’t. She sniffed at his nose quickly and Ron tried to pull away, but it was too late.

She grimaced. “Ugh! You did smoke!” she cried. “You told me you’d quit!”

Ron sighed. “It was my first one in weeks! I don’t smoke ‘em regular, you know. Merlin, you’re a bleedin’ nag!”

“You smoke, I nag. Come on, Harry. Smokers not allowed in this house or has he gotten you to smoke, too?”

“No. Never smoked anything in my life,” Harry muttered, hurrying up the steps before Hermione changed her mind for one reason or another.

“Traitor,” Ron shot after him. “What am I supposed to do out here, then?”

“Go home,” Hermione told him, pulling Harry behind her by the arm. “It’s late, anyway. You’ve got work tomorrow.”

“Whatever.”

“Goodnight, Ron. I’d give you a kiss, but you stink.”

“Bleedin…” Ron smacked a kiss on her forehead anyway before turning and leaving, muttering to himself and kicking a small mound of dried leaves aside as he went.

She closed the door and turned to face Harry.

“I’m only a little tipsy,” he said before she could chastise him.

She smirked. “I’m not your mother, Harry. I only do that sort of thing with Ron because he likes it.”

What other thing do you do for Ron that he likes? he thought grumpily before shaking the thought off. “Oh.”

“Coffee?”

“Had it at the pub.”

She nodded. “Time for bed, then.”

Yours or mine? He must have been tipsy, else he wouldn’t have had the gall to even think it. “Yeah. Long day.”

She cast him a sympathetic look as they headed to his bedroom. “Poor dear. Angelica asked me whether you and her Uncle Ron were out to get ‘banjaxed’ tonight. She no doubt learned the word from her brain-to-mouth-malfunctioning uncle. I said you weren’t, but she was quite worried.”

Harry waited for her to go on and wondered if he should say or do something. He blurted out the first thing that came up in his mind. “What time does she get up on school days?”

“Seven. Why?”

“I’ll wake her up. Ought to settle her worries about her old man.”

Hermione smiled at him gratefully. It was lovely to behold. “I really appreciate you spending time with her today. You didn’t have to. Not so soon…”

“Sooner’s better than later.”

She stood leaning against his bedroom door as he sat wearily on the foot of his bed. She seemed ready to stay there for a bit, but she crossed the threshold of the door and Harry once again found himself in a silent panic. He watched her cross the space between them and stand over him. She looked very pleased with him, and he began to work out the proximity of her lips with his, how he could just bounce off the bed and snatch her into his arms.

Her fingers delicately touched the unruly clumps of his hair. He closed his eyes at her touch.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

He looked up at her. “No problem…”

She leaned down and he closed his eyes again, praying that her kiss would fall on his lips, but he felt her touch on his brow.

Her whispered goodnight left him wanting her deeply as he watched her leave his room and close the door behind her.

A/N: So sorry for the lateness.

Standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter Fourteen – Heart-shaped Secrets

All in all, things weren’t going as oddly as Hermione thought it would. The initial normalness of what Harry’s arrival seemed to have wrought brought a storm of explosive to awkward meetings between his nearest and dearest, and that, to Hermione, was strangely settling. Things weren’t going on as if nothing had happened, yet the disruptions caused by his arrival seemed comfortingly average: Just the level of chaos Hermione had expected—on hindsight, at least. The meeting of Angelica, Ron, and Harry in her kitchen the previous day was definitely more than she could’ve handled at the time, but as far as catastrophes went, all victims seemed to be recovering from their injuries quite well.

Hermione found herself humming that Monday morning she was getting ready for work, and she didn’t feel like tying her hair up in a tight bun. She went for wild and free, throwing a banana-clip in her purse in case she needed to get her hair out of the way through the course of the day.

She was in a decidedly good mood, and when she popped out of her bedroom to wake Angelica, she could only see her day getting better when she found Harry standing outside Angelica’s door.

“Good morning,” she said, mildly surprised.

He seemed more surprised than she was, actually. “Well, don’t you look nice for work?”

She flushed. “Yes. Big surprise, isn’t it?”

He looked slightly chagrined. “I always think you look nice. Just never seen you in business wear before. It suits you. Exceedingly.”

She turned even redder. “Thank you.” She wondered briefly what he was doing there but remembered what he said the previous night. “Came to wake up Angelica?”

“Yes. I said I would. You go on ahead. I’ve got a pot of coffee going. Also popped some of your breakfast biscuits in the oven and fried up some bangers to go with it. Hope that’s alright.”

“Alright? Harry, you’re heaven-sent. I can get used to this; waking up with breakfast ready.”

He seemed pleased. “Go on, then—“

Angelica’s door opened and her head popped out. She looked drowsy, but she was smiling up at him. “Morning dad. Did you come to wake me up?”

Harry smiled. “Yes. Looks like you don’t need help, though.”

“Your voices woke me. I’ll go get ready now. I’ll be down in a bit.”

“Right then, baby girl. Hurry along.”

“I will.” She disappeared behind the closing of her door.

Hermione didn’t know when this pet-naming started, but she was feeling all gooey inside about it.

“She made that awfully easy for me,” Harry said, leading the way down the stairs.

She sat with him to a hot breakfast. He even had scrambled eggs ready. She could definitely get used to all this.

Things were always a rush in the morning and even with Harry taking care of breakfast, Hermione still found herself bustling hurriedly about. Over her unfinished plate, she looked over the morning paper—Harry wasn’t on it. She braided Angelica’s hair when Angelica came down for breakfast, sent messenger spells to Olivia, and a Howler to Draco.

Olivia replied back with a messenger spell of her own, saying, “Director Shrews-Whats-His-Face has sent you a Howler, just so you know. I’ll wager it’s about what he thinks you did to Mr. Malfoy. Do you want me to make his coffee extra special for him today?”

Knowing Olivia that probably spelled Diarrhea for Mr. Shrewsbury.

Hermione shrugged. “Why not?” She sent her reply back immediately.

Mr. Shrewsbury’s Howler arrived just after Olivia’s message and it was quite awful. There were no swear words, which Hermione expected, but he managed to call Hermione a “stubborn, selfish shrew.” He threatened to fire her, at which point Hermione rolled her eyes and assured Angelica that Mr. Shrewsbury was full of bull you-know-what.

The Howler was still going when Harry peeked cautiously from behind it. “He’s in a foul mood, isn’t he?”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Hermione said, stuffing the last piece of toast in her mouth. “He’ll be leaving work early today. Real early.”

Harry eyed her suspiciously. “Olivia’s… his assistant?”

Hermione wondered if Harry actually caught on to what Olivia had implied. “No, she’s mine.”

“And she makes coffee for Mr. Shrewsbury, too?”

“Only for today.”

He stopped asking questions then.

Hermione checked her watch. There was still time to spare. It was then she got hit by an idea. “Got any plans for today, Harry?”

He paused visibly. “I might, but I don’t expect that it would take very long. Why?”

“Oh,” began Hermione, giving a nonchalant shrug. “Just thought we’d meet up for lunch. I don’t want you getting lonely here.”

“Lunch?”

“Muggle London,” she added hastily. “Little danger of you getting spotted, and really, it’s nothing a little charming couldn’t mask. I promise. No one will recognize you. They all think you’re dead, anyway.”

Good Lord, how morbid.

His brows seem to knot, and she wondered how she could possibly mess up asking Harry out on this semi-date. It shouldn’t have been this difficult, even if she had never quite asked a man out on a date before, but he shouldn’t have to feel that this was a real date, because she didn’t, otherwise, she’d have chickened out already.

On the other hand, wasn’t arranging a time and place to be together—because you wanted to be with a person—considered a real date?

No, not when it was lunch. Lunch is casual, and easy. No strings attached.

She had to stifle a groan at that.

“Lunch sounds good,” he said.

She tried not to sound excited. “I’ll see you at noon then, at the Elfin Oak at Kensington Garden…”

The blank look on his face had her almost slapping her face at her idiocy.

“Right,” she said contritely. “Because I’m sure the priestesses liked having tea at the Broadwalk Café…”

He laughed softly. “You know what? It will be easy enough to find. I grew up around here too, remember? I just didn’t get out much. I’ll be there.”

She felt instant relief. “The nearest tube is High St. Kensington. Wear something I’ll recognize if you’re going to charm your appearance.”

He smiled. “Don’t worry. I’ll find you.”

She didn’t know why that sent a little thrill down her back.

Angelica tugged at her sleeve. “Come on, mum. I’ll be late.”

“Oh, right!” Hermione hastened to gather her things. “Harry, just dump the plates into the sink—“

“Go on ahead. I’ve things under control.”

“Alright then. Here’s a spare key to the house just in case. Erm—“ Should she kiss him goodbye?

Oh, go ahead. Why not?

She leaned over to kiss his cheek. He shifted and her lips almost landed on his. It was still an awkward thing.

“Oh!” she gasped. “I mean—erm, goodbye!”

He was blushing visibly. “Um, yeah…”

Angelica came out of nowhere and threw her arms around Harry’s neck. “Bye, bye, dad! See you later!”

Harry looked way too surprised to respond. Angelica, bless her, was too much in a hurry to worry about that little detail. She rushed out of the kitchen and called out for Hermione to hurry.

Wholly embarrassed by the kissing mishap, Hermione did hurry and bustled right out the door after Angelica.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry peeked out of the kitchen door and saw Hermione’s hurried figure walk by outside through the large bay windows of the living room.

He had, possibly, never seen her more in her element. Office wear, unfettered hair, career mother. She looked quite stunning. It was impossible to refuse her anything.

Snape, of course, would have something to say about him going on lunch dates. The man abhorred the common ceremonies of relationships—on any level. The priestesses always seemed to joke that the day they get Severus Snape to appreciate the dynamics of human affection would be the day Avalon would cease to exist.

The sound of fluttering wings caught his attention and he saw Imogen on the windowsill. The crow held its foot out, a note dangling from its claw. The tell-tale sign of dark twine made Harry hurry to get the note.

He grabbed a treat from Hermione’s supply in the corner and fed it to Imogen, stroking her dark feathers before letting her go. He glanced out of the window and saw Hedwig flying overhead.

Assured, Harry opened the note and saw that Snape wanted to meet him at the nearest park, as soon as possible.

Harry looked at the clock. There were at least four hours before he had to meet with Hermione. He searched Hermione’s office for paper and quill and wrote a note back to Snape, saying that he would be at the nearby park in two hours. Harry made Imogen take the note back and Harry quickly set about to search through the house for the very reason he left Avalon.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The attic seemed like a good place to start. With all the boxes labeled, he thought it would be easy work.

It did not go as quickly as he planned.

There were many distractions, among which were Angelica’s baby albums. Sorted by year, Harry found himself flipping through all those “firsts” he had missed. He was fascinated by the broad, unfettered, and mostly toothless smiles of his daughter.

Angelica had been a happy baby. She seemed curious about everything, and all things seemed to have gone into her mouth, usually resulting in that amusing look of horror on Hermione’s face while Ron seemed greatly delighted.

Angelica had pictures with everyone. There was no shortage of affection.

As Angelica got older, more evidence of her genius was captured by photograph. Her paintings and clay sculptures were amazingly advanced, she apparently wrote music, and she liked Muggle science, particularly pertaining to the use of Microscopes. She was photographed playing the piano, and her tiny fingers were fast and sure over the keyboard. It appeared to him, though, that the arts were not her forte. Her genius and greatest interests were on the academe: Theories, methods, formulae, and literature.

After a long while, Harry felt he’d taken up too much time and moved on to the other boxes.

He pulled out the boxes labeled “Gifts” and saw that many of the items in the box had remained in their packaging. Spell-o-taped to them were what Harry could only assume was the card that went with each gift.

“To baby. With thanks, the Munsleys,” or “To Ms. Hermione Granger. My sincerest gratitude, Alberta Tilde.”

Harry always wondered if the Wizarding world knew that Angelica was his daughter. From what Harry could make out, Hermione might never have confirmed it publicly, and everyone just assumed. It wasn’t so hard to figure out if they knew how he looked, and everyone probably did, not to mention the vultures in the Daily Prophet could have easily gotten proof from the Hall of Records—except that records like that couldn’t be published legally without the consent of the owner, or the owner’s guardian, and Harry couldn’t fathom Hermione giving up information about Angelica to the papers.

Hermione and Angelica received many items from strangers, and some of them looked quite suspect, but Harry didn’t feel anything from these objects, so none of them were what he was looking for.

He took one last turn of the attic and found a hatbox filled with his pictures. They were all small photos of him and he couldn’t help the twinge of insecurity that asked why Hermione kept them hidden away instead of being framed or posted somewhere in the house.

He pursed his lips at his own absurd thoughts and put the pictures away. He had already spent a bit over an hour in the attic.

He put everything back in order before heading to Hermione’s bedroom.

It was difficult to walk past the threshold of her door, knowing what he intended to do. He felt he was being dishonest to her, but asking her about it was out of the question. Asking her would mean he had to tell her the whole truth, and he didn’t know if he was ready for that yet.

Mustering his determination, he pushed through her door and surveyed her bedroom.

It smelled like her—the flowery scent of her hair and soap; that morning’s perfume. It was almost intoxicating. His eyes roamed to her bed.

It was a platform in dark wood. The headboard was cut through with squares and rectangles that were pleasing to the eyes. Her bed-sheets were a soothing shade of green and beige, with her pillows and comforter neatly made up—like in those furniture magazines. The rest of the room was designed just as perfectly. Nothing was out of place. So typically Hermione.

A soft mewl had Harry turning to the door and Crookshanks padded in, hopping on top of the bed and curling in the center of it contentedly. The beast purred loudly enough for Harry to hear it a few paces away.

