Unofficial Portkey Archive

Thanks to DarkPhoenix for taking the time to compose such a thoughtful review. I'll address your points in order.

First, I don't intend to overstress Hermione's looks. I drew upon certain canon references at the beginning to show that Harry should have looked more closely at Hermione instead of being drawn to Cho's pretty face. Arthur Weasley made the statement about not going for looks alone to remind us as much as Harry that he was doing Hermione a disservice by not acknowledging her femininity. Harry, like Ron, was obsessed with looks, otherwise he would have asked Hermione to the Ball immediately when Cho turned him down.

We're never told precisely what Hermione looks like apart from her bushy hair and large front teeth (now no longer a factor), but the comments we have are less than flattering. Parvati was genuinely surprised that anyone would ask Hermione to the Yule Ball. Hermione's aspect during the Ball seems to be attributed to her sleek, shiny hair, as well as the poise she demonstrated. Before then, no one ever complimented her on her looks. She reverted to her old self after. And so did Harry. When he split from Cho, he still gave no thought at all to Hermione as a girlfriend.

As for Krum and McLaggen, we don't know much about the latter, but Hermione said that Krum "wasn't even good looking." It was natural, then, for Krum to prefer a girl whose looks were on a par with his. Also, being more mature than Harry, he had learned to look past a girl's outward appearance to the beauty within. Again, Harry should have taken Krum's example for himself. I think Harry has been acting kind of stupid, and if he doesn't wise up very soon, he might just as well die in the final book. And truth to tell, I won't miss him all that much.

Now, to address the school courses, we again have very little to go on, canon-wise. The books have always had a patchwork feel about them, with J.K. making things up as she goes along. She has said, however, that there are no wizard colleges or universities. All the scholastic training a wizard needs is provided at Hogwarts. We've seen how the students choose their careers in their fifth year, then work toward that goal over the next two years. In essence, then, the final years at Hogwarts are "university" years wherein students take specific classes to prepare for a chosen career, with the N.E.W.T.'s serving as their "doctorates."

If Harry and Hermione were attending a Muggle university, she studying medicine, and he something else, like law or business, they would hardly share the same classes, even though they were technically attending the same institution of learning. That is how I have chosen to interpret their final year at Hogwarts. By separating them in this way, I intend to demonstrate the strength of the bonds connecting them by straining those bonds to the limits. Along the way, I'll toss in a few moments of doubt before resolving everything in the end. This is hardly a spoiler, since it's already a given that the story will end with Harry and Hermione together. I wanted to join this site specifically because of the ship parameters. But with the destination certain, the journey thus becomes the key factor. I'm playing J.K.'s game here, presenting events that look a certain way on the surface, but which conceal a deeper meaning underneath. Even if I believe (as I still do) that Harry and Hermione belong together in canon, I must acknowledge that it would have been rather boring, dramatically speaking, to put them together early in the saga (as is so tempting for us fanwriters to do). So, even though I've basically done the same thing here, pairing them up in their sixth year rather than waiting until the very end, it would grow tiresome to have them snogging their way through dozens of chapters with hardly a ripple in the water. I intend to toss this ship about on choppy seas before they finally sail into home port. These early chapters are merely setting up the chessboard. The game is just starting.

But before things get rolling, I first need to explain why they are together here, rather than apart as at the point where HBP left off. This, as previously explained, will be done by applying legitimate canon data according to my own interpretation. The facts themselves are in the books. How they add up has yet to be revealed in canon. I'm simply supplying my own answer in accordance with what I believe to be right.

And again, as stated earlier, these first few chapters are all I have now. I'm posting them in advance only to present my explanation before the real answers are revealed in DH. The bulk of this story is still no more than scattered scenes dancing in my head. If I'm extremely lucky, I may have things ready to go by this time next year.

But I still have a handful of chapters left that are ready to be posted, or nearly so. Blimey, here's one now!

* * *

New remarks:

I knew it would happen. It was inevitable that I'd overlook something, posting these chapters so quickly. Reviewer teganii astutely pointed out that there was one person who knew the location of the Burrow, yet whose name could not be collected. It's a valid point, and one that cannot be overlooked if the story is to proceed rationally. Hence this revision. At times like this, I remember something I heard years ago, that in Chinese script, the character for "crisis" is the same as the one for "opportunity." (I hope I heard that right. If not, anyone fluent in Chinese is free to set me straight.) But this mini-crisis was my opportunity to come up with a logical solution, while adding something significant to the story by fleshing out the character of the subject in question. Scroll down and judge if I succeeded.

Thanks, teganii. I owe you one.

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley never did learn how close their house came to being reduced to a puddle of sludge while they were off reliving the days of their carefree youth. Bill was equally oblivious, for all that he had been only one floor away. The Charm soundproofing his room had left him as removed from the goings-on under the Burrow's roof as if he had been in his office at Gringotts Wizarding Bank in London the whole time.

Bill said his goodbyes on Monday morning over breakfast and Apparated away. Harry knew that none but a member of the Weasley family could have done that within the walls of the Burrow. Dumbledore had explained that wizarding homes were protected from unwanted entry by wards similar to those surrounding Hogwarts. But the invasion of Hogwarts only a month ago was proof that there was no such thing as 100% effective magical protection.

The Fidelius Charm was as close to foolproof as had yet been found, but it was not without its limitations. For one thing, its range was confined so that it was only effective around a small structure. Protecting a castle the size of Hogwarts, not to mention its surrounding grounds, was beyond the scope of that Charm. Its power would have been thinned like a cauldron of potion poured into the Hogwarts lake. It was best suited to conceal individual structures of more modest dimensions. The Black house at Number 12 Grimmauld Place was secured by a Fidelius, as had been the house in Godric's Hollow where James and Lily Potter had lived (all too briefly) with their infant son, Harry.

The Burrow would have been ideal for the Fidelius, but there had never been a need before now to protect it in such an extreme manner. Moreover, the spell was so complex and exhausting that only a very powerful witch or wizard could manage it. It was the work of many hours, even days, to weave the fabric of the spell into the network that would completely conceal the dwelling, and those inside it, from all detection, whether physical or magical. Mrs. Weasley had campaigned endlessly for the spell to be cast over the Burrow, but it was simply too big a job.

"There aren't many wizards who can manage the Fidelius," Mr. Weasley had said. "Those who can demand a pretty fee for their services."

This last spoke volumes. The Potters had been blessed with abundant wealth, more than enough to hire a skilled witch or wizard to cast the spell over their house. And Sirius' family had boasted riches the equal of any in the wizarding world. The Weasleys, by contrast, had barely enough gold to keep the dragon from the door, as the saying went. However much Mrs. Weasley cajoled her husband, the Fidelius was simply out of the question.

Harry was sure that Dumbledore could have cast the spell with little or no difficulty. The ease with which the old wizard had deflected Voldemort's most powerful Curses at the Ministry validated Dumbledore's status as the greatest sorcerer in the world. Harry thought it possible that Dumbledore may even have placed the Charm on his parents' house. Since it was he who had warned the Potters to go into hiding after hearing Trelawney's prophesy, he might have elected to cast the spell personally to ensure that it was done properly. Were Dumbledore still alive, he could have protected the Burrow in the same manner, at no cost to the Weasleys. One more coin, Harry mused soberly, to add to the uncountable cost of the tragedy at Hogwarts.

But if the Fidelius was an impossibility, there were other spells that would serve, ones which, if not as effective, were within the boundaries of ordinary wizards to cast. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley hadn't the power between them to erect a Fidelius around the Burrow, but their skills were more than equal to these lesser enchantments.

The Burrow was protected now by a variety of spells, which worked in concert to provide a measure of security beyond the normal limits of the common wizarding home. Ordinarily, Wizards needed only a few well-placed Muggle-repelling Charms to keep their home safe. But Muggles were the least of the Weasleys' worries as the wedding date drew ever nearer. They needed spells that could conceal their home from wizards, enchantments that were proof against magical detection.

