Harry Potter and the Year of Decision

Introduction, explanation, and apology:

I thought I could do it, but like Ron Weasley on a visit to Honeydukes, I bit off a bit more than I could chew. I’m referring to my foolish belief that I could conceive and write a full-length novel in the year preceding the publication of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. I’d barely got a dozen chapters done before I realized that it was an impossible task. So I gave it up and moved on to other things, including the recently posted Dog Day Afternoon.

But as the publication date of DH drew nearer, I realized that I, like the people in my story, was faced with a decision. One of the reasons I wanted to write this novel was to present a bold (and, I admit, hopeful) theory explaining all of the odd goings-on from the two previous HP novels – explaining them in a way that vindicates those of us who still believe in the H/Hr ship. In fact, I accomplished this as planned. I conceived this novel as a seventh-year saga that would toe the canon line in every respect except the romance angle. But this was not to be mere stuff and nonsense that completely ignored what had been set down in OotP and HBP. Rather, I intended to present a reasoned explanation that would justify a H/Hr pairing that had been present all along, hidden behind a tapestry of deception and misdirection of the type that J.K. weaves so well. The difference was, I didn't want to wait for that romance to flower in Book 7. By using the facts at hand and manipulating them just right, I intended to bring Harry and Hermione together in the midst of the turmoil that was HBP. This I could accomplish by the simple expedient of having the characters see through J.K.’s smokescreen a little sooner than they did (or will).

The novel that begins directly below takes place in a world basically the same as we have all seen in the books, up to and including the Battle of Hogwarts culminating in the death of Dumbledore. The only difference is, by the time that happens, Harry and Hermione are already a couple. This will be explained in the form of sequential flashbacks, all drawn from established canon events, and some involving actual scenes from HBP, albeit in slightly reworked form. But in every case, I have striven to keep the spirit of the original intact, the better to justify the outcome. I believe that the events in question, in HBP as well as throughout OotP, are not what they seem on the surface. I have drawn the curtain back, so to speak, to throw new light on old shadows, that they might be dispelled to reveal the truth that has thus far remained carefully hidden. I repeat, I do this mostly out of hope, but also with the belief that something in the nature of my explanation will ultimately be revealed by the end of DH. For my own purposes, I chose to accelerate matters by a year rather than write a standard, canon-friendly seventh-year fic that ends with Harry and Hermione as the couple they by all rights should be. Still, the blueprint I followed in my reasoning is one I sincerely believe may be seen, at least in part, when the final chapter of J.K.’s saga had been writ. If a mea culpa is wanting, my crime is impatience, and I plead guilty as charged.

But now comes the apology. Due to the circumstances enumerated above, I must break my heretofore Unbreakable Rule and (*shudder*) post a story that is not yet finished. More than that, since this novel is still many dozens of chapters from completion, I have no idea when it will be finished. What I have in hand suffices to present my explanation for the canon events that have twisted a knife in our guts for so long. I have a lot more story to tell, but that, for the most part, is woven from thread spun from my own twisted brain. I have copious notes from which I hope to fashion the body of my novel, but it will be a long and torturous process. For the present, I submit for this site’s entertainment the finished chapters, wherein my theory regarding the curious events directing the characters’ personal lives will be set forth with as much clarity as I can manage. This I want to do before DH is released. If I’m even the least bit right here, I want to be able to bask in the golden light of my inspiration and wallow in my well-deserved glory. And if I’m dead wrong, I at least want it said of me that I had the bollocks to stare the skrewt in the eye (wherever that is) without blinking and risk getting my head bitten off. To quote Arabella Figg, "Might as well be hanged for a dragon as an egg."

I’ll have a job posting even these few chapters before the deadline. I’ve made each one far longer than is usual for me, befitting the greater depth of the story I'm attempting. Proofreading will be a nightmare, and I hope I don’t let too many errors slip through my strainer. With so little time remaining, I’ll have to average about three chapters a week to get in under the wire. If the results aren’t as polished as they might be, I’ll trust the readers to be kind in regard to their critiques.