Sighing, Harry sat on the edge of the bed nearest to the balcony. He stroked Crookshanks head to tail and the beastie liked it exceedingly, rubbing his head against Harry’s hand.

“Where’s she keeping it, boy?” Harry asked. “Tell me if you know.”

Crookshanks’s soft meow did not help. He just curled into a tighter ball and slept.

Harry turned to the bed-stand and hesitated momentarily before pulling it open.

The drawer had a few books in them—mostly fiction. There was a notebook, a folder with papers in them, and receipts. There was nothing unusual. He went to the other bed-stand and it contained a few more personal items.

Taking a deep breath, he plunged his hands beneath the mattress. He braced himself for the worse. People hid their most personal, most embarrassing possessions under the mattress. He remembered how in their dorms at Hogwarts, Seamus and Dean would keep their dirty magazines between their mattresses. Neville kept his contraband Herb fertilizers in his. Harry never asked what Ron kept.

He had never kept any secrets between his mattresses. All the secrets he had were in his head and his heart.

Harry was a little afraid of what he might find. What kind of secrets would Hermione keep? Or worse, what if her secret were… sexy.

He shuddered. He didn’t think he could stand it at the moment.

At what he had already assumed was her side of the bed, he felt something on his fingertips. Without thinking, he pulled it out and he stared at it.

It was a picture of him and her, sixth year.

He swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat.

Did she really keep his picture that close? That private?

He plopped back on the edge of the bed, the photo in his hand. Crookshanks didn’t stir.

This was wrong.

He couldn’t just come into her house, settle back in with her and her perfect trust and her perfect daughter and sneak around hoping to find something…

Growling, he shoved the photo back between her mattress and got up. He rearranged whatever crimps he left on her bed and resisted the urge to rummage through her dressing cabinets and her walk-in closet.

He had to ask her—and so that meant he would tell her.

But I couldn’t. She’ll know, and she’ll— What? Turn you out? Tell you to leave? Hermione would never do that. She would never—

Back then she wouldn’t have. Back then she didn’t have Angelica to worry about. Things are different now, and if I were Hermione, I wouldn’t want me getting near Angelica, either…

That brought a whole world of dread to him—the thought that he would be prevented from seeing Angelica again. He never realized that a person could get so attached to someone in just one day.

It almost made him feel silly. He had lived his entire life without a daughter, and really, things were less complicated without Angelica, and yet the thought that he might be told, “Don’t ever come see her again. Ever,” especially in Hermione’s voice…

It would be the heartbreak that just might kill him.

He passed Angelica’s bedroom door, and the mere idea of going in there and rummaging through her things sickened him.

He needed to get out of the house. He needed to see Snape, or else he was going to go insane. Snape’s poisonous derision for his failures that morning was much more welcome than the filthy feeling he had, searching dishonestly through the things of two of the most important people of his life…

He threw on his coat, cast a concealing charm, and pulled the hood of his jacket over his head. He pocketed the house keys Hermione gave him and set out of the house toward the nearest park. It wasn’t a very long walk. It was about five long blocks to the park, and there seemed a vast enough amount of grass and woodland for the park to be a considerable size. When looking for the portals to Avalon, it was always best to go to the thickest and darkest part of the woods.

There weren’t a lot of people in the park. There were toddlers and their babysitters, but they didn’t mind him at all. He sat himself on one of the benches and meandered a bit, waiting for the time to pass. After a long while, he resurveyed his surroundings. He eyed the nearby woodland and proceeded to walk to it.

Overhead, he could feel Imogen and Hedwig following, flying ahead to the trees where they perched. His strange connection with them was highly unusual, Snape had said, but since it was only a mild link, nothing at all like seeing through their eyes or reading their thoughts, Snape didn’t think it was cause for much concern. It was an echo of Voldemort’s abilities with Nagini, but an echo faint enough to be ignored, and in some cases, like when Imogen and Hedwig frantically alerted him of possible danger to Hermione’s home, it was a good thing.

He looked up at them, seeing them circle upon something ahead and over the trees.

Harry hurried.

He saw the mists from a distance but refrained from stepping through them. He sat on a nearby tree stump and waited, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket. The mists always made things a tiny bit colder.

Moments later, the black-robed figure of Severus Snape materialized through the soupy fog. He did not step beyond its swirling clouds. He conjured a foot stool and sat with perfect dignity. While the man was as cantankerous and insufferable as ever, his years in Avalon have been kind to him. The crinkling of his brow was less pronounced, the frown on his face less embedded, and sometimes, when Snape thought Harry wasn’t looking, Harry would catch a glimpse of actual relaxation on the Potion Master’s face. Whether Snape wanted to admit it or not, he agreed with Avalon.

“And did you do as I instructed, Potter?” Snape began.

Harry gave a half-shrug. “Yeah.”

Snape glared at him. “What does that mean? That—“ He imitated Harry’s shrug in a most unflattering manner. “Speak up, Potter. You know I hate it when you speak as if you cannot put two sentences together!”

Harry’s lips pursed in irritation. “Yeah. I did as you instructed.”

Snape’s pale cheeks purpled with suppressed annoyance, but he did not rise to the bait. “Did you look hard enough?”

Harry didn’t answer immediately. “I didn’t ransack the house, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Snape’s lips bowed downward. He was severely displeased. “I see. Might I remind you, Potter, of the great importance of this? Somewhere out there, a fragment of Voldemort’s soul still exists. Whether anyone knows this or not, it is a dangerous, dangerous—“

“I know how dangerous it is,” Harry said through grit teeth. “And I know how important it is for me to find it. It’s why I took this risk, remember? And by God, if not for this, I wouldn’t have! Do you think I want them to see me when—“

Snape made a tutting sound, dismissing his words with impatience. “Are the potions working? Have you had no episodes since you last took—“

“The potions are working as expected,” snapped Harry. “But they’ve been tested these last two days. They held out. Don’t know what it cost me, though.”

Snape sneered. “You absolutely cannot take your time on this, Potter. The efficacy of those potions will only last as long as you try to make them last, and if you start getting addicted to the stuff again, we will have to haul your behind back here—“

“I know all that!”

“Then stop dilly-dallying—“

“For fuck’s sake, it’s been less than two days, Severus!”

“Again, you absolutely cannot take your time—“

“Well, if someone had told me I had a daughter maybe things would’ve gone more smoothly from the get go! So excuse me if I was the tiniest bit unprepared for that little detail!” Harry yelled.

Snape fell quiet. He didn’t look the least bit surprised.

Harry shot him a sardonic smile. “And of course you knew. I’ll bet my arse the priestesses knew, too. Did you and Morgana conspire to hide this from me?”

“We did not conspire to hide it from you. We were waiting for you to ask—“

Harry’s jaw dropped and he sat up, outraged. “Ask? How was I supposed to ask you about my daughter? I had no idea she existed!”

“If you weren’t being such a dunderhead, you would’ve known to ask. Did you not figure it out? The clues were being paraded before your very eyes every day you were in Avalon.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Severus?”

“The pendants. The crystal pendants. Did you never wonder why some were given them and some were not?”

Harry threw up his hands and pulled at his hair. “What does that have to do with it?”

Snape rolled his eyes. “You are positively—you are so disgustingly idiotic that I am amazed you got through the first six years of Hogwarts—“

“Just tell me already, alright?”

“Think hard for once, Potter. The only ones who wore that pendant had children—“

Harry shook her head vehemently. “No. Not all the mothers had pendants—“

“Well, not all of them, surely, but only those with children had that pendant, and you could’ve figured it out from there. If you had bothered to ask the mothers where their children were conceived—“

Harry reddened. “What! I couldn’t ask that. That’s too feckin’ personal!”

“Well, where did you reckon your daughter was conceived?”

That finally got Harry to shut-up, and he felt the heat rising in his face. “I—well that’s… holy Merlin…”

“You see, Potter, the brain can be a useful tool if you try to exercise the use of it.”

“Shut up. Hermione’s pendant was given way back—are you meaning to tell me they knew the moment she—“

Snape made a gesture of surrender. “These women know of womanly things better than anyone. It is not inconceivable—pardon the pun—that they would have known that you’d knocked Granger up at that very moment—“

“Don’t talk about her that way.”

“Pfft. Fine, then. That you’d impregnated her—“

“Ugh. Just stop talking about it. You’re awful. You still should’ve told me about Angelica. I had a right to know. Hermione had to deal with all that by herself. D’you even understand what that meant to her? Of course you wouldn’t understand—“

“I am not in the habit of getting pregnant, if that’s what you mean.”

Harry shook his head. “Cold son of a—“

“If we had told you, would you have stayed in Avalon—the only place you could have gotten better? Would you have striven to get better before wanting to see them?”

Harry frowned. “I might have! I might have had more motivation to want to get better and—“

“Granger and Weasley were not motivation enough for you to stay put and get treated?”

Harry fell silent. “You don’t understand anything…” he said, weakly. Of course he would’ve wanted to come back for Angelica, whether or not he had gotten better, and truly, he didn’t know what that would’ve caused.

Pain and chaos…

Snape did not push. “Do you even know what you are looking for in that house? Are you even sure it’s there?”

“It should be there,” Harry said, wrenching his thoughts back to the mission. “I felt it to be around Hermione when it made its presence known in my dreams. I just know it’s the only place to look—“

“And the object? What would it be?”

“The pendant. It couldn’t be anything else. She was wearing it at the time, and if the soul fragment is near her, I could only suppose it’s that one.”

“Has she shown any signs of—well, evil influences?”

Harry shot Snape a glare. “No. Wherever the pendant is, she probably hasn’t been wearing it. She has it kept—hidden.”

“And is that not a sign that she knows—“

“She could’ve kept it for a dozen other reasons, Severus. She could’ve kept it out of sight because—because she was wearing it the day she thought I died.”

Snape’s eyebrow arched but he said nothing to contradict. “And I suppose you simply cannot ask her where this pendant is?”

“I—I might.” Harry fidgeted on his seat. “I just—“

“You are afraid she will ask more questions and find you out?”

“She’s Hermione. She’ll never take things as they are. She’ll find me out.”

“And you are afraid of what the consequences are.”

“Afraid, yes. There’s shame, too. Many horrid things. It’s different now. Hermione has a daughter to think of. I have a daughter to think of. I don’t know how she’ll take it, and I’m afraid of what I have to do to protect Angelica from me…”

“Good Lord,” Snape grumbled, sounding disgusted. “You are attached to the sprout. Typical!”

Harry scowled. “You’ve no idea how it feels, Severus. I look at Angelica and she’s—she’s perfect and—“

“Oh, please spare me.”

“She’s my daughter.”

“And that means what, to me?”

“Excuse me for caring about something other than myself!”

“I suppose her mother has nothing to do with all this meandering.”

Harry could feel his face growing hot. “Did you seriously think I can do this without having to deal with my feelings for Hermione?”

Again, Snape rolled his eyes. “God forbid.”

“Just give me a bit of time, won’t you?”

“Oh, I have all the time in the world. It is you that’s pressed, remember?”

Harry sighed. “You’re never a ray of hope. You just bring gloom and dread wherever.”

“It is my nature. Now please, if you have nothing for me to work with, I have to go back to my lab to brew more of those potions of yours. Perhaps I can find something that can do less harm… if you do not go insane first.”

Harry stood to leave. “Goodbye, Severus.”

Snape made a dismissive gesture with a silky wave of his hand, and without even leaving his seat, the mists swallowed him and disappeared from the forest.

Harry checked his pocket watch. He had about a half hour to spare before going off to meet Hermione.

After his meeting with Snape, he certainly needed something to soothe his wound-up nerves.

Shoving his hands back into his pocket, he ventured to get to Kensington Gardens.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione arrived at Kensington Gardens by tube. The nearest Apparating point was at least a train-ride away and it seemed silly to Hermione to Apparate then take a train anyway. She had gone ahead and journeyed to the Gardens by public transportation.

When she reached her destination, she found a spot where she could groom unimpeded.

Taking a quick glance around her, she whipped out her palm mirror and smoothed down the misplaced strands of her hair. She had made sure, before leaving the office, that her overall appearance was alright. She had a relatively easy morning, what with Mr. Shrewdbury leaving the office in a hurry early on, but at least three of her copyeditors dumped her with pageproofs and two authors came back with author amendments, not to mention Draco’s agent constantly Flooing her to basically kiss her arse. The morning had been a busy one and it was disheveling. However silly it may seem, she wanted to look presentable for her “non-date” with Harry.

When she put her mirror and rubbed on a tiny bit of her perfume, she set out to look for him around the Elfin Oak. She searched around the oak and was slightly perplexed when she saw no sign of him. She checked her pocket watch and saw that it was only two past noon. Perhaps he was a bit late.

She walked around a bit more and spotted what looked like a young man in grubby jeans and a loose jacket. He had his hood pulled over his face and his hands were shoved into his pockets. His trainers were slightly dusty.

Aha.

She walked over to the boy and saw that his face was different, but she was almost certain it was Harry, with his height and build matching. Harry must have cast a mild glamour.

Hermione gave Harry’s arm a nudge. “Hullo there. Been waiting long for me?”

He looked and was surprised for a moment.

She flashed a smile and he smiled back.

He didn’t say anything, and that’s when Hermione started to suspect.

“H-Harry?” she asked.

“Darling, you can call me anything you want!”

Oh, for…

She heard someone snickering behind her and she looked over her shoulder and saw Harry. He had cast no glamour to his appearance, or so it seemed to her. She could detect a faint glimmer of magic around him.

“Glad you enjoyed that,” she said, dryly.