The Fidelius' power lay as much in simplicity as complexity. A single individual, termed the Secret-Keeper, became the lone receptacle for the knowledge to be concealed. He alone could impart that knowledge, nor could anyone to whom he communicated the secret repeat it by any means. By contrast, lesser spells, while simpler in nature, employed a more complex means of concealment.

The Weasleys had chosen a spell that enabled them to prevent anyone who knew the location of the Burrow from revealing that knowledge to any save those who, like themselves, already knew the secret. The first step was to compile a list of everyone who knew where the Weasleys' home was located. There proved to be a surprisingly large number of people who possessed this heretofore harmless knowledge. The greater number were Mr. Weasley's fellow employees at the Ministry. When the list was complete, it fell to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley to seek out every name thereon and secure from them a signature on a scrap of parchment. These were then burned to ash, one after another (a time-consuming task), in the flame of a special candle steeped in powerful magicks. When Harry watched his own name being fed into the dancing flame, he was reminded of the Goblet of Fire that had selected the champions for the Triwizard Tournament. When he voiced this observation to Hermione later, she remarked that magic, like everything else in the world, was mostly derivative of what had gone before. "Very little in the universe is wholly original," she said.

When the ritual was finally completed on Sunday evening, the Weasleys felt more comfortable than they had in weeks (not counting, Harry mused wryly, their tryst in the woods, wherein he imagined they had relieved more than a little of the stress they had accumulated in the days following Bill's near-fatal encounter at Hogwarts). Every member of the Weasley family had submitted a scrap of parchment. Charlie's had arrived by owl from Romania. Percy's had been left on his father's desk at work, sent in the form of a flying memo. Mrs. Weasley added it to the flame with a touch of sadness, wishing again that the entire family could be gathered together next Sunday for the wedding, but knowing it was not to be.

Harry learnt that Fred and George had delivered theirs while he and Hermione were in the village, returning the library book. He strongly suspected the twins of monitoring the house so they could pop in and out without Hermione seeing them. It was a considerate gesture, if one Harry wished had not been necessary.

Mr. Weasley personally collected the signatures of the Fawcetts and the Lovegoods, securing the latter at the office of The Quibbler in Diagon Alley, where, it transpired, Mr. Lovegood spent most of his time. As a consequence, Luna was left alone at home for extended periods, apparently without supervision. For all that she seemed a bit dotty at times, she was very self-reliant and, by extension, appeared to be perfectly content with her own company. Harry saw more than a bit of Hermione in Luna (which observation Hermione would have found more than a little discomfiting). Both of them were only children, their parents working, requiring them to find their own place in the grand scheme and mold it according to their personal vision. Luna's vision might differ vastly from Hermione's, but the comparison was still valid in Harry's eyes.

Mrs. Weasley had been of a mind to exclude both the Fawcetts and the Lovegoods from the spell, going so far as to suggest placing a Memory Charm on them to ensure their silence. But Mr. Weasley argued that, as they were the only other wizarding families in the village, it would be unneighborly to exclude them, not to say insulting.

"What harm can it do?" Mr. Weasley said reasonably. "What if I suggested the same thing for Perkins in my old department? It's not like they can speak about it to anyone whose name isn't on the list. And you surely can't think they're a threat themselves?"

"No," Mrs. Weasley agreed reluctantly. "But who's to say that someone couldn't get the information from them by other means? This spell isn't as powerful as the Fidelius," she said regretfully. "You know the old saying that just because you've thrown away the key, that's no guarantee that the lock can't be jimmied."

But Mr. Weasley won out, for which Harry was grateful. Had the Lovegoods been excluded from the enchantment, he would not have been able to invite Luna to the wedding as he had done.

But Harry had more than that to be grateful for when the ceremony was done. For one terrible moment that seemed to last an eternity, Harry thought that world had quite literally come to an end, and all because of him:

Harry watched with uncommon interest as Mr. Weasley finished burning the last scrap of parchment and pulled out his wand to seal the enchantment. This may be old magic to Hermione (who had departed after watching her signature burn and gone upstairs to read), but Harry had never seen anything like it, and he wanted to commit the procedure to memory for future reference. But just as the elder wizard was about to conclude the ceremony, a horrible, gut-wrenching thought exploded in Harry's brain like a clap of thunder, bursting forth in a cry of horror.

"Wormtail!" he shouted, startling Mr. Weasley so that he nearly dropped his wand.

"Harry?" he said in bewilderment, his concentration broken. "What are you - "

"Mr. Weasley," Harry gasped. "Wormtail! We forgot about Wormtail! He knows where this house is! He lived here for twelve years when he was Scabbers! He can tell Voldemort where you live! We've got to - "

But Harry's throat tightened in concert with his stomach as he realized that there was nothing to be done. As soon as Wormtail learnt that Harry had returned to the Burrow, he would tell his master. The news could not remain secret for long. Dozens of people had seen Harry in Diagon Alley with the Weasleys. Someone was bound to make the connection. The news would spread by word of mouth, finally reaching Wormtail's rat-like ears. After that - a horrible vision appeared in Harry's mind - the Dark Mark, hovering over the smoking remains of the Burrow, its inhabitants charred, lifeless husks. Harry had prevented Ron from destroying the house in the twins' room, only to become its destroyer himself. What could he do?

There was nothing else for it. He would have to go away - as far and as fast as he could. Let Voldemort find him if that was how it must be - only Merlin grant that he find Harry somewhere else - anywhere but here!

But as these thoughts spilled like boiling potion through his brain, he saw that, incredibly, Mr. Weasley was showing no alarm at this catastrophe in the making. He was looking at Harry with an almost fatherly expression.

"You needn't worry about that, Harry," he said. "That's all been taken care of."

"It - " Harry stammered. "What - how - "

Smiling gently, Mr. Weasley said, "Go ask Ron. He'll tell you all about it."

Harry stared incredulously as Mr. Weasley extinguished the candle with an elaborate motion of his wand. He was still rooted to the floor when Ron walked into the parlor and asked his father, "All done, then?"

"Yes," Mr. Weasley said. "But I think Harry has something to ask you."

Ron turned to Harry, noting for the first time the stunned expression on his friend's face.

"What is it?" he asked. "Keen for another Quidditch practice, are you? Well, there's still a bit of light left. I'll go fetch - "

"Wormtail," Harry said abruptly. "I told your dad that he knows where you live, and - "

"Oh, that," Ron shrugged. "Well, I mean, that wasn't anything, really."

"Wasn't anything?" Mr. Weasley smiled, his eyes looking pridefully on his youngest son. "Brilliant is more like it. If this wedding comes off," he said, looking at Harry, "it's all down to Ron."

Ron's ears began to turn pink. Harry said, "Will someone tell me what's going on?"

"Well," Ron said, trying not to look at his father, who was smiling more brightly by the second, "it all started when we were gathering together all the family names to be burned, and when we came to Percy's, I suddenly remembered Scabbers. Well, it was like being hit in the stomach by a Bludger, you know? I reckoned it was all done. Pettigrew lived here for twelve years, didn't he? I mean, I know he's not all that clever, but sooner or later he'd realize how pleased You-Know-Who would be to know where we are, and we couldn't do a bloody thing to stop it. I mean, blimey, what were we supposed to do, place a personal advert in the Daily Prophet, asking him if he'd please sign his name and send it along by post-owl so we could burn it with the others? Well, we just looked at each other, Dad and I, wondering what we were going to tell Mum.

"And then, all at once, something just sort of jumped into my head. It seemed like a mad idea, but there was nothing else for it, so I told Dad, and he said it was - " Ron's eyes flickered away from Harry, his freckles growing redder as his father continued to smile at him. "Well, anyway," Ron said, "Dad reckoned it was a good idea, and as we had nothing better..."

Harry was looking at Ron with a dazed expression. Ron smiled.