He was still laughing softly. “Oh, don’t let me interrupt you. Though I ought to caution you about picking up fifteen year olds. There’s a little thing called the age of consent…”

She rolled her eyes and turned back to the boy. “Move along, dear. Just a misunderstanding.”

“I’ll be sixteen in four months,” said the boy. “And I rather like older—“

Summoning her best prefect tone, she gave him a stern look. “Go before I turn you in for cutting classes, young man.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said in a chastised tone, scurrying away in a hurry.

“So heartless,” Harry said as they watched the boy go. “He’ll forever remember you as the one who got away.”

“Shut it, you,” she said, taking his hand to lead him to the Broadwalk Café. “Did you have any difficulty finding this place?”

“Your directions were spot on. Probably got here sooner than you did.”

She hoped to Merlin he didn’t see her preening, earlier. She finally gave him a proper look and saw that he had changed into his old, but better looking jeans, most probably from his trunk in the attic. His collared shirt looked a lot less worn and he had used his best pair of shoes. He had dressed up for their lunch and she couldn’t help but grin about it.

There were far too many people crowding the restaurant, but the take-away counter was quick, so they ordered out and took their food and drink to one of the many park benches, further away from the bustling activity.

Hermione could still hear the distant shrieks of children playing in the Princess Diana Memorial Playground while she peppered her vegetable wrap. The distant noise was soothing. She didn’t mind having people around, so long as they kept to the paths. She liked being on the benches, amidst the vast patches of grass. It was about as tranquil as it could be in the busy city of London.

“Do you come here often?” Harry asked, seasoning his sandwich.

She nodded. “It’s a nice place to be. It relaxes me, strangely enough.”

“I like it. Food’s not bad, either.”

They fell silent, but Hermione had expected that sort of thing, which was why Kensington Gardens seemed perfect. Their silences didn’t have to be terribly uncomfortable. In a park like this, they could sit and watch other people. The silence wouldn’t be so pressing.

“Hermione, I was just wondering… ” He sounded so serious and he seemed hesitant, too, like what he was about to say pained him. He even began to pale, but then color rushed back to his cheeks, and he relaxed. “Remus said something about you letting him observe Angelica.”

She was mildly surprised. She had thought about broaching that subject with Harry, but she hadn’t anticipated he would broach it at lunch.

At any case, now seemed as good a time as any.

“Yes,” she replied. “Nothing invasive or anything like that, and nothing that could hurt Angelica in any way. I’m sure you have questions, Harry, and I’ll be more than glad to answer them.”

Harry nodded. “Remus explained a bit of it, to me. He documents all his findings, yes?”

“He gives me copies of everything. Would you like to read them?”

Harry seemed a bit embarrassed. “Yeah, sure. Seems like a good idea… but what I’d really like to know is… why? Why did you feel the need for all that?”

Hermione felt confused at first, then a bit nervous. “What do you mean? You know why. Angelica’s very special, Harry. I thought you understood that.”

“I do. She’s brilliant, and she’s powerful, but… I feel like you have other reasons for all this…”

She pursed her lips. “Why do you say that?”

Harry stared at her a moment before he spoke. “Because I know you.”

She frowned and she felt inexplicable anger well inside her. “It’s been seven years, Harry. A lot of things about me have changed. How can you be sure you still know me?”

The moment she saw the stricken look in his eyes, she felt instantly wretched, but she also suddenly understood where her anger was coming from. Harry had spent the last seven years alive, and away, and he refused to explain to her why. In spite of what she had said about changing, it seemed she hadn’t really changed all that much. She still said the harshest things, in her cold, seemingly detached way, when her anger, insecurities, or both got the better of her. She instantly wanted to take back what she said, but as usual, her mind told her that she couldn’t, so she didn’t.

Harry paused a moment before taking a deep breath. “I remember what you used to be. Surely most of that part of you hasn’t changed? If you really thought this was just about Angelica’s genius, you would’ve gone to some worthy scholar of magic who has the certificates and years of experience to back him up—a professional, but you asked Remus to do this. He’s brilliant, and methodical, but he isn’t a pro. You chose someone close to you—to us, because you needed someone you can trust completely, particularly with your—our daughter. You needed someone who would understand… whatever it is that is beyond Angelica’s extraordinary I.Q. What is it? What are you looking for?”

Hermione realized that her heart was thudding quite strongly. She hadn’t expected Harry to go to this extent at all.

He seemed to be watching her face intently, and whatever he saw, it prompted him to take her hand and squeeze it reassuringly. “You know you can tell me these things.”

It suddenly occurred to her that as much as he knew her, she knew him, and that she felt a kind of insistence in the way he was asking these questions. Harry wasn’t a pushy person. Whenever they had to find things out in the past, Harry wasn’t the one to go around snooping and nosing around for facts. That was her department. Yet now it was as if he needed to know.

Maybe they had both changed. Maybe now, with a daughter to think about, Harry had decided he should be more inquisitive, particularly with regard to Angelica’s welfare.

But still…

“Why does it seem so important for you to know?” The question slipped out before she could stop it. Now it sounded silly. Of course it would be important to him. Of course he needed to know, but something nagged at her, even while the warmth of Harry’s hand coursed through her entire body.

His brows knotted before the warmth of his hand disappeared. He withdrew from their closeness and Hermione felt terribly empty.

“It’s fine,” he said in a resigned tone. “You’re right. You don’t have to tell me anything.”

She felt terribly guilty. “Oh, Harry… it isn’t like that, and I do want to tell you—“

A ringing sound jumped out of her purse and she realized it was the mobile she kept. She kept the phone for two reasons: Her parents and Angelica’s school.

Harry seemed surprised and he followed the sound with his gaze as she scrambled to take it. The small screen on the device told her Angelica’s school was calling.

Hermione groaned. “Oh, God, what sort of trouble did that girl get up now? Hello?”

She heard the familiar voice of Ms. Falco, the receptionist at the Headmistress’s Office. “Ms. Granger? This is Terri Falco speaking, from Headmistress Kenly’s office?”

“Yes, of course. What did she do this time?”

“Nothing, actually. It’s what’s been done to her. Please don’t be alarmed, but Connor Wilson seemed to have pushed Angelica down the stairs—“

“What? Oh, my God!” Hermione scampered to her feet, grabbing her bag. “Is she—“

“She didn’t break her neck!” Ms. Falco interrupted hastily. “Nothing terribly serious, I assure you! But she did fall on her arm rather badly. She may have broken it—“

“That brat Conner Wilson broke it! I’m coming over there right now.” She snapped her mobile shut without even saying goodbye.

She whirled to face Harry and found herself in the rather alarmed grip of his hands.

“Is there something wrong? Is Angelica alright?” he demanded.

His worry, surprisingly, lulled her into a reassuring calm.

“It’s Angelica,” she said. “She’s had an accident in school and she may have a broken arm—“

Harry’s face tensed with worry. He turned and took her hand, pulling her along with him. “We’d best get to her school, then. How did it happen?”

She explained all she could, little as she knew about it. They hopped into the nearest tube as they talked, hand in hand the entire way. She took comfort from his touch. Even his urgency made her feel reassured.

Hermione wondered if they should head back to the house to get the hybrid, but decided she would much rather get to Angelica already. They made quick time of the nearest Apparating point and were soon walking up the steps of the school with Hermione leading the way.

The nurse’s office was not difficult to find and the nurse led them to Angelica who was seated on a cushioned examination table, her arm in a tight sling. Her cheeks were streaked with tears and lined with pain.

“Oh, sweetheart!” Hermione cried, hurrying to her side.

Angelica’s lip trembled as she leaned against her mother and fell into the embrace of Hermione’s arms.

“It’s going to be alright,” Hermione said softly. “We’ll make it feel all better in a bit. We just have to bring you to Healer Chang.”

Angelica nodded mutely.

Hermione was mildly startled when Harry’s hand was suddenly upon Angelica’s head, stroking it soothingly. It was even more surprising when Angelica pulled away from Hermione’s embrace and opted to lean against Harry.

“It really hurts, dad,” she wailed, tears spilling from her glassy green eyes.

Harry laughed softly. “Well, it ought to. Broken bones have that effect. I had that same injury once when I was twelve. Arm got smashed by a Bludger, then some silly charlatan pretending he could fix it on the spot accidentally made my entire bone disappear.”

Angelica looked horrified.

“I reckon a healer would do a better job of it,” Harry added hastily. “You’ll be patched up in no time. So be brave, baby girl, and dry those eyes.” He pinched her nose affectionately.

Angelica actually smiled.

Hermione stared at them, her heart doing all sorts of gooey things. She had dreamed of such a moment for years, and it always hurt her to think that it could never happen. Now it was happening, she felt like bursting into tears of her own.

It was the nurse, calling her name, that snapped her out of her thoughts.

“I’ll need either you or Mr. Granger to sign these release forms,” said the nurse.

“He’s not—I mean, I’ll do it.” Still in a bit of a daze, she went to the nurse’s station to fill up the forms, glancing up every now and then to watch her daughter, with her father, conversing softly.

When Hermione was done, the nurse handed over Angelica’s school bag and lunch box.

“Are we done, then?” Harry asked from where he stood.

Hermione nodded and tried to control her emotions when Harry picked Angelica up in his arms to carry her. Angelica looked so secure and comfortable that Hermione didn’t doubt that to be in Harry’s arms seemed like the best place in the world.

They hastened out of the school and its grounds, quickly heading for St. Mungo’s to see a healer about Angelica’s arm.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry’s face was easy to Glamour. When no one expected to see something, Glamour charms were at their best. The bustling staff and patients on the floors of St. Mungo’s didn’t even give Harry’s face a cursory look. Everyone went about their business and Hermione found it quite easy to have Cho Chang fix Angelica’s arm.

Hermione conversed freely with Cho while she put Angelica’s bones to rights. Cho neither asked nor glanced Harry’s way once. She was pleasant and gentle, easily going about her business as if nothing was amiss.

From the corner of her eye, Hermione could see Harry slinking as anonymously as he could on one of the waiting benches. This wasn’t comfortable for him in the least. She could still remember the look of panic on his face when he found out that Angelica’s healer was Cho Chang.

Cho put Angelica’s perfectly fixed arm in a sling. Angelica was rewarded with a Sugarquill and like new, Angelica hopped off the examination table.

They thanked Cho profusely before heading out of St. Mungo’s, Harry following close behind them.

Hermione laughed at the relief on Harry’s face. “She wasn’t going to recognize you.”

“I wasn’t worried,” he replied rather curtly.

“Sure you weren’t.”

Harry turned his attention to Angelica. “All better?”

“Much. Healer Chang’s the best there is.”

“I reckon so. Now can you tell us what happened with you and this lad that pushed you down the stairs?”

Angelica frowned. “I hurt him the last time. Accidentally. I s’pose he wanted revenge. I kept my temper, so he was able to push me down the stairs. Wouldn’t have happened if I had let my anger loose.”

“You mean if you let your magic loose,” Hermione muttered.

“Oh, mum, you know I never mean it when I do.”

Hermione did not reply.

“He said that my dad never loved me,” Angelica went on. “And that he left because he didn’t want to be bothered, but it was easier to keep my temper this time. I knew what Connor said wasn’t true. Dad loves me lots. Don’t you, dad?”

Hermione braced herself for whatever answer Harry would have.

The tenderness in Harry’s eyes was devastating enough, but when Harry put his hand on Angelica’s head and said, “Of course, baby girl. I love you very much,” Hermione thought she would faint into a coma.

Angelica smiled smugly.

Hermione struggled to compose herself. “You just try to avoid that young man as much as you can, dear. No more fights with him. Understand?”

“But he started it! He always does!”

“Yes, I know, but heed your mother, anyway.”

Angelica pouted but nodded.

They Apparated back home and Angelica ran on ahead of them up the walkway to the front door with Hermione’s key.

“Lord knows,” Hermione muttered as she watched Angelica moving at full speed, as if she hadn’t broken her arm that day. “I’m beginning to feel sorry for that Connor boy. Probably has issues of his own, the way he acts.”

Harry shrugged. “He could choose to act better in spite of it.”

Hermione smiled knowingly. “That’s true, of course.” She looked at her watch as they stepped into the house. “Ordinarily, I would bring Angelica with me to work. I can still do that…”

“I’ll watch over her,” said Harry. “You needn’t bring her to work.”

Hermione smiled. “Thank you. I’ll be leaving in a bit, and—“

A messenger spell slipped in from the flue. It was Tonks’s.

“I’m afraid we have a bit of a problem. Draco wants to file charges against the man who attacked him on your stoop. He’s going to want the perpetrator brought back in. Just a bit of a warning. Not like I can stop the little ferret from doing what he wants. Floo me.”

The messenger spell dissipated.

Hermione sighed. “Bollocks.”

Harry didn’t seem all that bothered. “Hasn’t changed a bit, that Malfoy.”

She frowned. “I’m glad to see you taking this calmly, considering you’re the perp. Even if Tonks lies for you, Malfoy’s going to want your head no matter what it takes, and it won’t be long before he figures out that we’re protecting you for some reason. All Draco has to do is examine his memory in a Pensieve and he’ll see your face, then he’ll make a big headline out of it, just to be an arse. ‘Ministry Protecting Potter Imposter—or is He?’ Oh, he’ll just love stirring up the pot, and I suppose the prospect of that little circus doesn’t faze you.”

Harry sighed. “Fine, then. How do we make this right?”

“We don’t make this right. I make this right.”

His protests were forestalled by her warning look. He had no say in this matter and he knew it. He instead shot her a suspicious look. “Exactly what do you have planned?”