"Sorry, Harry. Like I said, it seemed a bit daft, but...okay, then. You remember back when Pettigrew was hiding from Sirius, right? He knew he was for it when Sirius broke out of Azkaban, so he had to fake his own death for the second time. He made it look like he'd been eaten by Crookshanks, and to seal the deception, he bit himself, didn't he, and left a bloodstain on my sheet where he knew I'd see it and think the worst, which I did."

Harry was looking more bewildered than ever. For his part, Ron was now fidgeting under his father's proud stare, looking as uncomfortable as Harry had ever seen him. But when he spoke again, his face became a mirror not of embarrassment, but of pain.

"I don't have to remind you who I blamed for Scabbers' death, do I?" he said. "After all my warnings, Hermione'd done nothing to keep Crookshanks away from him. I was set in my mind that I'd never let her forget what she'd done. I was going to wave it in her face forever. And I knew just the way. If I'd done what I wanted," he said grimly, "I'd have hung that bloodstained sheet up in the common room like a banner so every time she came in, she'd see it and remember what she'd done. But I knew straightaway that wouldn't work, Percy'd see it and tear it down, and tell me off in the bargain, and that was the last thing I wanted after everything. But when I went back upstairs, I found something even better."

Harry was now fully arrested by Ron's narrative. Ron sighed deeply and continued.

"I was working on a Potions essay for Snape," he said. "I'd just about finished it, but when I picked it up to add the last lines, what did I see running straight across it? Footprints!" Harry's eyes opened wide. "The way I reckoned it then," Ron said, "Scabbers must have run across my writing table while he was trying to escape from Crookshanks. I know now that he was just running off, but he'd done it after he bit himself to leave the false evidence behind. He was still bleeding when he ran across my table, and he left bloody prints on the parchment. And I knew just what to do with it. I was going to hang onto it - I couldn't have turned it in anyway, Snape never would've accepted it in that condition. I - "

Ron hesitated, and when he spoke again, his voice was heavy with self-condemnation.

"I was going to use that parchment the way I would've done the bedsheet," he said. "I'd literally wave it under Hermione's nose every chance I got, reminding her of what she'd done. Not exactly my finest moment, was it?" he shrugged. "Makes you wonder why the Sorting Hat put me in Gryffindor. If that's the kind of bloke I was, I'd've been better suited to Slytherin.

"And that's when I realized that I couldn't do it. I still blamed Hermione but, I dunno, whenever I thought about using it, I got kind of sick inside, you know? It seemed like something Malfoy would do, and that's the last thing I wanted, to be like him. In the end, I just stuck it in the bottom of my trunk. I kept it mostly to remember Scabbers, I mean, it was all I had left to remember him by."

Ron now took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders.

"Everything changed when Scabbers turned up in Hagrid's cabin, and then the whole story came out in the Shrieking Shack. Quick as Madam Pomfrey healed my leg and I got out of the hospital wing, I went straight up to my trunk and got out that parchment. I was ashamed of myself for keeping it, and I was going to go straight down and chuck it in the fire. But then, just as I was about to pitch it in, I changed my mind."

Harry's curiosity was nearly consuming him. Ron took another breath and sighed.

"I was keeping it before," he said, "to remind me of Scabbers. But this time I was keeping it to remind me of an even bigger rat - me. I was ashamed of the way I'd treated Hermione, and I promised myself I'd never act like such a prat again. Okay, so I never quite managed that, did I?" he smiled thinly. "But from then on, every time we had a really bad row, Hermione and me, after I cooled off a bit, I'd go up and take out that sheet and look at it. And quick as I did, it reminded me of my promise, and I felt better. I've kept it all this time, at the bottom of my trunk. Until now."

Finding his voice at last, Harry stammered, "Are you telling me that - that you used that parchment here? For the spell? But - I mean - a paw print? That couldn't - "

Mr. Weasley stepped forward now, turning his smile away from Ron (to his son's relief) and onto Harry.

"The written word as we know it is a relatively new invention in terms of human history," he said. "But long before people learnt to read and write, bargains were made - treaties, pacts, that sort of thing. And those bargains had to be sealed in some way that both sides would acknowledge. And so they were. And even after writing was developed, there were many who never managed to learn, so they carried on using the old method of guaranteeing their promise."

Mr. Weasley, having pocketed his wand, held up his right hand, extending his thumb toward Harry.

"Someone who needed to seal a bargain, or a legal document," he said, "but who'd never learnt to sign his name, took a knife or an arrowhead and cut his thumb. Then..."

Mr. Weasley held out his left hand and pressed his right thumb into his palm.

"A thumbprint?" Harry said. "In blood? And that was as good as - "

"Blood has always been a symbol of power and authority," Mr. Weasley said. "To seal a bargain in one's own blood is to guarantee it with your life. Even today, there are many societies that will accept no other form of validation. Fortunately, wizards have moved beyond that. But for our purposes, it was quite enough to do the job."

"When you burned the parchment with Wormtail's bloody paw print," Harry said wonderingly, "it was as good as if he'd signed his name to it! That's - "

"Brilliant," Mr. Weasley said, his smile turning again toward his son. Harry's own smile followed as he stared at Ron as if at someone he had never seen properly before. Ron's ears began to glow again, and he looked down between his feet, as he had done so often of late.

"We have nothing to worry about as far as Pettigrew is concerned," Mr. Weasley concluded. "Thanks to Ron. He is now incapable of revealing the Burrow's location to anyone who doesn't already know it. We can only hope," he added with a small shiver, "that You-Know-Who isn't in that club. Still, I can't imagine why he would have done before now. It's not like anything exciting ever happens here, is it?"

As if to match deed to word, Mr. Weasley turned away and took up the candle, careful not to spill any wax on the table. With his father's proud smile no longer on Ron, Harry turned to his mate, wanting to say something. Perhaps seeing this in Harry's eyes, Ron spoke first.

"It was nothing," Ron said again with a dismissive jerk of his head. "I didn't want that parchment hanging about anyway. I'd been keen to get rid of it for ages. The bloke who put it away all those years ago was someone I don't know any more. I don't even want to remember him. He was a useless prat, wasn't he? As far as I'm concerned, he went up in smoke in that candle flame, and I hope I never see him again. The world is well shut of him, I say."

"It was a boy who kept that paper all those years ago," Mr. Weasley said, regarding his son glowingly over his shoulder. "Today, it was a man who burned it."

Ron's ears were burning more brightly now than the flame his father had only just extinguished. Nodding at Ron and Harry (and favoring the former with a last proud smile), Mr. Weasley excused himself and left, leaving a spot of wax on the floor to mark his passing. When the two young wizards were alone, Ron said, "Don't say anything about this, okay? I mean, it's all a lot of fuss over nothing, isn't it?"

"If you ever tell me you're not good enough to come with me next year," Harry said, "I promise, I'll find the most terrible Curse I can in Snape's book and use it on you. Are we clear on that?"

Ron's entire face turned the color of his hair.

Shortly after Bill departed for London, Mr. Weasley followed, kissing his wife goodbye and vanishing with a soft popping sound. Seeing them disappear in this fashion reminded Harry that, while the Burrow itself was secured against unapproved Apparation, the back garden, unlike the Hogwarts grounds, was vulnerable. When he shared his concern with Hermione, she agreed at once.

"I know no one who isn't included in the spell is supposed to know where the Burrow is," she said. "But what if someone knows who isn't supposed to, someone who found out accidentally? It would be easy to force the knowledge out of them. And even if the list is secure - well, this spell isn't nearly as powerful as the Fidelius."

"If someone should go missing at the last minute," Harry said, "that would be as good as a signal, wouldn't it? If that happened, the Weasleys would act at once. If anything good came out of the Bertha Jorkins debacle, it's that everyone's on the watch now for anything out of the ordinary. They wouldn't just stand about if they thought Voldemort was torturing someone into revealing the location of the Burrow."

"Yes," Hermione agreed, "but even so..."

"I'd gladly have given the Weasleys all the gold in my vault to pay for someone to put the Fidelius on the house," Harry said. "But they'd never have accepted. Anyway, there wasn't time. The Fidelius isn't an easy spell to cast. Something that powerful never is."

"I know," Hermione said. "But I still can't get the image out of my head. If Voldemort does manage to find the Burrow, he and his Death Eaters could just Apparate in wherever they pleased. It would be Hogwarts all over again. If only we could erect some anti-Apparation wards around the perimeter, we'd all rest easier."

But Hermione knew even as she spoke (as did Harry) that such a notion was impossible. It was one thing to imbue the walls of a house with a localized enchantment, quite another to cover a vast expanse of open land with an invisible dome of magical energy anchored to nothing but thin air. As with the Fidelius, it would have been massive - and expensive - undertaking. As to the last, Harry had come to learn that the wizarding world differed little from Muggle society in regard to money. For generations beyond counting, families such as the Malfoys were proof, if any were wanting, that gold covered a multitude of sins.

But not any more, Harry thought with satisfaction when his mind turned in that direction. Not all his gold had prevented Lucius Malfoy from being sent to Azkaban for his part in the break-in at the Ministry. He and his fellow Death Eaters had broken in to steal the official record of the Prophesy made by Sibyll Trelawney regarding the "One" destined to destroy their master, Lord Voldemort. They had been thwarted by Harry and his friends (with a bit of help from a few others, including Tonks, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Albus Dumbledore - and Sirius). They had none of them escaped that night, save one. Not even Dumbledore had been able to prevent Voldemort from slipping away like the snake whose aspect he so embodied (in more than the physical sense). He was still out there, biding his time, waiting for the next opportunity he could either find or create - to kill Harry.

It always came back to that. Whatever Harry did, no matter what reasons he put forth as cause for his actions, it all centered on Voldemort.

So it was today. Harry was taking a break from poring over his textbooks. He was standing out in the back garden, the sun bathing his face in cheery light and comforting warmth. It was as perfect a morning as he could have asked for. But he was not here to enjoy the day, however much he wanted to. He was here for a purpose. And whatever reasons he put forth, either to himself or others, it was, as ever, because of Voldemort that he was here.

If Harry was to function as a fully qualified wizard, he needed to be able to Apparate. He must develop his skill to the point where he could do it as easily, and with as little forethought, as he would walk from one side of a room to the other. But he needed one thing in particular before he could fully develop that critical skill.

His license.

Harry's gratitude extended beyond his appreciation for the pleasantness of the day. He was grateful that the Weasleys' safeguards did not include the anti-Apparation wards Hermione had just referenced. It wasn't that Harry wished anything bad on the Weasleys. He agreed with Hermione, at least in principle, that such wards would have been welcome against the omnipresent threat of discovery and attack.

But if such protection was impossible, Harry found it difficult to apologize, even to himself, for taking advantage of the situation for his own purpose. If he was to pass his Apparation test on Thursday, he needed all the practice he could get. And where was he to get that practice if not in the Weasleys' back garden? Not in the surrounding countryside, where Muggles might turn up at any time. Nor even in the paddock, which, though ringed by dense foliage and presumably safe from unwanted scrutiny, was too restricted for Harry's needs.

No, it had to be here, in the friendly surroundings of the Burrow. The wide expanse of lawn offered the greater latitude Harry needed to master the finer points of this necessary skill. In addition, the various obstacles scattered about - the frog pond, the broom shed, the vegetable patch, the many trees and bushes - would put his maneuvering skills to the test. Ron had got in a last bit of practice here before going off with Hermione to get his license. That he'd passed the test (even if he'd needed a second try) argued well for the garden's value as a proving ground.

"We'll use the same practice parameters to get you ready," Ron said over breakfast that morning. "You'll pass your test with flying colors, just like I did."

Harry never revealed that he had learnt through Hermione of Ron's second try. Neither would he permit Ginny to mention in Ron's hearing what she had told him in private earlier that morning - that Ron, in the course of his practice, had landed in the frog pond not once, nor twice, but three times.

"I'm serious, Ginny," Harry hissed under his breath so that Ron could not hear. "I can't stop you from taking the mickey out of him one-to-one. But if you embarrass him in front of Hermione and me..."

"What will you do?" Ginny said defiantly. "Turn me into a red-haired ferret, a la Barty Crouch?"

"I'll let you fend for yourself in your advanced classes this year," Harry said quietly.

"You mustn't!" Ginny gasped, her soft brown eyes round with panic. "If I don't manage top grades, I don't know what it'll do to Mum after she went and arranged those classes with Professor McGonagall."

"I won't if you promise me to lay off Ron," Harry said.

Ginny had no choice but to agree. Ron led Harry and Hermione into the back garden that morning with an air of supreme confidence.

"You're sure I'm allowed to do this?" Harry asked Hermione again. "I thought underage wizards couldn't do any magic without approved supervision. Ron was okay because this is his home and his parents are legally responsible for him. But I'm not part of the family, for all that Mrs. Weasley fusses over me as if I were."

"It's all perfectly legal," Hermione assured him. "I knew you'd be wanting to qualify as soon as possible, so I asked the examiners the day Ron was tested. I told them you'd already taken Ministry-sanctioned classes at Hogwarts, along with Ron and me. They said that, being as your birthday is so near, you're allowed to carry on practicing outside of school as long as you remain under the supervision of two licensed Apparators. Ron and I may have only just qualified, but it's still legal. There's a place on the form where we'll both sign, verifying that we oversaw your practices."

"And they'll just take your word for it?" Harry asked.

"Well," Hermione smiled, "do you remember when we took our first exams at school, and Professor McGonagall told us the quills we'd be using were all enchanted with anti-cheating spells? You don't suppose that applies only to students? Every legal form in the wizarding world is endorsed in that fashion. The Gringotts goblins would never authorize a loan if the signatory couldn't furnish incontrovertible proof that the loan would be repaid."

"Has anyone ever defaulted on a Gringotts loan?" Harry asked.

"Never more than once," Hermione said, her smile hardening uncomfortably. She laughed a moment later, assuring Harry that nothing of that sort would happen to her and Ron. "It's not like that quill Umbridge made you use," she said. "It's not going to force us to sign in our own blood or anything. The quill will simply prevent us from signing our names under false pretenses. The moment we tried, our hands would go rigid and we'd be unable to so much as touch the point to the parchment. But that's not going to happen, because we'll be giving you proper training between now and your birthday. We'll have you in top form when the time comes for your practical demonstration at the testing office."

With that weight off his mind, Harry proceeded to enjoy a superlative practice session. In fact, he decided after an hour of popping back and forth across the lawn that it might be a bit too good. Even if Ron believed that the mistakes he'd made in his own practices were a family secret, the knowledge might sour in his mind if he saw Harry executing complicated maneuvers without mishap. But just as they were about to call it a session, Harry elected to try one more experimental jump.

"I'm going to pop straight across the lawn from the shed to the vegetable garden, then back again without a pause."

"Right," Ron said, the weariness in his voice hinting that, true to Harry's fears, he had not taken his friend's flawless practice too well.

Harry vanished with a soft pop, appearing instantly at the far edge of the garden. He vanished almost before Ron's eyes could get a fix on him. Ron turned his head back to the place where he expected Harry to reappear. But -

Splash!

Ron and Hermione ran forward to the edge of the frog pond. Harry was sitting in water up to his waist, a lily pad across his knee and an embarrassed flush on his face.

"Reckon I need a bit more practice," he shrugged with an apologetic smile.

Ron's own smile was commiserating beneath eyes glowing with inner satisfaction.

"No worries, mate! We can have another bash tomorrow. Don't worry, you'll get it."

Harry stood up and wrung as much water as he could from his sodden robes. When he stepped up onto the lawn, Hermione drew her wand and spoke the incantation for the Drying Charm.

"You go on, Ron," she called out as she played her wand across Harry's robes, which fluttered under the impetus of the warm air issuing from the tip of her wand. "We'll catch you up as soon as Harry's dried off."