“Nothing elaborate. Azkaban has made Malfoy more tolerable if you’ll believe that. Hopefully more reasonable. Leave it to me. Anyway, I must go. You and Angelica take care. Don’t baby her more than you ought to. She’s going back to school tomorrow whether she likes it or not.”

He scowled. “I don’t baby her…”

She laughed softly. “Oh, don’t you?” She touched his face. “Well, maybe you can baby her a little bit.”

He smiled and leaned into her touch.

Her breath caught and with great difficulty, she pulled her hand away. “I’ll see you both later.”

She headed back to work. She would contact Tonks from there and see what she could do about Draco Malfoy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Draco Malfoy was recovering from his injuries at his country home in Hertfordshire. It was a large Wizarding estate easily hidden among the bohemian Muggle residents. The Malfoy Country Manor was so exclusive that it had its own Portkey privileges, both in issuing keys to guests, and receiving them.

Hermione’s Portkey privileges, she found, were processed long before she ever thought of dropping in for a visit. It irked Hermione that Draco was expecting her. She had hoped she could put off seeing him by reason of red tape. She should’ve known the Malfoys were adept at cutting through such things.

A House Elf named Raggedy received her atop a hill overlooking what appeared to be a ranch, except instead of prancing horses, Hermione could see Crups, those dog-like creatures so loyal to Wizards but ferocious to Muggles.

Typical, thought Hermione with a disapproving sniff.

Raggedy Apparated her and himself to the front porch, from where she was led through the great doors and into the rich hallways of mahogany wood and crystal lights.

She finally came upon Draco in the receiving room. He was on his feet, leaning on an oddly familiar cane of black wood and silver engravings. He was dressed in perfect country casual wear and his hair was properly wind-blown. He was fixing himself a drink at the mini-bar.

“Care for some bourbon, Granger?” Draco asked, rattling the ice in his glass.

“No, thank you,” Hermione replied, arching her eyebrow at the gigantic portrait of Draco in all his Slytherin glory.

Draco smirked as he watched her take his portrait in. “Wine, maybe? Loosen you up a bit. You seem awfully tense.” He sat on the couch and offered her the space next to him.

Hermione took the sofa-chair across from him and placed her brief case on the floor by her feet. “No wine, thanks. I don’t even want to ask for water. Who knows what you’ll put into it.”

“You’re no good to me dead or incapacitated, Granger. I need my editor to be of clear and sound mind. So did you come here to tell me you’ve edited my manuscript?”

She ignored his question. “Tonks tells me you want to press charges against my intruder?”

Draco’s eyebrow arched. “I want to press charges against my attacker, yes, and how is that your business?”

“It’s my business because it happened at my home. I don’t need that kind of publicity. Not now, not ever.”

Draco began to smirk again. “Does this have anything to do with my attacker looking like Harry Potter?”

Hermione held her ground. “Yes. It’s just the sort of sensationalism the Daily Prophet could sink their teeth into, isn’t it? I can do without that media circus. I thought perhaps you’d agree—respectable Malfoy that you are.”

Draco threw back his head and laughed. “Respectable now, am I? Looks like Hermione Granger isn’t above kissing arse.”

She glared. “Oh, don’t flatter yourself. I am the last person on this earth willing to give your family any sort of undue credit, but one would think you’d rather not have your name plastered on tabloids, for whatever reason. It’s revolting, or perhaps I overestimated the Malfoys’ overblown sense of… ‘nobility.’ And I use that term lightly, too.”

Draco chuckled. “So what is it that you want me to do, exactly? You want whoever perpetrated this heinous act upon me to go unpunished?”

“I hardly consider it to be heinous.”

“Well, there’s a surprise,” he said, dryly.

She smirked. “You were trying to invade my home, Malfoy. How would you like it if I pressed charges against you for that?”

“There can’t be two ringmasters in a circus, you know.”

Hermione took a deep breath and swallowed her gorge. “How badly do you want me to be your editor?”

Draco’s eyebrow arched. He seemed greatly interested in her thinly veiled offer. “Badly enough that I might not press charges against Potter. His impersonator, I mean.”

Hermione’s lips pursed, noting the deliberate way Draco had tacked that last bit on. She plucked Draco’s manuscript from her briefcase, turning the pages so that he would see that she had, indeed, finished marking up his manuscript for author revisions.

Draco tried to take it but she pulled it from his reach.

She glared at him and tossed him another document. “There’s no such thing as a Waiver of Rights to Press Charges of course, but I can make you keep promises. You will get your edited manuscript when you sign this contract. It says that you will, as per our agreement, refrain from causing me, and my family, undesirable publicity—detailed in various legal gobbledegook. I assure you, what we talked about in particular falls into this legal filter. I urge you not to breach this contract, Malfoy. I’ll have you know that I’ve been hexing contracts since I was fifteen.”

“You’re talking about Marietta Edgecombe’s rash in fifth year, aren’t you? I knew you had something to do with it.”

“Imagine what I’ve learned to do since then.”

“And what’s in it for me?”

“I’ll edit your book from start to finish, from frontmatter to endmatter, from front to back cover, to the best of my abilities.”

“Is that it?”

“Well, how much do you think all this is worth?”

“There will be book launchings. I want you to be in them, sitting beside me on the autograph table.”

“How many will there be?”

“At least four. One in Diagon Alley, one in Hogsmeade, one in Ulger’s Square in Bulgaria, and last in Petit Villet, France. There may be more, depending on the popularity of the book.”

“I’ll go to one of those four book launchings.”

“Three.”

“Two. I’ll even let you pick.”

“Done!” Draco took the contract and signed it without even reading its contents.

It didn’t matter to Hermione. All she needed was his signature. She gave him a copy of the signed contract and then the manuscript. He took it greedily and began to flip through its pages.

“You have to trust me with editing your book, Malfoy,” she said as he read over the corrections. “I don’t intend to write this book. You’re the author, not me, but if there’s anything there that’s a bald-faced lie, I’m calling you on it, understand?”

Draco made a dismissive gesture, barely looking up from his pages. “Yes, yes… whatever. I’ll have these revisions done by next week. I see you rather liked my preliminary revisions.” He smirked.

Hermione got to her feet. “Yes, well, you’re not as bad a writer as I thought. We’ll see how you do with the rest of it. Floo me if you have any questions about the edits. My fireplace is always open for your writing inquiries.”

“Office hours?”

“Preferably, but I do let my authors Floo me at home, if it’s important enough. Don’t abuse the privilege, Malfoy.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He stood and tentatively extended his hand.

Hermione stared at it, confused.

He seemed relieved and shoved his hand back in his pocket. “We’re done, then?”

She nodded in a crisp, business-like manner before turning and letting Raggedy escort her out.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The dark forest was as dense and oppressive as ever. He watched as the vines slithered around him, much slower this time, and he saw that he could get away from it easily. He pushed back thorny branches and prickly leaves.

The more you resist, the deeper you go.

He closed his eyes and shook off this thought, plowing further into what he hoped was his salvation.

When he heard the faint strains of music; that familiar melody that had always drawn him, he paused and listened. He had always tried to follow that sound. Had always tried to find its source. The answers have eluded him.

The forest closed in. He would never find his way out. He would never know for whom that music played.

~~

Harry hadn’t realized he had fallen asleep until he woke to the faint sound of cartoon explosions.

He sat up quickly, looking around for Angelica in a mild panic.

All he could think was that he had left a six year old unsupervised for God knew how long. She could be hurt, or worse.

His panic quickly receded when he found her curled up on the nearby sofa-chair, a thick book of fairytales open on her lap, as she slept.

“Some babysitter you turned out to be,” he muttered to himself. He had fallen asleep on the couch watching Angelica watch TV. He remembered talking with her for a bit, and he even asked her if she was hungry—that he’d whip something up if she was.

She had been satisfied just watching TV, her arm in a sling.

The inactivity had no doubt lulled him.

Angelica stirred and cracked her eyes open. “Hullo. Is mum back from work yet?”

Harry looked at the clock. It was only a bit past five. He supposed Hermione wasn’t the type to leave work at exactly five. “No. What time does she usually get back?”

Angelica yawned. “Mondays to Wednesdays, mum picks me up from school at three, and Thursdays and Fridays, Uncle Ron does it. He drops me off at Aunt Fleur’s sometimes, but usually he brings me back here. A few times, Aunt Ginny picks me up and brings me to her office. Aunt Ginny always gives me free stuff, but they’re all clothes. Don’t care much for those. I don’t tell her that, though. Clothes seem to be important to her, and everyone in her office goes to her for their clothes questions. Even mum turns to her for clothes.”

Harry gave her a fond smile. “Aunt Ginny works in a fashion magazine. Clothes and which of them go together is her livelihood.”

She smiled. “I got Aunt Ginny to admit that you and she used to be together.”

Harry was quite used to children embarrassing him, but never quite more so than now. “Oh, did you?”

Angelica began to giggle madly.

“What’s so funny?”

“Mum gets that same look on her face when I ask her about it!”

Harry sighed. “And where, pray tell, did you learn to be such a gossip?”

She grinned. “I didn’t learn it. I just am. Grandma said I was the first in the Grangers, so I must’ve come by it from your side of the family.”

Harry frowned. “I’m not a gossip, and I think my mum… your other grandmother, wasn’t a gossip either.”

Angelica stretched like a cat. “I eavesdrop, and my eyes can see things.” She said this in a comically spooky way. “I can’t keep secrets, either. I used to blab like mad, but mum tells me it’s not a good trait, and that people will eventually hate me for it.”

“She’s right.”

“So I just tell Julien everything. Too bad he can’t keep secrets, either, but only because Aunt Molly can bribe him with food. Aunt Ginny abhors her for it.”

“Ginny got secrets to keep, eh?” Harry joked.

Angelica gave him an uncannily curious look before shrugging. “Aunt Ginny is always a lot of fun. Like Uncles George and Fred without the pranks. She always has games for me and she draws things for me…”

“I didn’t know she drew.”

“Oh, she usually uses it for work, but she draws things for me when I ask her nicely. I could draw of course, but she’s much better at realism than I am. Would you like to see them?”

“Why not?”

Angelica hopped off her sofa-chair, and she was, presumably, about to take off to her room, when the jingle of keys sounded at the door and Hermione’s “I’m home!” caused the mission to be aborted.

“Mum!” Angelica shot off to meet her mother at the door.

Harry found that Hermione’s arrival home elicited almost the same bustle as the morning rush. It was as if coming from work, she refused to unwind, running to and fro, sorting owls and the Muggle post, watering her herbs, disappearing into her bedroom for a good twenty minutes, before emerging again in relaxed house clothes and heading straight for the kitchen to cook that evening’s dinner.

Harry could only help make dinner, and he listened to her and Angelica chatter on about absolutely nothing and practically everything. It was fascinating, but Harry also found himself lost in it. He had a feeling that this was some kind of diversion, so he stubbornly reminded himself of this when he felt he was getting swept into the rather comforting warmth of its embrace.

After dinner, they lounged in the living room, finally settling into a calming silence as they immersed themselves in their own individual activities. Angelica was, of course, reading. Hermione knitted as she watched the late-night news. Harry, feeling he had to keep his hands busy, took out his small hobby and continued on his current project—carving tiny dragons from small blocks of wood.

Hermione’s eyebrow had arched questioningly in his direction the slightest bit, though she seemed to let Angelica ask all the questions.

He had taken up the hobby for no particular reason. He had needed something to do during his quiet moments in Avalon. Reading could only hold his attention for so long. He needed something to do with his hands; something requiring precision but was relatively meditative. It was Brigit who suggested woodcarving. He immediately discovered that he found that he could manage smaller models more, and enjoyed it far more than chipping away with hammers and picks. He liked holding small precisions knives and being able to pocket all his materials wherever he went.

With his penchant for it explained, Angelica went back to her reading and silence fell upon them once again.

It took several more minutes before Hermione told Angelica to get ready for bed, and that she would be retiring in a while, as well.

When Angelica left, Harry hastily put his carving away.

“Fancy a spot of tea? If you tell me where the brandy is, perhaps I’ll trickle some into the brew,” he said.

She seemed to ponder it a moment. She clicked off the televisions and said, “Better yet, we could do away with the tea altogether. I could use a nightcap.”

He chuckled. “Is that all you lot do here in London? Drink yourselves to sleep?”

She laughed softly, but she got up and fixed their drinks herself. She returned with two brandy glasses clipped between her fingers in one hand, with brandy on the rocks. Her other hand held the bottle. She simply handed him his glass.

He couldn’t stop looking at her, an enticing image of a lady with spirits and cups. His hand lingered on hers as he took his glass, just before he pulled away.

She sat on the ottoman nearest to his sofa-chair and set the brandy bottle down on the floor. She held up her glass. “Cheers.”

He clicked his rim against hers and they each took a sip.

The orange light of the lamp cast a glow on her, similar to that of hearth-fire from common-room nights of the past. Perhaps she had that same glow in Grimmauld Place, and then later in outdoor campfires.

He remember that one night in the forest when he looked at her smiling face and found himself needing to kiss her.

The need felt almost as strong now. Perhaps if it didn’t work out as well as the last time, he could blame the brandy.

His gaze traveled to the graceful curve of her neck and throat. The memory of tasting her there, long ago, had him swallowing nervously as he made a conscious effort not to lick his lips.

He had to take a long gulp of his brandy.

She smiled and refilled his glass. He didn’t know if it was wise to drink more, but he hadn’t the will to stop her. She looked rather lovely pouring him a drink.

“Whatever happened to that crystal pendant Morgana gave you?” he asked, trying to get his mind to think about more sensible things. “Did you keep it?”

She paused and she suddenly seemed lost in thought. “Yes, I kept it. I—I never wore it again, since that night you disappeared. It’s cracked, anyway. Right at the core. It’s lost its brilliance.”