"I'll go fetch us some drinks," Ron said cheerily, and he trotted off, his smile growing so broad that Harry could see it stretching his cheeks even from the back of his head.

"I know what you did, Harry," Hermione said, her smile as warm as the air that was quickly drying Harry's robes.

"Dunno what you're talking about," Harry said innocently.

"Yes you do," Hermione said. "It was very sweet of you to help Ron that way, especially since he had no idea what you've done. Doing something good without being recognized for it is one of the marks of a true hero. Do you know how much I love you right this minute?"

"Well," Harry said, his voice quickly losing its innocent tone, "we can always nip into the broom shed so you can show me properly."

From the look Hermione gave Harry, they might have done just that had Ron not returned at that moment with three glasses of pumpkin juice floating before him, directed by the wand in his hand.

"It's cold," Harry said approvingly as his hand closed on the glass nearest to him. "You finally learnt the Chilling Charm, then?"

"Nah," Ron said as he sipped from his glass. "There was a pitcher in the ice box already chilled."

"You really should learn that spell," Hermione said over her own glass. "And a few others besides. So should I, come to that." She paused to take a sip, then asked, "Do you think your mum would teach us some of the spells she uses most around the house?"

"We could ask her," Ron said.

"Let's do that," Hermione said. "Right now, in fact."

"Can't," Ron said. "She's out. Shopping, according to Ginny. She wants the pantry to be full when she starts planning the wedding feast on Friday."

"Even better," Hermione said. "When she gets back, we'll all have a go at fixing lunch." She looked at Harry, who nodded. "Smashing!" she said, tipping her glass and downing its contents with a smile.

Mrs. Weasley could not have been more pleased to grant Hermione's request. It was the first time Harry had seen her smile at Hermione with the same warmth she usually reserved only for him.

"I've been at all the boys to learn these spells," she said as her four students stood attentively around her. "The only ones who showed any interest at all were Fred and George."

"I've never seen them cook so much as a kipper," Ron said skeptically. His mother's smile turned downward.

"I think they only wanted to learn the spells so they'd be able to prepare their vile concoctions to create something unpleasant for that joke shop. That shop! Goodness knows how long they'd been making plans for it before I spotted the signs three years ago."

"Still," Hermione said brightly, "now that they've left, I'm sure they're glad they know the spells, being as they're both unattached with no one to cook for them."

"They don't need to cook for themselves," Ron said. "They have enough gold, they can afford to eat out or order in every day."

"That's as may be," his mother sniffed, eyeing Ron shrewdly. "But unless you're sitting on a pile of gold none of us have seen, I would advise you to learn these spells and use them as they were intended. Now, pay attention, all of you."

Harry discovered that he had far more to learn from Mrs. Weasley than the others. Ron and Ginny had picked up certain things over the years by simple observation, allowing them to acquit themselves to their mother's satisfaction when she put them to the test. Hermione had never prepared food using magic, but she had learnt a few basics from her parents, both of whom, she informed him, were quite capable in the kitchen.

"Well, that only stands to reason, doesn't it?" she said. "I mean, they're both dentists. They know all about mixing compounds and such in their work, and it's only a short jump to applying that skill to preparing more edible substances at home."

Anyone who knew how the Dursleys had piled manual labor on Harry almost since he could walk upright might have expected him to know a fair bit about food preparation. But all he'd ever done was take charge of the menial tasks, like tending to Dudley's bacon or buttering his toast, while Aunt Petunia handled the true culinary chores. Unless he was keen to live on bacon sandwiches for the rest of his life (which prospect would likely not have gone amiss with Ron), Harry thought it a good idea to learn as much as he could from Mrs. Weasley now before they all returned to Hogwarts. He doubted seriously that the kitchen elves at school would take too kindly to his popping in through the hidden door and asking questions while they prepared the meals to feed the students and staff in the castle. They were ready enough to share the results of their own labors; it was a point of pride for them for a human to praise their cooking, validating their hard work. But he suspected that they guarded their particular secrets as steadfastly as the Unspeakables in the Department of Mysteries cloaked their own shadowy activities.

"A secret shared isn't a secret any more," Hermione had once told him.

But Harry knew that certain secrets were shared, though only within the confines of a group or a family. The secrets shared by the Order of the Phoenix were for no eyes and ears but theirs (though Fred and George had done their best to overcome the latter barrier via their Extendable Ears). And the D.A. had guarded its secrets diligently, being undone in the end not from without, but by one of their own.

In like manner, Mrs. Weasley's cooking secrets were reserved for her family alone, passed along from one generation to the next with as much reverence as a family treasure. To Mrs. Weasley, it was a legacy not to be despised, one which Harry did not doubt that she valued above gold. That she was including himself and Hermione in this lesson with her two youngest children touched Harry deeply. It meant that she had accepted both of them as members of her family. In Harry's eyes, there was no greater gift, nor of higher price, than to belong to a family. Ron and Ginny, and even Hermione, took this treasure for granted. Harry did not. He was grateful beyond words to Mrs. Weasley for accepting him in this way, and the best way he could show his gratitude at the moment was to pay close attention to her every word. He wanted her approval in this endeavor as much as he had ever sought that of Albus Dumbledore. He was sure Mrs. Weasley would have approved of the comparison.

It transpired that Mrs. Weasley's magic stove bore an uncanny resemblance to Mad-Eye Moody's enchanted trunk. There was only one oven door, but by turning a dial on the control panel to different settings, Mrs. Weasley was able to cook five different items at the same time, each at a different temperature. In addition, since the food was cooked by magic, everything was done in a fraction of the time a Muggle stove would have required. Harry was sure that Aunt Petunia, for all her abhorrence of magic, would have loved this stove.

Mrs. Weasley explained that, while the stove did the actual cooking, the temperature settings required controlled variations on the spell permeating the individual chambers, directed by the one preparing the meal. "Precise mental control is required," she explained, looking pleased at Hermione's keenness, which exceeded that of her children. "Since the magic is in the stove itself," she stressed for Ginny's sake, "one need not be of age to use it. Concentration is the key. You must focus your mind on the proper temperature setting and impart that command by force of will, using your wand as a conduit. In order to achieve the optimum results, you must think concisely. Anything less than complete mental discipline will result in undercooking or overcooking. The stove will do exactly as you tell it, but it cannot read a mind full of mush. Concentration!"

Harry stifled a laugh at how much Mrs. Weasley reminded him of Mad-Eye Moody now, especially given the similarities between the multi-chambered stove and Moody's seven-key trunk. But that being said, it was obvious that, as Moody was the master of his particular field of expertise, so, too, was Mrs. Weasley. By focusing her thought-commands through her wand, she was able to modify each individual oven to cook whatever she placed inside. Her "class" watched with interest (even Ron) as she placed a food item inside, imparted the appropriate temperature setting and duration to the stove, then repeated the procedure. No sooner would she close the oven door than she turned the dial to the next setting, and when the oven was opened again, the chamber was empty and ready to be filled with the next item to be cooked.

With so many things cooking simultaneously, the meal was ready in a fraction of the time Harry expected. A loaf of freshly-baked bread emerged from the oven, levitated by Mrs. Weasley's wand (it was far too hot to touch). Mrs. Weasley had mixed the batter by magic while Hermione took notes, and Ron (working under protest) had kneaded the dough to within an inch of its life before his mother shoved the result into the oven's waiting mouth. The aroma made Harry weak in the knees, and he could hardly wait for Mrs. Weasley to move on to the next phase.

The oven door closed, and when it opened again (the dial having been moved to another setting), a simmering roast beef was revealed, a leftover from a previous supper, given new life by Mrs. Weasley's magical skills. When this was removed, the setting was changed again and the oven disgorged a deep platter of roasted potatoes. Hermione had taken special notice of the wand movements used by Mrs. Weasley to skin the potatoes and cut them into the appropriate sized chunks for optimum roasting. The platter was extricated by means of a levitation spell and set in front of Ron, who was promptly handed a mashing tool by his mother.

"Some things are best done without magic," she informed her son for the second time that morning. Ron, who'd had too much experience at Hogwarts with Muggle labor (mostly in the form of detentions with Snape or Filch), regarded the mashing tool with disdain.

"What's the bloody good of being able to do magic if I can't use it when I really need it?" he grumbled, his arms still aching from kneading the bread dough.

Harry was busy carving the bread into thick slices, while Hermione, employing skills learnt in her parents' kitchen, was rendering the steaming beef into thin, savory-looking wafers. Working together, they assembled seven thick sandwiches, Hermione folding the sliced beef elegantly so that it bulged invitingly from between the bread halves.

When Ron had finished with the potatoes, he handed the platter to his mother, who nodded her approval. She then drew her wand and waved it over the product of her son's grudging labors. A steaming brown liquid poured out and over the mash. Gravy, Harry did not doubt. He had seen Mrs. Weasley create sauces with her wand before. They were always delicious. It was always best, Harry had been informed, to use real food whenever possible, as it was extremely difficult to create edible foodstuffs out of thin air. But certain simple extras, like sauces and gravies, were more reliable, if not exactly easy to create. Mrs. Weasley was a superb witch, and Harry was grateful every time he sat down to eat at the Burrow that she had chosen to concentrate her talents on her family. He was sure that she could have brought down a good salary in the working world. Merlin knew the family needed the money. But in Mrs. Weasley's judgment, a family needed a heart and a soul more than it needed cold, unfeeling coins. And there was no doubt in Harry's mind that the Weasley house was blessed with more love than any other home in Britain, wizard or Muggle.

The fourth item to emerge from the enchanted oven was an apple pie. Hermione had sliced the apples by magic (copying Mrs. Weasley's wand movements from when she'd carved up the potatoes) while Ginny rolled the dough, Muggle fashion, and pressed it into the baking pan. When the apples were seasoned by Mrs. Weasley, courtesy of her wand, Harry helped Hermione pour them into the shell. Ginny finished the job by placing strips of dough across the filling in a lattice pattern and dusting it with powdered sugar. The result made Ron groan with longing, and his mother smiled in spite of herself.

The last thing to pop out of the oven was a sheet of sugar biscuits, which everyone had shaped into various objects, from stars and moons to a cat face (this from Hermione, who was missing Crookshanks). Mrs. Weasley placed the biscuits in a tin and sealed the lid with her wand.

"They're Arthur's favorite," she informed everyone with a small blush. "I haven't made him any for ages."

Harry expected Ron and Ginny to shudder again at the thought of what their parents had done yesterday while out on their walk. He was surprised when they took no notice of their mother's ill-concealed smile, which looked suspiciously like the one Bill wore whenever he spoke of his future wife (and, Harry suspected, the one he himself wore whenever he thought of Hermione). They were handling it better than he expected. Harry reflected again that he'd never given a thought to Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon in that regard. But unless, as Hermione had pointed out, they had found Dudley lurking under the Daily Mail on the front doorstep one morning, there was no denying that they, like every other married couple, had done more than sleep in their double bed on at least one occasion. Harry gave his head an inward shake, dismissing the thought before it could grow into something monstrous.

Mrs. Weasley did not join everyone outside to enjoy the fruits of their joint labors. Harry wondered for a moment why they'd made so many sandwiches, not to mention the potatoes, if there would be only four of them at the picnic table. But he realized almost at once that he was reckoning without giving due acknowledgment to Ron's near-mythic appetite. Ginny and Hermione were satisfied with one sandwich apiece, along with modest helpings of mash. Harry had a fair capacity for food, and he knew that he would have no difficulty disposing of two sandwiches, especially after the workout his practice had given him (Apparation was quite a strain on a body not accustomed to it, Harry had discovered). But when his first sandwich was done and he was ready for another, Ron was already well into his third.

"You going to have enough room for some pie?" Harry grinned at his mate as he took a bite from his second sandwich.

"You're joking, right?" Ron said, his eyes smiling as he took a long pull on his glass of iced juice while keeping his half-eaten sandwich poised in mid-air with his other hand. Even Ginny grinned appreciatively at her brother's singular talents.

The pie was partitioned into six slices. After filling Ginny's and Hermione's plates, Harry and Ron easily managed the remaining four slices between them. When at last his plate was empty of all but crumbs and his glass drained to the last dregs, Harry was certain he could not have managed another bite. He was likewise certain that he had never eaten a more satisfying meal. In this he was not alone.

"Blimey, that was good," Ron sighed contentedly, his robes looking decidedly snugger around his middle (though this may have been in part because they were last year's robes, and Ron had grown a bit since September last).

"Food always tastes better when you've worked hard to prepare it yourself," Hermione said sagely.

Ron was feeling too good to dispute this apparent blasphemy. He helped Hermione clear the table, both of them using their wands. Harry and Ginny felt a bit left out.

"So," Harry said as he helped Hermione set the dishes in the sink for Ron and Ginny to wash (that being one of the household chores they performed in exchange for pocket money), "what's on for this afternoon?"

"I'm going to read a few more chapters in my Healing textbooks," Hermione said as they sat down at the kitchen table, allowing Ron and Ginny access to the sink. "The burn ointment turned out well. I haven't had the opportunity to test it yet - I thought one of us might get a burn from the stove, but everything went smoothly, so I'll have to wait to try it out properly."

"Have you brewed any other potions?" Harry said, trying to sound casual.

"A couple," Hermione answered coyly, her eyes avoiding Harry's. "Why do you ask?"

"Was one of them a Forgetfulness Potion?" Harry asked, speaking softly so that neither Ron nor Ginny could hear him over the water running in the sink.

"I may have done," Hermione replied, mimicking Harry's casual tone. "They're ever so helpful when a patient has been traumatized by an injury and it's best they don't remember how it happened."

"You can forget a lot of things with that potion, can't you?" Harry said. "Things having nothing to do with physical injuries."

"Emotional trauma is often just as detrimental as the bodily kind," Hermione responded in a serene voice.

"When did you give it to them?" Harry whispered, his eyes watching Ron and Ginny with amusement as they finished washing and drying the dishes (again, to Ron's disgruntlement, without magic).

"Last night in their bedtime cocoa," Hermione said quietly. "You gave me the idea, actually, when we were discussing your birthday. It's not difficult to brew, and I had all the ingredients in my Starter Kit."

"How does it work?" Harry asked. "I know that the Memory Charm is implemented by a mental command. That's why it can't be learnt properly without mastery of non-verbal magic, which isn't taught until sixth year."

"The potion is much simpler," Hermione said. "The way it works is, the drinker goes into a trance for about a minute. You have that long to verbally instruct them what it is they're to forget. When they wake up, they won't know that anything has happened. They won't even know they've forgotten anything because - well, they'll have forgotten, won't they? It's no good for really powerful memories, of course - that's when the Obliviate spell is needed. Also, the potion works best on memories the subject doesn't enjoy. Since he's keen to be shut of them, the potion only has to give the mind a little nudge. That's in complete contrast to the Obliviate, which can completely wipe one's mind if it's powered by sufficient force of will. But that was hardly necessary here. Judging from the look on their faces when their parents came back in such a state, I expect Ron and Ginny were only too ready to forget."

"I'd say you've just treated your first patients, Healer Granger," Harry said. "And successfully, from all appearances. Take twenty well-earned points for Gryffindor," he concluded, tilting his head regally. "Ten for each."

Hermione hoped that Ron and Ginny would not see the broad smile with which she favored Harry in response.

Having eaten so much of their successful labors, they all agreed that now was not the time for any strenuous endeavors. Ron wasted no time in casting himself down on the grass in the shade of a tree. He sighed contentedly as he rubbed his full stomach. His eyes closed almost at once, and even Ginny hadn't the heart to disturb him. She turned away from the screen door and entered the parlor. Plunking herself down, she turned on the radio and fiddled with the dial until an announcer's voice declared that it was time for "another heart-tugging episode of Young Witches in Love," which, Hermione informed Harry, was Ginny's favorite soap opera.