“But you didn’t throw it away?”

She shook her head. “Angelica takes a fancy to it every once in a while, but I haven’t really seen her wear it, either. Why do you ask?”

He tensed a moment, wondering if this was the moment he had to come out with the truth, but he remembered his conversation with Snape that afternoon and inspiration struck. “Have you figured out why Morgana gave you that crystal?”

Just as he thought, this piqued her curiosity. “No. I never thought about it. I just figured it was some kind of souvenir. A reminder that Avalon exists.”

He smirked. “Well, you took home more than one souvenir of Avalon that time. Women in Avalon are given that pendant when they conceive there.”

She visibly reddened, but she laughed. “That makes quite a bit of sense. I’ve figured out a long time ago that we—that Angelica was conceived there, of course. We never had enough time and privacy after Avalon to… carry on the way we did.”

Her knowing look met his for a moment before she hid it drinking from her brandy glass.

He wondered if the heat in his body came from the brandy or her.

“Never reckoned the crystal marked me as a member of some club, though,” she continued.

“Now you know. It’s a rather elite club, at that. Men show up in Avalon seldom enough, having them knock-up a priestess is rare. Contrary to popular belief, the priestesses aren’t sperm bandits.”

Hermione seemed to find what he said hilarious.

“They’re really picky about their men,” he continued. “Just because there’s a scarcity, it doesn’t mean they jump every man that wanders into the mists.”

“Hence your ‘alleged’ celibacy.”

He cocked a grin. “It’s true. I wouldn’t lie about that.”

She shrugged, grinning. “Of course you wouldn’t.”

Her rather saucy tone was inspiring that primal part of him once again, and he took an obligatory pause—to wonder whether they were having just a bit too much to drink. Both their glasses were empty again.

“Would it matter if I were?” he asked before he could stop himself.

She looked slightly embarrassed, now, but not so badly that he’d apologize to her for it.

“Do you want it to matter to me?” she asked, throwing the ball back to him.

“Maybe.”

Her gaze seemed to darken and it fired his need for her. His desire blazed, so when she leaned over to kiss him, he wasted no time being surprised. He took her in his arms while their tongues tangled in an unbelievably heated kiss. He pulled her to the sofa-chair, shifting her beneath him.

His breathing deepened in an instant and for a moment, he could think of nothing but her lips and the feel of her body braced against his. The curls of her hair between his fingers, silken but textured, triggered memories of her that were so powerful that he couldn’t possibly resist having the real thing now.

She moaned and offered her throat. He kissed it, wanting to see how she reacted to his touch. He kept his eyes open.

The arching of her body was lovely, the gentle swell of her breasts temptingly close to his hand. Her leg shifted and a bit of her house skirt shifted to expose a golden patch of skin. It was a feast for the eyes. It was sensual art.

It was a mistake.

His eyes fell on the picture standing upright on a side-table. It was a picture of Angelica and Hermione, and for some reason, it triggered that familiar strain of music in his memories. He couldn’t explain why. He didn’t know how that music was associated with them, but suddenly it was, and he recalled why he was there, and he wondered whether he should be doing this with Hermione while he hadn’t told her the truth—the entire truth.

Hermione pulled away to look at him, her eyes searching his face. She was breathing deeply, and her lips were enticingly swollen and red, but her gaze was questioning.

“Is there something wrong?” she asked, breathless.

He didn’t know. Or rather he knew, but was too confused to comprehend it yet.

“Harry?”

“I—I don’t...”

That was all he could say. He wasn’t quite sure what it was, but he felt his desire draining away, and suddenly, it was all wrong to him. He couldn’t. He shouldn’t. She must have seen it in his eyes, or maybe she just felt it through his trousers, because she seemed mortified all of a sudden and she pushed him off rather forcefully before she scrambled off the sofa-chair.

He wanted to cry out that it had nothing to do with her, but he couldn’t find the words.

She turned to him, her breathing deep, probably from anger now. She was going to say something, or shout something, but she must have thought better of it, because she just pursed her lips and turned away, stomping up the stairs.

He listened to her leave. Listened as her unsettling quiet assaulted him, and then she was walking again, slamming her bedroom door.

He could only suppose that Hermione had checked on Angelica first before retiring to her own room.

Running his fingers through his hair, his frustration couldn’t overwhelm the weight of his guilt. He wished he could talk to Brigit, non-judgmental Brigit with her wisdom and mysticism.

“Bollocks,” he muttered. He took his discarded brandy glass. The cubes of ice had spilled on the rug. He picked them up and tossed them into Hermione’s glass before he refilled his own glass with a last shot of brandy.

He took it all in one gulp before he put glasses and brandy away. He took his carving things and righted the pillows that had fallen to the floor. Evidence put away from the scene of the crime, he took himself to bed, dreading the coming morning.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

TBC

A/N: Tome Raider expertly ironed out the crimps in this chapter. Many thanks to her being brilliant and being the same, encouraging beta that I've come to depend on.

Standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter Fifteen - Actions Speak Louder

Hermione woke up, her pillow dried of the tears the night before. Her tears had been of anger and even humiliation, but now, with the sun streaming through her balcony doors, she felt oddly numb.

She felt, now, that she just wanted to forget everything that happened. Railing and screaming about it would only make the situation more mortifying.

It still angered her that only Harry could make her feel so rejected. After all these years, he was really the only one who could ever make her feel this insecure. Yet, she knew so well that he only ever resisted doing what he wanted—because he had wanted her last night—for noble reasons, though she couldn't quite bring herself to forgive him just yet. After all, she had made the first move last night, and so what did it mean when he suddenly didn't want what she offered?

She punched the pillow beside her in frustration before deciding to get out of bed.

She got ready for the day, dressing in her most rigid business suit and knotting her hair in a severely tight bun. She had decided she was in a cranky mood.

Angelica hardly ever needed help getting ready for school anymore, but she stayed in Angelica's room, anyway. She didn't want to be caught alone with Harry. She didn't quite know what to say to him at that point.

When Angelica was done, she hustled them through their morning. Harry had, like the previous day, made them breakfast, but Hermione didn't stop to enjoy it. She spent a lot of her time that morning in her home office doing absolutely nothing, then just before she had to take Angelica to school, she stuffed breakfast down in a hurry. She just wanted to be out of the house without having to have a conversation with Harry.

Harry looked to be on the verge of saying something every time she caught his eye, but she never gave him the chance, turning away to do something else.

Angelica seemed oblivious to it all, giving her father a warm goodbye before they left the house.

With Angelica dropped off at school, she headed for work, and when she got there, she felt extremely annoyed by the stares of curiosity she seemed to be eliciting from everyone.

As she neared her office, the usual slew of staff met her.

Her copy editors and two of her associate editors intercepted her amidst Olivia's terrifying stares.

She could deal with her copy editors. They usually just wanted something approved and signed. They hardly ever bothered her about queries in person, but her associate editors were most unwelcome.

“I'll deal with you and you later,” she barked. The two associate editors slunk away.

Olivia gathered the papers of the copy editors and shooed them away, following Hermione into her office and shutting them in.

She took the cup of coffee Olivia had for her and sat at her desk, trying to gather calm from the hot, flavorful drink.

Olivia sat at the chair in front of her, primly waiting for Hermione to let her get on with today's business.

“What do my copy editors have for me?” Hermione asked.

“Easy stuff. Frontmatter and cover proofs, highlights, and a few written queries.” Olivia handed her the material and Hermione looked them over briefly before setting them aside. “Anything else?”

Olivia paused. “Mr. Shrewsbury arranged an appointment to see you in a bit.”

“Did he seem unhappy?”

“Not at all.”

Hermione nodded. “Good.”

“And…”

“Yes?”

“You've been receiving Floos all morning. I'll not get into everyone who called, but you might be particularly interested to know that you've been Flooed by Mrs. Lupin and possibly every Weasley in existence.”

Hermione's eyebrow arched. “Odd. Did they say why they didn't Floo me at home? Or just messenger spelled me?”

“It seemed to me that you were already out of the house by the time any of them felt pressed to call you, and I think this is the sort of thing they can't simply messenger spell you with. I suspect that the lot of them were too busy reading the morning paper to catch you at home…”

Hermione frowned, letting her mind take it in. The strange stares of everyone in the office and Olivia's insinuations were highly suspect. “Have the papers said something about me?”

It was only then Hermione realized that Olivia still had her morning paper clutched in her hands.

Olivia forked over the paper and excused herself from the room.

It was the Daily Prophet and Hermione hurriedly unfolded it. Emblazoned just beneath the headline of Ministry Reconsidering Ban on Flying Carpets! were the words, Hermione Granger and Her Secret Tryst, Revealed!

Hermione had never quite felt so drained of blood as she gaped at the picture of her and Harry at Kensington Gardens the day before. Harry's face kept being obscured by angles, shadows, and people, probably a result of his concealment charms, so at the very least, they couldn't identify him, but her face was clear enough, and she appeared to be leaning suggestively near him. They appeared to be talking very privately before she answered her phone, jumped up, and left with Harry in a rush.

The photographer was unable to take more pictures, but the columnist did find out that she and her “companion” had rushed to Angelica's Muggle school to pick her up. The writer also somehow discovered that they had all taken a trip to St. Mungo's. Of course, the writer insinuated that her running all over London, attending to her beloved daughter's needs, with the mystery man in tow implied that her relationship with the man was much more than casual. It went on to say that neither Ron Weasley, Oliver Wood, nor Viktor Krum could be reached for comment.

Hermione sank into her seat and groaned, tossing the paper aside in frustration. “Just wonderful…” She closed her eyes.

A few minutes later, the Floos began pouring in again.

Olivia stuck her head through her door. “Madame Fleur Weasley—“

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Transfer her Floo.” She hastened to the hearth and waited for the onslaught.

“I am `urt,” were the first words from Fleur's mouth. “You obviously `ave been seeing zis man for quite some time, and you let me lecture you like an idiot.”

Hermione sighed. “Oh, Fleur! It's not what you think!”

“Ze article says—“

“It's the Daily Prophet! Since when did you believe the Daily Prophet?”

Fleur frowned. “Is zat not you on ze photograph?”

“Yes, but—“

“And did you not pick up Angelica from school wiz `im?”

“I did—“

“And perhaps zey exaggerated your trip to St. Mungo's?”

Hermione paused. “Well, maybe not…”

“Zen it is all true! Mon deiu! You do not trust me enough to tell me you are secretly seeing someone?”

“I'm not seeing him! I mean—“

“He is married, isn't `e? `Ermione, `ow could you?”

“No, he isn't!”

Olivia popped her head through the door again. “Um… Mrs. Lupin is at the Floo…”

Hermione pursed her lips.

“I shall Floo you again,” Fleur said petulantly. “I am not finished wiz you, `Ermione Granger.” The Floo puffed off.

Olivia left, and moments later, Tonks's face materialized.

“Hermione, what the hell?” she cried.

Hermione groaned. “I thought we would be safe in Kensington Gardens!”

Tonks sighed. “Well, at least they don't know who he is, but goodness! It's only a matter of time before their trail leads them here at the Auror department and all hell breaks loose!”

“We can fix this. If this gets any worse, I can arrange an interview with Luna.”

“D'you want to lie to the poor girl?”

“Of course not!” Hermione cried. “Oh, balls! I think perhaps I may have messed up…”

“I suppose it was just a matter of time. Harry Potter is a hard secret to keep.”

“He still is, though,” Hermione pointed out. “A secret, I mean.”

“I'll try to keep it that way around here. As long as the Auror Department isn't involved, this is all just celebrity gossip. Keep your fingers crossed!”

Olivia's head popped in once more. “Erm, Mr. Weasley.”

“Goodness… tell him I'll Floo him—“

“He's here.”

“Great.”

“Shall I—“

“Oh, let him through, Olivia. He won't go away, anyway.” She then turned to Tonks. “I'm really sorry, Tonks.”

“It's not entirely your fault, but just keep him away from prying eyes, won't you? For your sake and Angelica's.”

Hermione nodded and as Tonks disappeared from the Floo, Ron walked in.

“Reporters have been Flooing me for a comment all morning!” Ron cried as the door was shut behind him. “I can only tell them to shove off so many times. What in the world should I tell them?”

Hermione let out an exasperated breath. “Oh, Ron, I'm sorry.”

He sighed and plopped down on the chair. “It's fine. It's not them I'm completely worried about, it's you, and basically, I just don't know what to tell my family! Mum's never going to give me a moment's peace and Fleur and Ginny are already on the war path.”

“What is it about my love life that has the whole of England so interested, anyway?” Hermione cried.

Ron actually chuckled.

“You think this is funny, Ron Weasley?” she squeaked, infuriated.

He grinned. “Nice to be on your list of men, actually. And I'm first, too.”

“Oh, for goodness sake,” she muttered. “I never even dated you or Krum. They've got their facts completely wrong!”

“Yes, well, I'm still first. I beat Oliver. Ha!”

“Must you turn everything into a pissing contest?”

He waved off her words. “You need to Floo Harry. Give him the heads up. People might start showing up at your flat and…”

Hermione felt instant annoyance. She did not need this pressure now. Not after what happened with Harry last night.

“What?” Ron asked, perhaps seeing the expression on her face.

She shook her head immediately. “Nothing. I'll Floo Harry. He should be at home. In the meantime, if you get asked by the press, just tell them that my private life is not for public consumption.”

Ron frowned. “Fine, but I can't tell my family that—“

“Tell them to ask me, then. I'll deal with them.”

“Even mum?”

“God help me, yes!”