"Her mum sends her updates every week while she's at school," Hermione said. "She's frantic whenever Errol is delayed. Sometimes she sends Pigwidgeon behind Ron's back when something really exciting is about to happen. I know how she feels. I was addicted to Coronation Street for ages."

"What do you want to do with the rest of the afternoon?" Harry asked. "I'm not up for another mock combat in the twins' room just now - not after what nearly happened there yesterday."

"Neither am I," Hermione said. "But we still have loads of studying to do before school starts, if we're to get a jump on the term. I don't think a bit of reading will upset the universe, or our digestion."

Harry nodded. Before this year, it would have been unthinkable to either Harry or Ron to open a school book until the day after the Welcoming Feast at Hogwarts. There had been a few exceptions, such as when he'd been assigned some holiday essays to compensate for certain lessons which his teachers (most often Snape) thought he should have done better the first time. Many of those he'd done under the covers by the light of a pocket torch. Apart from that, he'd regarded as sacrilege Hermione's habit of reading every textbook from front to back before the whistle on the Hogwarts Express had sounded in their ears.

But this year was different. Harry was not studying to achieve a high mark that would increase Gryffindor's chances of winning the House Cup at year's end, or to receive an award plaque that would be shunted into the Trophy Room where it would be added to the collection regularly polished by Argus Filch (or, more likely, an unfortunate student doing a detention). Harry didn't give a damn if his grades were higher or lower than a teacher's expectations this year. It was his expectations that mattered now. He expected no less than his best effort this year. No, he amended, anyone could boast a best effort. He wanted - he demanded - results! He was determined to become as proficient at the skills he needed to learn as he could possibly manage in ten months.

"Are you going to begin another potion today?" Harry asked.

"Yes," Hermione said. "I already have a short list made up. I have to be careful which ones I choose, because some of them give off really noxious vapors until they've cooled properly, and Ginny and I have to sleep in the 'brewing room.'"

"I thought you were brewing potions in the Room of Requirement," Harry said, using the name they had jokingly attached to the twins' room.

"Only the dangerous ones," Hermione said. "These aren't dangerous, just...smelly. And I can tend them better if I can watch them without darting up and down stairs all the time. Anyway, I'm better off not attempting any really dodgy potions until I get back to Hogwarts, where I'll be under Madam Pomfrey's supervision."

"I'll come visit you in a bit when I'm keen for a break," Harry said.

"And I'll do the same," Hermione said.

They walked up the stairs together, Harry leaving Hermione on the second floor landing. She entered Ginny's room, closing the door behind her. This, Harry knew, was the signal that no one - not even Ginny - was to enter without knocking. Brewing complicated potions required one's full attention. If someone walked in unannounced at a critical moment, Hermione could easily spill too much of an ingredient into her cauldron, with results that might well be disastrous - not merely for the potion, but for the Burrow and its inhabitants.

Harry walked into Ron's room and sat down on his camp bed. Unlike Hermione, Harry left the door open. He would not be doing anything that an unexpected interruption would spoil, and the cross breeze coming through the open window was welcome on this sultry July day. Blimey, Harry thought, Hermione must be stifling, working over a hot cauldron in a closed room on a day like this.

After some thought, Harry took up his Advanced Potion-Brewing textbook and opened it to the page he'd bookmarked. Setting the marker aside, he lay back and turned the book sideways. Though he was holding a Potions textbook, he was not studying a potion now. He was squinting at a cramped scribble squeezed into the side margin of the left-hand page. Snape's writing was never easy to read. He made a mental note to stop at Flourish and Blotts after getting his Apparation license to buy a magnifying glass. If he kept on this way, he'd need new glasses before Christmas break.

Some of the spells he'd read in Snape's old book had sent chills down his spine on the hottest nights on Privet Drive. It was no different now.

Bloody hell, Harry thought, not for the first time, Snape was a twisted bastard, and no denying. He could scarcely fathom a human mind devising some of the spells Snape had created in his idle moments and scribbled in his potions book. Why, Harry had wondered, did Snape choose this book to record these spells? They had nothing to do with potions. He decided that, as Snape was so proficient at Potions, he must have become more and more bored with every class. He could easily see Snape completing assignments in minutes that his fellow students required the entire period to accomplish. It was in such idle moments, Harry reasoned, that he let his mind wander into these dark avenues, devising such spells as had never been seen in the wizarding world - or if they had been thought up before, their creators had been wise enough not to endanger decent wizards by sharing them with anyone.

In all fairness, Snape hadn't intended to share his spells with anyone else, either. Harry supposed that was a mark in his favor, even if it was motivated by arrogance rather than civic duty.

If Snape had, as Harry supposed, created and refined these spells in his Potions classes, it only made sense that he would have recorded them in the only book at hand, his Advanced Potion-Brewing textbook. It would also serve, Harry concluded, as the perfect hiding place. If another student - or a teacher - suspected Snape of creating spells that might violate wizarding law (as Harry was certain some of the ones he had already read must have done), they would expect to find them recorded in a private journal, or in books more closely related to the spells he was creating. But hiding dangerous spells in a potions book was very clever. Harry had never doubted Snape's cleverness, whatever else he thought about his former Potions Master and, albeit briefly, Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.

Not so clever now, are you? Harry thought as he turned the page and tilted the book in reverse to read the opposite margin, where the spell he'd begun was continued. On the run, with a price on your head second only to Voldemort himself. You didn't reckon on that only two months ago, did you?

Harry's concentration was so intense that he did not hear his visitor's footsteps as they drew closer, passing through the open door and into the room. He only realized he was no longer alone when a shadow fell over him as the sunlight from the window was blocked. Harry looked up and smiled.

"Hi, Ginny. Your show over, then?"

"It's only half an hour," Ginny said, seating herself on Ron's bed.

Closing his book and setting it aside, Harry, remembering the advice he'd given Ginny in the twins' room, asked, "Is there something you want to talk about?"

"Not really," Ginny said, shrugging so that her long, red hair quivered around her shoulders. "I was going to go into my room, but I saw that Hermione's closed the door, and we all know what that means."

"You could have just knocked and gone in," Harry pointed out. "Hermione hasn't banned you from your own room, you know." Ginny merely shrugged again.

"I know. But I didn't want to disturb her. She takes her studies seriously, and I'm beginning to appreciate that more, especially after last year."

"Are you still worried about the classes your mum pushed you into taking?" Harry asked, rising now to a sitting position so he could look directly into Ginny's eyes.

"A bit," Ginny admitted. "But whenever I feel overwhelmed by it all, I remember that you promised to help me, and that makes me feel better." Ginny paused, a crease appearing on her brow under her fiery bangs. "You haven't told Hermione, have you?"

"I promised I wouldn't," Harry said. "I hate not telling her, but there's nothing to be done."

"I know what you're thinking," Ginny said. When Harry prompted her with a curious look, she answered, "You're thinking that you could tell Hermione if I released you from your promise." Harry responded with a peremptory smile, and Ginny said, "I'll think about it."

"Thanks," Harry said, letting the subject drop for the moment. Searching for a more harmless topic, he commented on the meal they had helped Mrs. Weasley prepare. "We did a good job, didn't we? I learned a lot. I hope we can have another lesson before we head off for Hogwarts."

"I'm sure we will," Ginny said. "Mum's been after me to learn those spells for ages. Sometimes I think nothing would make her happier than to have a kitchen full of students to teach her secrets to."

"You won't get much opportunity to practice at Hogwarts," Harry remarked. "You'll be allowed to do magic at school, but I don't fancy your chances of getting the house-elves to let you into their kitchens to help them prepare meals."

"There are other places to prepare a meal than in the kitchens," Ginny returned.

"Oh?" Harry said with interest. He wondered if she was going to suggest Moaning Myrtle's loo, where they'd brewed the Polyjuice Potion in their second year without being discovered. "Where, then?"

"The Room of Requirement," Ginny said. "I can turn it into a kitchen, complete with magical stove, and practice as often as possible."

Harry nodded, secretly wishing they'd known about that room five years ago - but if they had, he realized at once, they might never have found the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets, and Ginny might well have died in the shadow of the towering statue of Salazar Slytherin, her bones lying in the chamber forever, as the writing on the wall - Ginny's writing - had declared. Maybe things did happen for a reason, he decided.

"Do you mind if I use you as a test subject?" Ginny asked.

"A what?" Harry replied.

"When I get the hang of preparing food for human consumption," Ginny said, "can you sample them for me and tell me if I've done everything right?"

"Of course," Harry said, feeling he could not refuse such a request. "Just don't poison me, okay?"

"When I conjure up the room's interior in my mind," Ginny said, "I'll include a tin of bezoars in the pantry, just in case."

They both laughed out loud, falling back on their respective beds. When they lifted themselves back into an upright position, Ginny's smile was still in place, but it was full of warmth now.

"We've never talked like this before, have we? I mean, like friends."

"I thought we were always friends," Harry said, but his voice was not as convincing as he would have wanted, and Ginny was not fooled.

"We've known each other for a bit," she conceded, "but we've never actually been friends, not in the proper sense. Not like you've been with Ron and Hermione."

"I don't think anyone's ever been friends the way Ron and Hermione and I've been," Harry said seriously.

"No argument there," Ginny said. "It's all in how the bonds of friendship are forged, isn't it? You and I never had to go through the same fires that you did with them. You saved me from Tom Riddle in the Chamber of Secrets, but I was unconscious through most of it, so we could hardly be said to have bonded. We came a lot closer a year ago, when we all went to the Ministry together and fought the Death Eaters. Even then, we didn't fight together, did we? I was mostly off with Ron and Luna, while you were with Hermione and Neville."

"Still," Harry pointed out, "we were all there together. You and I shared the same dangers. One or both of us could have died that night, not to mention last month at Hogwarts."

"I don't think I'd have fancied us bonding as a couple of Hogwarts ghosts," Ginny laughed nervously.

"But we did bond, in a way," Harry said. "That's not something to be chucked down the plug hole."

Harry stuck out his hand. Ginny blinked once, then took it. Their hands clasped for a moment. But when Harry would have released Ginny's hand, he felt her grip tighten. In a flash, she pulled him forward and wrapped her arms around his neck. Acting without thought, Harry awkwardly hugged Ginny against him, pressing his face into her silky hair that smelt so much like Hermione's.

"Thanks, Harry," Ginny breathed into his ear. "Thanks for being my friend."

"Uh - " Harry began, but all at once a pair of gigantic feet pounded into the room.

"What's going on here?" Ron said, and there was little of humor in his eyes.

"Uh - " Harry said again, but Ginny spoke over his feeble attempts at speech.

"As Hermione said earlier, it's nothing to owl Rita Skeeter about," Ginny sniffed, loosing Harry's neck and rising in full possession of her dignity. "Harry and I have just agreed to be friends."

"Have you, now?" Ron said, lifting an eyebrow.

"Get your mind out of the gutter, Ron," Ginny said. "Or better still, leave it there and let the rest of us get on with our lives. I've nothing to apologize for, nor has Harry."

Ginny walked out of the room. Harry heard her light footfalls vanish down the stairs. He turned to look up at Ron, who was looking doubtful.

"Nothing happened," Harry said, feeling put out that he should even have to state what should have been obvious. "What, you think Ginny and I were planning to carry on here on my camp bed, with the door wide open?"

The absurdity of this image brought Ron's smile back in full force, along with an apologetic flush.

"Sorry, Harry. I'd suspect a lot of blokes - Dean Thomas for one - but never you."

Ron sat down on his bed and was about to stretch out when he turned his gaze downward. Harry followed Ron's eyes, and he saw that his Advanced Potion-Brewing book was lying on the floor at his feet. It had apparently fallen from his bed when Ginny hugged him so vigorously (and unexpectedly). Ron's longer reach brought his hand to the book an instant before Harry would have caught it up. Ron looked at the book with interest for a moment before lifting his eyes back to Harry.

"I've been meaning to ask," Ron said in an almost ashamed voice, "if I could copy some more of Snape's notes from your books. Only I made a start last year, but I never got to the back chapters."

Harry eyed Ron with exaggerated suspicion over the rims of his glasses, and the tall redhead smiled.

"I promise, I won't copy anything but potion notes."

The incident where Ron nearly liquefied the Burrow was still fresh in both of their minds. Following a moment's pregnant silence, Harry smiled.

"Have a bash, mate. I've got plenty of other books to study. Just let me know when you're finished."

"That's it?" Ron said in surprise. "I mean, after what I nearly did - "

"You promised, didn't you?" Harry said.

"Yeah," Ron nodded.

"Then what more does a bloke need from his best mate?" Harry said. "Mind you don't smudge those notes. I'll be wanting to use them myself later, and Snape's bloody scrawl is hard enough to read as it is."

"Thanks, Harry," Ron said sincerely.

Harry knew, as did Ron, that there were terrible spells to be learnt from Snape's scribbled notes, intermingled with the modifications he'd made to the potion-brewing instructions outlined in the primary text. But Harry also knew that Ron would not break his word, given in such a straightforward a manner. Ron seemed to take Harry's faith in his truthfulness as a point of honor. Harry was confident that Ron would do his best to skip over any notes not related to potion brewing. He knew that his mate would almost certainly pause to browse over such notes; he would have been more than human not to. But he trusted that Ron would not copy those notes, nor, by implication, use them, even as a memory. No, especially as a memory. If Ron had not learnt his lesson regarding the dangers of attempting Dark spells without adequate preparation after the near-disaster in the twins' room, he never would.

"I can't wait," Ron mumbled in a kind of euphoria as he flipped through the Potions book in search of a page he'd not yet copied into his own book. He laughed abruptly. "Can you imagine, Harry? Blimey, I never thought I'd actually be looking forward to Potions."

"Can't wait to try out those notes in class and make the other blokes look sorry?" Harry smiled.

"Well, that, too," Ron smiled. "But what I really can't wait for is to become a member of the Slug Club."

Harry tried to hide a smile, but failed miserably. Ron took Harry's humor in stride.

"Quick as I catch Slughorn's eye with a few brilliant potions," Ron said, "he's sure to invite me to join. A lot of important blokes got their start in Slughorn's club, you know," he reminded Harry. "I could meet people who could change my life. Famous people. Important people. People who can help me get ahead. Just you wait, Harry. Blimey, I'll show 'em. I'll show 'em all!"

Harry smiled even more broadly as he turned away from Ron and opened the book he had selected, Dark Spells and How to Counter Them. Ron's continued muttering did not distract him. Rather, it increased his desire to assimilate the knowledge in this book, and all the others he would study this year. Like Hermione, Ron clearly had every intention of surviving their dark mission and going on to live a full and happy life. If by learning just one spell that would hasten the defeat the Dark Lord, Harry might thus spare his best mate from dying at an age when most wizards should just be starting to live. Ron was determined to make the best life possible for himself. And Harry, insomuch as it was within his power, was just as determined to see that Ron got to enjoy that life for a long time.

For the present, he would be very happy to see Ron admitted into the Slug Club (which, truth to tell, had never exactly been Harry's tea and cakes). If Ron could dazzle Professor Slughorn in Advanced Potions as Harry had done last year, he should be a shoo-in. All the same, Harry made a mental note to ask Mrs. Weasley if one of her back numbers of Witch Weekly contained a certain recipe that might help Ron's cause. You can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, Harry remembered the old saying. That rule should apply here, even if the honey in this case was crystallized pineapple.

The next chapter contains the last of the HBP scenes reworked for this story. Unfortunately, it will provide more questions than answers. Never fear, those answers fill follow in short order. As, I hope, will the chapter in question.

See you then.