Ron rose from his seat. “Alright, but if you have any trouble at your place, you, Angelica, and Harry can stay over until this headline goes away. Shouldn't take too long, so long as they don't figure out who your mystery man is…”

Hermione nodded. “Thank you.”

Ron left, and no sooner had he stepped out of the office that other Floos began to pour in. Molly's Floo was all talk and no anger, which was a bit of a relief, but Ginny's Floo was dark and foreboding. It rather made Hermione nervous. It took a while before she could find the time to Floo Harry at her house.

She saw his face and it was lined with repentance.

“Hermione, I am so glad you Flooed. Please just let me ex—“

She hardened her heart and said, “Have you read the morning papers yet?”

That caught him completely off-guard and he stopped, staring at her questioningly. “No…”

“Go get it and read the article under the main headline.”

He paused before he took off and came back with it. He unfolded the paper and scanned the front page. He froze when he began to read. When he was done, he seemed to take a deep breath. He was possibly angry, because he didn't speak for a minute.

“Oliver Wood?” he asked. “What does he have to do with all this?”

She wasn't quite sure if she should be surprised of his question or what. “We dated briefly.”

“How briefly?”

She pursed her lips. “I don't know if that's any of your business, actually.”

“Was it serious?”

“Again, I don't know if that's—“

“It's not my business, but I want to know.” He sounded firm. He wasn't going to back down.

She frowned but replied. “It was serious enough, but I broke it off. Look, we'll talk about Oliver some other time. Right now, I just want you to keep a look out for strangers. If they come by the house, don't let them know you're there. Don't answer any Floos, and if you can, avoid being seen leaving the house. Understand?”

“Yes. Whatever. Did you sleep with Oliver?”

Her eyes widened with outrage. “I don't have to answer that!”

His eyes seemed to flash. “Did you sleep with him here? With my baby daughter in the next room—“

She shot him a death glare. “Well, at least someone had the guts to.”

She didn't even wait for him to respond. He didn't look capable, anyway. He had his mouth hanging open from shock, like she had slapped him, but she was so angry, especially because of the previous night, that she didn't care. She banged the Floo shut on him. She hoped he got terribly smoked for it.

It was odd that she gained some sort of satisfaction for it. She could feel guilty about making it sound like she and Oliver had slept together at her house, later. That one and only time she slept with Oliver, it had happened at his place, and she hadn't stayed around for the morning-after, either. She had known the moment it happened that it had been a mistake, even after she had put the encounter off for weeks and weeks. Oliver had cared for her. He had been loving and sincere. Angelica liked him immensely and he would've been a great foster-father, but Hermione didn't care for him as much. At least not in the way he deserved. After that one night of passion, Hermione knew the relationship was over. Oliver seemed properly heartbroken for a while, but he appeared to have recovered nicely the last time she spoke to him and his lovely fiancée. He seemed wonderfully besotted with his Irish beauty.

In her state, she figured she was in no condition to receive any more Floos that weren't work related. She concentrated on her books the rest of the day, and when Draco dropped in to see her, she expected that he would say something, but surprisingly enough, he didn't make a very big deal about it. He just said, “Looks like you would've made the papers without me, anyway. Clever of you, Granger.”

And that was about it.

Hermione still thought having Draco keep quiet was worth it all. Knowing the Daily Prophet, they could very well associate Draco's attacker with her “secret” boyfriend, and that wouldn't do.

In the midst of explaining an editing point to Draco, Mr. Shrewsbury came prancing in bearing “good news”. There would be a press release later in the week, and it would pertain to how the publishing company was glad to welcome Draco Malfoy on board, and that the company was doubly glad to have him working with their best and brightest, Hermione Granger.

Hermione never realized until then how there could be days when she'd choose to kill someone else over Draco Malfoy.

Draco looked amused, but if he had anything to do with the press release, he would've spouted a flea-bitten dog's tail right then and there.

But in spite of everything, her work got her through the day, and it was only a bit later, counting down the hours before she left to fetch Angelica from school, that she realized she didn't quite want to face Harry just yet.

She wondered briefly if she was angry enough at Harry to kick him out of the house to stay with Ron, but she realized she didn't want him away from her, either.

“Ugh, I am positively and disgustingly weak of will,” she muttered to herself as she began to put her things away for the day. “And possibly very randy for him.”

It was, as life would have it, about the same moment Fleur stepped into her office unannounced. She was probably the only person in the world capable of intimidating Olivia, which was why Olivia respectfully called her Madame Fleur Weasley.

Fleur's frown was fierce. “So it is worse zan I thought. You are sleeping wiz zis lover of yours?”

Hermione groaned, and all she could say was, “Don't you know how to knock?”

“I do, but I choose not to. You are going to pick up Angelica, no? Zen let us go. Julien will be at `is grandmama's so you `ave my full attention zis afternoon.”

“Lovely.”

Fleur's pocket mirror instantly popped out of her hand and she admired herself for a few seconds. “I know.”

Hermione rolled her eyes.

Fleur snapped her mirror shut and turned to leave. “Come along, zen. Tell me all about it or I shall be forced to drug you wiz Veritaserum on our next lunch date.”

Hermione dragged herself to follow Fleur through the hallways, staying alert for the inevitable score or so of men who would be tripping all over themselves at Fleur's wake.

They left her office building and hurried to the Apparating points.

“You `ave known zis man long?” Fleur asked her as they walked.

“In a manner of speaking.”

“What does zat mean? Do I know `im?”

“You might remember him…”

“And so you—what is zat word? Reconnected?”

“You can say that.”

Fleur pouted but waited until they could Apparate before she continued her line of questioning.

“Why are you so evasive?” Fleur demanded once they began walking towards Angelica's school.

“Because,” Hermione said, “you wouldn't believe me if I told you. I'd rather you just… meet him.”

“Meet `im! Well, I `ave no objections to zat. Meet `im where?”

“At my house. It's where he's staying right now.”

Fleur gasped. “'Ermione! For shame! `E `as moved in already?”

“Oh, Angelica loves him. Dearly. And no, we are not staying in the same room. We haven't done that, so you can just get those naughty thoughts—“

Fleur nudged her, the twinkle in her eyes in no way obscured by her snooty expression. “It is not my naughty thoughts zat you should be worried about.”

“Whatever,” Hermione grumbled. She was in no mood to talk about her miserably failed sex life.

“Oh, `Ermione, I tease. It is no sin to want someone so.”

“If it is I'm pretty much damned to hell… over here, love!” Hermione waved at Angelica.

Angelica smiled wide and true. She seemed to give her two thickly-bespectacled friends quick goodbyes before she shot off and ran straight into Hermione's arms, just before she transferred her hellos to Aunt Fleur.

“Are you coming home with us, Aunt Fleur?”

“Oui. Your mum wants me to meet your `ouseguest.”

Angelica's eyes widened. “Ooh! Mum told you about dad?”

Fleur's eyebrow could have shot to the moon—it arched so high. “Dad, is `e?”

“Oh,” said Hermione. “You don't know the half of it.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Of course, Fleur's arrival caught Harry completely off guard. He had been so anxious to get the chance to speak to Hermione again that he didn't even consider the possibility that Hermione would have company, and from the way Hermione had let Angelica rush to give him a hug hello, Hermione hadn't intended to keep him very secret.

Hermione said nothing as Fleur stared back at him in open-mouthed shock.

It occurred to Harry that Fluer may very well be Hermione's way of putting off their inevitable talk.

Well, can you blame her?

He had to take it. “Hello, Fleur. It's been a while, hasn't it? Angelica, want to help me make tea while your mum and aunt talk?”

“Okay,” she replied without batting an eyelash.

They went to the kitchen together, Fleur still frozen to her spot.

The kitchen door had barely swung shut behind them when Angelica clambered up a kitchen stool and asked, “Are you and mum fighting?”

Harry felt his hand tighten around the kettle grip. “And why, pray tell, do you think we're fighting?”

“Oh, dad… it's plain as anything. She doesn't want to speak to you. She doesn't even want to look at you. And now you didn't even give her a proper hello. You spoke to Aunt Fleur first. You and mum shouldn't fight, you know. Best friends shouldn't fight, period.”

He couldn't help but tilt a smile at her. “Well, sweet pea, you're right, but things are a bit more complicated than that.”

She looked thoughtful for a moment. “That's what Uncle Ron says when he and mum fight, too.”

“Yes, well…”

He put the kettle on and began to get the pastries ready. He was pulling out plates to put on a tray when Hermione burst into the kitchen looking terribly distressed.

“Fleur left. She's angry with me. I don't know why, but she is. God, this day couldn't possibly get worse!”

Harry opened his mouth to say something, but when Hermione saw that he was going to speak, she shot him a glare.

“I take that back,” she said, turning to leave.

Harry gave a disgusted sigh as Hermione left.

“You ought to go after her,” Angelica suggested.

“Right,” Harry muttered, following Hermione out. “Are you going to ignore me forever?” he cried after her.

She went up the stairs and said nothing. He followed, but just before he could step into her room after her, she slammed the door in his face.

“Oh, for God's sake,” he said through the door. “Look, Hermione, I'm sorry I spoke to you that way in the Floo this morning. You're absolutely right. I had no right asking those things. I was a right berk—“

“A complete and utter arse!” she yelled right back.

“Yes. Yes, I was. I'm sorry. I really am.”

There was silence from the other end, though he could feel the tread of her step through the carpet and floor. He decided not to push it, but he didn't leave, either.

A few minutes later, Hermione reemerged in house clothes. She almost ran into him on her way out.

He put his hands up. “Whoa, there—“

“Move,” she growled.

He stepped aside at her ferocious tone. “Angelica said we shouldn't fight.”

“Oh, don't you go and drop my daughter's name to get away with this.”

“God, I'm not dropping—“ He sighed in frustration.

“Just let me be, alright? This has been a really stressful day for me and I don't need you getting in my face and—and reminding me of what happened last night.”

He felt his face grow hot instantly, but he was at least glad that she was no longer ignoring him. “I was jealous,” he blurted out.

She stopped in her tracks and seemed irritated. “What? What does that have to with last—“

“About Oliver. I was jealous and it made me say those awful things to you this morning. You provoke very strong, intense feelings in me, Hermione. Always, so last night, it wasn't about not wanting you. I need for you to understand that. It was about wanting you too much… when I had no right to.”

He finally got her to listen.

Her hard expression softened. He could even see a slight flush rising in her cheeks. He thought that to be a positive sign.

“Harry,” she began gently. “You have every right…”

He shook his head before he got swept into the sweet promise of her consent. “I don't. Not until I tell you everything. Not until you know the absolute truth.”

Her brows knotted. “And why won't you tell me?” She reached out and touched his face.

Her caress was like a balm to his worries. “The same reason most of us keep secrets. We're afraid of losing the people we love.”

She said nothing for a moment. “Harry, whatever it is, you have to let me help you. You used to let me, you know.”

He made no reply in words. Instead, he took her hand and kissed the back of it, pressing it briefly to his cheek.

She cast him a small smile. “You've nothing to be jealous about when it comes to Oliver. You should know that. I broke it off with him. He was a good man, Harry, but I didn't care for him enough. He's moved on from me. He's quite happy with his fiancée. He didn't even Floo me this afternoon about the article. That was a relief. I couldn't bear it if I had to apologize to him for any trouble I may have caused him, but he always was better at handling headlines than I was.”

He wasn't going to admit it, but it felt good to hear that Oliver was just a happy memory now.

The grip of her hand tightened around his. “Oliver and I did… you know.”

He swallowed, feeling the slightest pinch.

“But only once—ever. I thought it was the right time, but I realized right after that it would never be right. Not for him. Perhaps not for anyone. And it wasn't here either, so your baby girl was safe.”

He reddened. “I didn't—what I said was quite unreasonable. I'm sorry I even said it.”

“It's alright. I understand why. And Harry, Oliver was the only other man I've ever been with that way.”

He couldn't quite look her in the eyes. He was slightly ashamed of himself for making her tell him these things. “I don't care if you had a dozen boyfriends. It doesn't matter…”

“I just thought you should know. I only sleep with men I love, and I thought I loved Oliver—or that I could. It was a mistake. I thought it would be as right as it was with you, but I should've known better. My relationship with Oliver didn't even come close.”

There were equal parts relief and regret. He loved her enough to have sincerely wanted her to find happiness, even if it was with someone else, but his passion needed her to be his. It was a strange dichotomy, but it was the only way he could explain it.

He pulled her into his embrace. He wanted to kiss her, but it would've driven him mad to stop at that. He hadn't the will-power. He meant what he said about wanting to tell her everything, but he needed strength and courage for that, and at the moment, he was still lacking.

The thing about being a Gryffindor was that they weren't less afraid than anyone else, just that the few who seemed to take the “bravery” aspect most seriously were also the ones who tended to think less of the consequences did so with almost foolhardy (if not entirely Gryffindor-worthy) vigor. Most times, that made it easy to seem brave, because seeming to be brave was almost as good as the real thing, but Harry, arguably one of the most foolhardy (debatably most Gryffindor-worthy) of them all, has had seven years to simmer on his fears. Those years, ultimately, was a lot to overcome in a few short days. Besides that, his daughter and Hermione were too important to him for him to ignore consequences.

Hermione sighed, lifting her face from his chest to tempt him with her lips. As gently as he could, he turned away.

“Hermione, I'd like to see your pendant. Please? If you want to help me, we'll start with that.”

She seemed disappointed, but she nodded. She looked over her shoulder and called out. “Angelica, dearest, do you have mum's pendant on you?”

Angelica popped out of the kitchen, a bowl of ice-cream in her hand.

Hermione frowned at it.

“It's just a bit!” Angelica cried defensively.

“Give it here and go get my pendant. Your father wants to see it.”

Angelica forked over the remaining ice-cream and Harry could've sworn he detected a hint of suspicion in Angelica's gaze when she said, “Why?”

“I just need to, baby girl,” he said, giving her a pleading look.

Still fixing him with a questioning gaze, she hurried up the stairs to fetch it. She came down with it in a few seconds and with apparent reluctance, she held it out for Harry to take.

Harry took it, and the moment it rested on his palm, he detected a faint flicker of latent magic in it, much like the way it felt to pick up someone else's wand. It was strange, but nothing out of the ordinary. Certain materials, like wood, gemstones, and crystals, had a tendency to absorb magical signatures in small traces. Each material was appropriate for certain types of spellcasting, like wood was good for wands, gemstones were good for powerful alchemical enchantments, and crystals served as Wood Witch charms, or natural-force magic, like the enhancement of fertility, cerebral concentration, good dreaming, fitful sleep, and such “household remedies.” Each material may be used as a wand of sorts, but wood was the strongest, most accurate conductor. Gemstones and crystals tended to scatter magic almost as badly as having no wand at all. Still, if used as wandcores, they were known to harness magic in the most powerful way.

He palmed the crystal momentarily, trying to feel if there was more to the crystal than it first seemed. There was nothing, just that trace of magic, like fading perfume. The crack at its center gave it a peculiar look, but it was mostly benign.

He had been wrong. The crystal was not a Horcrux.

It was a disappointment of sorts, because it meant it was still somewhere in this house, he just didn't know where or what it was.

He handed the crystal back to Angelica. “Thank you. I've seen what I needed to see.”

Angelica took it back without a word and rushed back up the stairs, slamming her bedroom door shut and not coming back out.

Harry eyed Hermione questioningly.

“She's very attached to that crystal,” Hermione explained, heading back to the kitchen. “She considers it an heirloom of sorts.”

He nodded. “Any more heirlooms, by any chance?”

She eyed him with curiosity. “Granger heirlooms, and then there's your Invisibility Cloak. I haven't told her about the Marauders Map, and I'm still wondering if I ever will…”

That made him smile, even if at the pit of his stomach, he somehow felt a great deal of anxiety.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione and Harry were putting away the dinner plates when the doorbell rang.

They both looked up at the clock. It was almost eight, and while that wasn't really late, it was strange to receive unexpected guests at that hour.

With the headline that morning, Hermione wasn't going to take chances.

“Wait here,” she said and was very much startled when Harry was saying the same thing.

They stared at one another across the dinner table, first in surprise, then with their respective glares of stubbornness.

Angelica jumped up. “Um, I'll go look—“

“Sit!” both her parents said.

Angelica plopped back down on her chair without a word of protest.

“This is my house. I'll go,” Hermione said.

“You're all over the papers and the press are hounds. It isn't safe for you to be opening your doors—“

“It's not like I'd open the door without looking. I've had to put up with the press before, you know. I don't need anyone's protection.”

“You didn't have anyone's protection. Now I'm here and I can do my part.”

“Your part is a man in hiding. It's a little silly for you answer the front door!”

The doorbell rang again, more impatiently this time.

“It's so easy to Glamour my face,” Harry said, already taking off.

Hermione took off after him. “This is ridiculous. Go back into the kitchen, Harry!”

He didn't and she was so primed to be stubborn and so determined to get her way that she didn't bother to peek through the peephole. She swung the door open. Just as she thought, Harry barely had time to duck behind the door.

“You opened it!” he whispered in an accusatory tone.

She shot him a smug grin before she realized that it was Ginny staring at her from across the threshold.

“Well, it's nice to see you're quite satisfied with yourself,” Ginny said rather haughtily.

“G-Ginny!” Hermione exclaimed.

Harry gasped softly, a horrified expression on his face.

“Don't look so surprised!” Ginny cried, stepping into the house and pushing her way through. “It's not everyday we read something interesting about you in the papers! And with Ron refusing to tell me anything and Fleur acting all shady about it, it would only be natural for me to ambush you at your home! So here I am!”

Ginny swung the door shut behind her in a dramatic flourish, exposing Harry in his un-Glamoured glory.

Hermione wasn't quite sure what to do. Harry seemed so frightened by the prospect of coming face to face with Ginny that she felt sorry enough for him to help him delay the inevitable, yet his reappearance wasn't exactly the kind of thing she had intended to keep from Ginny forever. Sooner was better than later, wasn't it?

Ginny was just about to say something more when her eyes fell upon Harry standing stiffly at the corner, just beside the door. She froze.

Harry swallowed visibly.

Ginny blinked. “H-Harry? But no! You're—I mean, he's dead!”

“He's not,” Hermione piped in gently. “We just all thought he was.”

Ginny's draw dropped in apparent disbelief and Hermione braced herself for the explosive anger Ginny had always seemed to harbor for Harry all those years ago.

A Bat-bogey first, before the real pain begins… thought Hermione dourly.

But Ginny did the most unexpected thing. She burst into hysterical, wailing tears.

Hermione was only surprised for a second. “Oh, Ginny honey!”

She went to the weeping woman and threw her arms around her, enveloping Ginny in a comforting embrace. Ginny sobbed against her shirt, taking fists full of cloth as she heaved, cried, and whimpered.

Angelica came stumbling out. “What is it? Is it a Banshee? Oh! Aunt Ginny?”

“Hush!” Hermione said to her, leading Ginny into the living room. “Harry, be a dear and get me a wet cloth. There's some in the bathroom cupboard.”

Harry didn't need to be told twice. He shot out of there like he couldn't get away fast enough.

Ginny was still crying when Harry returned, but the wailing had stopped and she actually looked up at him in wonder when she took the offered cloth from him.

“Holy Helga…” Ginny whispered, wiping her face with the wet towelette. Her magazine-perfect eyeliner had run, and strands of her bright, fashionably bobbed red hair stuck to her face, but she still looked like a lovely doll. Her sparkly hairclip certainly hadn't lost its place, and as her fingers fluttered over the cloth, her perfect manicure was only accentuated by her decorative rings.

She sniffed and tried to compose herself amidst her hiccupping. “Is it really you, Harry? But it has to be. Why else would Ron and Fleur keep mum about this?” Her nose was stuffy and Hermione offered her a tissue. She blew her nose. “Are you sure it's Harry? Not an imposter?”

“I'm right here,” Harry muttered. “One would think you'd wait `til my back was turned before you asked questions like that.”

Ginny reddened. “I'm sorry. I'm just very shocked by all this.”

Hermione nodded understandingly.

“Merlin, Harry, where have you been?” Ginny asked with an exasperated sigh.

“Oh,” Harry began awkwardly, obviously at a loss at what to say. “Somewhere…”

It hardly mattered. Ginny went on talking. “You don't know how miserable everyone was at your loss, and shite, Hermione was—well, she could've used your support!” She had to blow her nose again.

Hermione gave her an appreciative smile as Harry sank further into his sofa chair.

“He couldn't help it,” Hermione explained. “He was horribly indisposed, from what he told me.”

Ginny gave a miserable laugh. “I'd imagine so. Bursting into flames and everything. Only Harry Potter would come back after something like that!”

Harry looked terribly ashamed.

Hermione patted Ginny's knee. “Would you like to talk to him privately?”

From the corner of her eye, Hermione could see Harry's rather reluctant look, but Ginny nodded, so Hermione ignored Harry and stood from the couch.

“Come along, love,” Hermione told Angelica. “Let's leave Aunt Ginny with Harry for a bit. We'll hang around in my office, alright?”

Angelica complied without a word, and just as Hermione expected, Angelica left her office door ajar, just enough for both of them to eavesdrop.

For a moment, Hermione considered letting Angelica do her mischief, but she realized that Ginny deserved her privacy with Harry. It was a talk long overdue.

Hermione shut her office door, and Angelica could do nothing but pout quietly in her corner.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry shot Hermione a meaningful look as he watched her leave. Angelica flashed him a cute smile before following after her mother.

It wasn't that he was afraid of Ginny. He'd seen enough horrible things in his life to be too afraid of feisty redheads, and really, from what he remembered of her, she was quite sweet and thoughtful. She was also quite lovely—still was. She had been the perfect girlfriend for a sixteen-year-old boy.

He just didn't quite know what to say. What was he expected to say? Should he apologize? Apologizing seemed wrong, since he never regretted falling for Hermione, or for siring Angelica. Was he expected to make some kind of explanation for it? That was a bit difficult, since one just happened to fall in love. Should he apologize for not saying something before? Whatever Ron said, it seemed silly, since he and Ginny were broken up for months before Hermione began to permeate his thoughts. He felt so awkward. He wished Ginny would lead. Much of their past relationship was mostly about her leading, anyway.

She started quietly, asking the questions everyone else had, about where he had been, and why he had kept away, and how, in Merlin's name, could he have come back from the dead. At this point, he already had answers to those questions by rote, expertly evasive by saying enough, yet not enough. After a while, Ginny, just like everyone else, gave up with a quiet sigh.

After another awkward pause, Ginny went on.

“I'm glad you're not dead, Harry,” she said, sniffling. “You have no idea how happy I am.”

“Little hard to tell,” he grumbled.

She laughed at that through her waning tears. “I am happy. I suppose there was a time I was a bit put-off with you, but then I thought you were dead, and after I let it out that one time, the anger was gone, and I just kept wishing you hadn't died even if we hadn't… you know… tried again.”

Harry fidgeted even as he nodded. “I appreciate that.”

She smiled. “It was very hard at first. When I first found out Hermione was pregnant with your child, I just—I was furious with Hermione. I just thought she, you know, somehow got you to sleep with her and got knocked-up in the process.”

He frowned.

“You have to understand,” she went on. “Up until then, it never crossed my mind that you would see Hermione that way, and I happened to know that Ron was so gone on her that I thought for sure it would be Hermione and Ron. You just never showed anything other than platonic affection for her all those years I knew you both. It was difficult to accept, Harry. I was really in love with you back then.”

He felt his face grow warm.

“It took a while, but I understood eventually that the two of you did fall in love and that even if you came back to us alive, I'd have already lost you to her. I did wonder if things would've been different if I had stubbornly gone with you on those long camping trips you took.”

He smiled apologetically. “I don't know if it had to do with any of that…”

She shrugged. “I suppose so. I think maybe I was just very miserable that I didn't get the closure I needed from you. You just died all of a sudden and then I found out Hermione was having your baby. Was a bit jarring, even if we've been broken up for months, not to mention that I was saving myself for you.”

Harry's eyebrow arched in confusion. “Saving yourself? Were you in trouble?”

Ginny blushed, frowned, then laughed. “You know… saving! My virginity. I was hoping our first time would be with each other.”

Harry felt the flush rising in his neck and cheeks. “Well… um, I could tell you that it would've been very awkward. Bumping heads and clumsy things like that.”

Ginny laughed even more. “Yes, well, it still would've been romantic, yeah?”

He thought about it. Was his first time with Hermione romantic in spite of the bumped heads and awkward pauses? Well, yes it was. It had been very intense, and remembering it still made his heart turn summersaults. “Yeah.”

“So there. I think everyone thought it was an infatuation, so my anger was a bit of a shock, but it worked out in the end. And now, seeing you again… I think I'll live.”

“That's good to hear.”

Ginny smiled. “You wouldn't happen to be amenable to letting my magazine conduct an interview with you, would you? I'll direct your layout from start to finish. You'd have a killer spread. I bet I can make you look breathtakingly gorgeous in jeans and a fabulous robe, with or without an undershirt. You can even keep the glasses. Ooh! I can see it now. It'll put you on the 50 Most Enchanting Wizards list!”

He had never felt such horror.

Ginny laughed. “The look on your face! Okay, maybe not now, but I asked first, Harry, and the offer stands.”

He said nothing to that, lest he inadvertently agree to any of it.

He had to admit, though, that the entire talk had given him some form of relief. Maybe he really had left something hanging, avoiding this talk with Ginny.

The more important matters being settled, he thought perhaps he could move on to having some kind of renewed friendship—less of the “ex” awkwardness and back to the sisterly camaraderie he had with her before he ever had thoughts of dating her, but there appeared to still be something Ginny wanted to discuss with him.

It looked serious—deathly so. He was almost afraid to ask her what it was.

“Something else?” Harry asked.

She motioned to speak, but she clamped her lips shut, shook her head and smiled. “It's nothing. I ought to be going. Perhaps I'll drop by at Ron's. You have sat down and spoken to him, haven't you?”

“Of course.”

“So… you know his thing for Hermione?”

“Yeah…”

Ginny nodded and stood. “So long as. That's for you two to work out. I'll be seeing you around Harry. We'll talk again.”

Harry could've sworn she put a rather serious edge to that last bit. He hoped it didn't mean she was going to commandeer him for her magazine. “I'll go get Hermione.”

“Oh, that won't be necessary. See me out, won't you?”

“Err, alright.” He walked her to the door. He took care to conceal his face from anyone who might see him outside.

“Listen, Harry,” Ginny whispered, her gaze intense on his. “Sometimes I feel… what I mean to say is—“ she paused. “Look, just take good care of Angelica, alright?” She bit her lip. “Listen to your instincts.”

She turned to leave.

His brows knotted, alarm bells ringing in his head. “What? What do you mean—Ginny, what are you—“

“Oh, bollocks! I forgot something I had to do!” Ginny cried, hurrying down the porch steps. “I have to go! Tell Hermione goodnight, for me! Tell Angelica I'll bring her a present next time!” She left almost in a jog.

“Dammit,” he hissed, bothered by the strange feeling he suddenly had at the pit of his stomach.

Something told him that he wasn't the only one with secrets to keep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“It's not the pendant,” Harry said.

Nearby, Hedwig flapped his wings slightly and gave two mournful hoots at the moon, as if to commiserate. A few leaves shook loose from his perch.

Snape frowned and smoothed the front of his night-robes calmly, stirring some of the mist around him. “You woke me from my sleep just to tell me that you got something wrong, yet again?”

Harry ignored his bitching. “I held the pendant in my hand and it wasn't the Horcrux, but the thing's in the house. I know it is.”

Snape expelled a breath and picked some sort of imaginary speck of dirt from the front of his robes. “How do you know?”

“My dreams tell me it's there. I can feel its presence when I sleep.”

“Then why can you not feel it when you are awake? You should be able to.”

“It's warded. That's the only explanation I can think of.” Harry stood from his tree stump and cursed, kicking at some loose leaves on the ground. “Even in my dreams, I could feel it through some kind of filter.”

“Filter? Like a shield?”

“No, like I'm seeing into someone else's night visions.”

Snape's lips pursed. “There were only four people involved in the spell at that moment Voldemort tried to create his Horcrux.”

Harry tutted irritably. “Three. Me, Voldemort, and Hermione—“

“Four. You forget, yet again. Hermione was not just one person anymore.”

Harry froze and looked up. He felt his eyes blazing, and anger like he'd never felt before flared. His protective instincts have never been so strong. “Leave my daughter out of this.”

“It ought to be considered, do you not think?” Snape said heartlessly. “She was there.”

“Angelica has nothing to do with this. If it has anything to do with her at all, I would've felt something by now. I would've known. Same way I would've known if Hermione were connected in the magic of it—“

“Well, are you sure you are not feeling anything from Angelica? Some kind of subtle bond? You will not feel it like you felt Voldemort all those years ago. He was your enemy. No ritual mixing of your blood with his could take that away, but Angelica is part of you. She came by your blood through birthright. Any connection you have with her will not manifest through pain—“

“Shut up, Snape. Just shut-up!” he hissed, his fists clenching so hard that he could feel his nails digging into the palms of his hands.

“Listen to me, Potter. If indeed this has something to do with Angelica, it is all the more reason for you to do something about it.”

“Don't you think I know that?”

“Forgive me if I am used to spelling even the most obvious things out for you.”

“You know nothing. You have no idea how it feels to have a daughter—to want to protect someone so badly that you just know that if someone harms her or tries to? You could kill. You understand that much, don't you, Snape? Killing?”

Snape's expression was forbidding. “I understand that if you let your sentiments cloud your judgment, you may be putting her in more danger than she might already be in.”

“I told you to shut-up. Shut-up! She's not a Horcrux! She's. Not. A. Horcrux!”

Snape froze.

Harry had his wand drawn, his breathing was labored, and his voice—his voice…

There was a profound silence as Harry began to feel his eyes burning with rage. He blinked once, then twice—more forcefully this time, and he struggled to calm his fury. His stomach twisted painfully from the strain, and next he knew, he was on his knees, gasping and choking for air and sanity.

There was a squawk from the trees overhead, the flapping of wings steady and agitated. Imogen was upset. She always was when he got this way.

His fingers dug into the soil and the spasm of breathing was agonizing.

After a long moment, Snape spoke. “You need to take more of your potion.”

Harry shook his head. “No—“ He coughed, trying to swallow and clear his throat of the remnants of that awful, inhuman sound that had crawled out of his throat. “No. It's too soon. I can't be taking doses too soon.” He looked up, sweat dripping from his brow. “I can handle it. I swear I can.”

Snape's jaw tensed, and he looked like he was ready to hex Harry from frustration. “Try to hold off until the end of the week at the most, then take more of it, but bear in mind that another outburst like this one and you might not be able to control it. Keep your negative emotions in check. Try to remember the meditative techniques you were taught—“

“Yes, yes! I know all that!” growled Harry.

“Temper, Potter!”

Harry turned away in disgust, though he heeded the warning.

“You need to go back to the house,” Snape said after a while. “I imagine that being in the presence of Granger and your sprog would do better for you than being here—with me.”

“No shit.”

“You are the one who called me here.”

Harry conceded the point as he gingerly got back on his feet. “I'll stay in touch,” he finally said. “If I find anything out, I'll owl you.”

“See that you do,” said Snape, turning to go back into the mists.

Harry watched him disappear and he was alone again in that dark wood, beyond the soundless park and playground, just past the eerie glow of streetlights.

Overhead, Hedwig hovered near. Imogen had flown further, though Harry could still feel her presence. She wasn't far.

Sighing, Harry headed back to the house.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione heard the back door open and close, the jingling of keys distinct in the silence of the house.

Harry's tread became louder as he emerged from the kitchen, and through the darkness of the house, her night vision adjusted, she could see from the top of the stairs that his shoulders were slumped heavily. His bone-tired gait was familiar. She remembered it from years ago, when he worried about the fate of Britain and the fate of his life.

He went to his room and seemed to have kept his door open. He wasn't quite turning in for the night.

Quietly, she descended the steps and peered into his room. He was about to remove his coat. She knocked on the frame of his door.

He froze and looked over his shoulder. He seemed tense. “Did I wake you? I'm sorry.”

She shook her head. “I woke up by myself. Couldn't go back to sleep and was just about to grab a midnight snack. Heard you coming in then.”

She didn't ask the obvious question, but he appeared to be expecting it.

“Went out for a walk,” he muttered, his eyes not meeting hers.

So many secrets.

She went to him, taking hold of his arm and squeezing it. “You won't lose me.”

He stared, a hint of doubt in his gaze that pierced her heart.

She went on. “Earlier, you said you were afraid you'd lose the people you love. You can't possibly lose me, Harry. I've stuck by you through the worse of times before. Goodness, I even stuck by you when you were supposed to be dead, if you can believe that. I'm not going anywhere. I won't ever abandon you.”

The trust in his eyes, that old light she had cherished so much, flared for a moment, but it dimmed even as he said, “I went to see Snape.”

That was a shock. “Severus Snape? He's alive? He—“

“He's been in Avalon all this time,” he interrupted. “I think perhaps he likes it there more than he cares to admit.”

She pursed her lips, noting how he was trying to make light of the situation. “What has he been doing in Avalon?”

He paused at her stern tone but nodded. “The priestesses brought him there… for me. He helps me and… well, I—I owe him a lot.”

That was confusing in the extreme. “What—“

A pained expression crossed his face and she realized that his muscles under her grip were almost rock solid from tension. She could make him tell right now, she knew it, but it would cost him something. She did not know for sure what it was, or how she even figured that, but she was suddenly a bit afraid of what could frighten Harry Potter.

She sighed, remembering a time long ago when Goyle tried to force her to do what she didn't want to do, and how Harry, having been abused in different ways so many times, held her because he understood.

Slipping into his arms, she enfolded him in her embrace and whispered in his ear, “It's alright. It's going to be alright.”

He embraced right back, and it was a needy, desperate embrace, parts appreciation and something else.

She knew what it was. She had felt it before.

She lifted her face, offering a kiss.

He froze.

It's alright. It's just a kiss…

She knew better now from the previous night's experience. He had demons. Whatever they were, they held him in his grip, yet he needed comfort, and she needed him. She expected nothing more than a kiss.

He took it. It was a sweet, gentle caress, and it was filled with tender intimacy.

Their hands roamed, and the kiss began to gain heat.

She breathed against his lips, rising on her toes to press closer.

He moved back and they toppled on the bed.

A gasp escaped her, and she found herself staring down at him, her body weighing down his. She wondered somewhat excitedly if he would let this get further, and when he rolled them over, her body caged between his arms as she stared up at him, her heart beat furiously, wanting him and the desire in his eyes.

But then he collapsed against the bed on her side, gathering her in his arms. Stifling a sigh, she couldn't help but turn on her side so she was spooned into his embrace. She felt his breath on her nape, labored and softly suffering. The feel of his lips against her spine was distinct, but there was no kiss in it. His hand splayed on her abdomen, stroking down, and then up, just short of those places she wanted him so badly to touch.

She had to control her own desires now, and as she curled a bit tighter, his body molded more snugly to hers. Finally, she expelled that trapped sighed in her chest, frustrated, though resigned.

“Please stay,” he whispered.

“I will,” she replied without the slightest hesitation. She resisted turning around to face him, locking him in her bodily embrace and kissing him into submission. He wouldn't be able to resist. She could make him make love to her. She knew she had that power, but she stayed the way she was, abiding by his wishes.

She stayed, hyper aware of the warmth of his body.

He fell asleep much quicker than she did, like he was exhausted.

Finally she turned over in his arms. He let her adjust, but he kept sleeping, and with her cheek pressed against his chest, she finally fell asleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The forest had never been quite so lit. He had never seen it beyond night. There was a faint trace of morning light from some distant horizon and the beasts that roamed its shadows were surprisingly absent.

He could see color. The leaves were deep green, and the sky was grey instead of black. He saw the brown of bark and even the blood red of ladybugs. There was life where he always seemed to see only death.

Cautiously, he walked, watching warily for signs that this was a trap; that he was being fooled.

Nothing stirred, and moments later, he heard that familiar strain of music.

He followed it, listening for every note and pause.

As the sound got louder, he saw an ancient door, carved with strange images.

Runes.

He never did learn how to read them.

The door was ajar. He could tell even from a few steps away. He stepped even closer and the door creaked wide open by itself.

It was a room, candlelit. The room was lined with books and scrolls. In one corner, a piano played by itself. In the center there was a desk, a book resting atop it.

A girl stood over it, her back turned to him.

He had seen the girl before. Many times, but he could never remember her face. He never knew who she was. Once, she had crossed over to his realm, but he had driven her away, knowing that she would be devoured by his demon-infested mind if he left her unaided.

She looked over her shoulder, peering at him through her bright green eyes.

He stared, staying just beyond the threshold of the door. There was a barrier. He could step no further.

Then the girl spoke. “Dad?”

Her voice, that word, echoed through his head like a pealing realization.

He didn't know why, but unspeakable horror rose in his stomach. He saw how close she stood to the blank pages of the book. He saw the droop of ink bleeding into the paper and slowly forming into words.

~~

Where was he when you needed him, Angelica?

~~

It was a diary; a diary he knew well. He had destroyed it once…

Impossible, he thought.

“Get away from that,” he rasped, struggling to move towards her, but the barrier prevented him. “Sweetheart, get away from that thing!”

She seemed afraid, but she did not move. “It calls to me. Always has, but I could make it go quiet before. It seems stronger now. Much stronger…”

Panic rose in his heart. He pushed, trying to get to her, but her mind was pure and it would not let him taint it. “Love, listen to me,” he said desperately. “Just step away from the diary. Step. Away.”

Her eyes widened at the urgency of his tone, but she nodded. She took one step back.

“Keep going,” he said. “Just please keep going…”

The diary rattled on its podium, and then that wrathful roar began.

It was coming from the book and his fury for the creature in its pages rose. Suddenly, the roar was coming from behind him, too. His forest was darkening again. It was everywhere, but Harry couldn't be bothered by the demons that sought him—not yet.

Angelica had covered her ears, terrified, and she was screaming that high-pitched cry. “Daddy!”

He fought the barriers that kept him out, pressing his hands flat against it and forcing his magic through.

A beam of power shot through the invisible wall and slammed against the diary. Dark magic fought against dark magic, and Angelica was screaming anew.

He gave it everything he had and the book was wrenched close with a resounding bang.

His demons were close. He couldn't stay, or else they would devour him.

The diary was bound. It would not bother Angelica again tonight.

Angelica was going to him, arms outstretched.

He shook his head and he slammed the door shut between them. He could hear her fists banging, her voice pleading for him to come back.

It was like a knife through his heart, keeping her away, but she would be safer this way.

The beasts were coming.

Running his hand against the door in a gentle caress, he turned away, the strains of familiar music drowning against the wailing cries of the demons pursuing him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry was startled awake when Hermione shot out of his arms.

She ran to door just as he heard the distinct sound of Angelica's voice.

“Daddy!”

He wondered momentarily if he was still dreaming, but a blur of dark curls materialized at his threshold just as Hermione swung his door open.

She was so fast that he didn't even realize what was coming until he had that little blur in his arms, desperately clinging to him.

Angelica sniffled. She was crying.

Hermione blinked as she stared at them, no doubt a strange picture to her who was more used to having Angelica go to her for comfort.

He didn't ask Angelica what was wrong. Somehow, he knew, and her fears were real to him. He held her securely, rocking slightly as he whispered soothing words of comfort against his daughter's head.

Hermione, though completely baffled, seemed to relax and she sat by them, back on the bed. “Nightmare?” she whispered.

“Probably,” Harry replied softly, knowing, but pretending he was guessing just as she was.

Hermione smiled, lightly running her fingers through Angelica's hair.

Angelica looked up at them, and when her gaze met Harry's, he thought maybe he saw the tiniest pinprick of red coming and fading.

Good God…

Angelica whimpered and Harry felt his stomach clenching with fear.

Snape's words earlier coming to the forefront of his mind.

“Well, are you sure you are not feeling anything from Angelica? Some kind of subtle bond? You will not feel it like you felt Voldemort all those years ago. He was your enemy. No ritual mixing of your blood with his could take that away, but Angelica is part of you. She came by your blood through birthright. Any connection you have with her will not manifest through pain…”

He shut his eyes tight, hoping he could push the words back, but he couldn't. It was too real, too condemning.

All those years…

He thought in despair. All those years, we've been connected in dreams… and nightmares.

He held Angelica tighter in his arms.

END, PART TWO.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: Have an inkling? ~_^

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