When the last of these chapters has been posted, this story will be officially marked as Paused, in which state it will remain for a bit of time, I fear. Bear that in mind when reading. One of my writing goals has always been to get a reader hooked into wanting more, then delivering the goods as promised, and I feel like a rotter by not being able to carry on as I would have wanted. I apologize again in advance for putting everyone in this position. I hope at the very least that my explanation, when fully revealed, will not go amiss with the readers. If I can’t manage an O or an E on my final exam, I’ll settle for an A. Until we know the truth, for good or ill, all we really have to go on is hope – that, and J.K.’s proven record of never telling us the whole story until the very end. She fooled us into thinking that Snape was trying to steal the Sorcerer’s Stone in the first book. She misled us into believing that Sirius wanted to kill Harry in Prisoner of Azkaban. She let us think that Mad-Eye Moody was teaching at Hogwarts, when it was really a Polyjuice impostor all along. Time after time she has led us down the garden path, waiting until the last possible moment to draw aside the final curtain separating us from the truth.

Don’t let us down, J.K. You can do it again, just one more time.

* * *

Disclaimer: All persons, places, names and events original to the Harry Potter novels are the property of J.K. Rowling. No copyright infringement is intended, nor will this story, or any part of it, be used at any time to secure profit.

Harry shot straight up in bed, barely swallowing a gasping cry before it could escape his lips. Cold sweat beaded his forehead, pasting his dark bangs across the lightning scar graven on his forehead. Coming to his senses, he jerked his head toward the door and listened intently, his breath trapped in his lungs. He heard the rattling snores of Uncle Vernon reverberating from the hallway beyond his door. He sighed in relief.

This was the third night in a row that Harry had been awakened in this manner. The first two times, his outcry had awakened Hedwig, whose frenzied screech had in turn roused his uncle, and in the bargain his uncle's wrath. This time, at least, he had managed to keep his inner cry from manifesting itself.

But the dream...the dream had been the same, to the smallest detail. Which meant, Harry now knew with absolute certainty, that it had not been a dream at all. Nothing as random as a dream could have unfolded with such precision, varying not a whit with each nightly appearance. Though Harry was now fully awake, the images burned into his mind remained as sharp as they had done in his night-vision. Peering into the darkness of his room, he could still see the wise, aged face hovering before him, could hear the calm voice speaking to him in tones of quiet urgency. And he knew what he must do.

“I understand now, sir,” he whispered into the stillness. “I’ll do as you say. Don’t worry.”

And as he spoke these words, he seemed to see the face from his dream nod and smile. A feeling of resolution spread through Harry like a draught of hot butterbeer, bringing a satisfaction and tranquility of spirit that swept away his last fragments of doubt. Smiling inwardly, Harry lay back and nestled his head against his pillow, confident that this was the last time he would be visited by the face in the dream. With a final nod at the darkness, he closed his eyes and drifted off into a peaceful sleep.

“And just where do you think you’re off to, boy?” demanded Uncle Vernon, his walrus moustache blowing with barely-suppressed rage.

“Does it matter?” Harry replied indifferently as he finished dragging his trunk down the stairs. He had to stop every few steps to adjust his shirt, which, being one of Dudley’s hand-me-downs, was so large that it kept slipping down his shoulder to interfere with his grip on the handle. In addition, his jeans were so baggy that he had to cinch them around his waist with his belt until they looked like a rubbish bag with the drawstring pulled tight. His cuffs were rolled up as far as they could get before the fabric would permit no more adjustment. Looking at himself in the hall mirror, Harry reflected that he could easily be mistaken for a clown from a traveling circus.

Having finally negotiated the last step, Harry stood his trunk on end and pushed it against the door to the cupboard that had served as his bedroom for five long years. Hedwig’s empty cage sat at the corner of the bottom step, accompanied by Harry’s Firebolt, which stood propped against the railing.

“You’re damn right it matters,” Uncle Vernon spat. “You’re not yet of age, and the law says – ”

“Muggle law,” Harry grunted as he rested his elbows atop his trunk and took a breath. “But I’m not a Muggle. I’m a wizard. And under wizarding law – ”

“You dare to use that – that foul language under my roof?” Uncle Vernon exploded, his eyes bulging. “I’ll not have it, do you hear?”

"Then don't have it," Harry said unconcernedly. "As soon as I'm gone, I won't be under your roof, will I?"

Uncle Vernon lunged at Harry, but recoiled almost immediately as Harry’s hand darted lightning-fast into his pocket and brought his wand to bear, pointing it directly between his uncle's eyes.

"Y-You’re not allowed!” Uncle Vernon blustered, his face going white. “You’ve already been warned. I read those letters you got last time by way of those pestilent owls. If you do any more of that – unnaturalness, they’ll lock you up in that ruddy prison your godfather escaped from."

Harry winced inwardly at this callous reference to Sirius, but his manner did not alter.

“I’ll be seventeen in one week,” he said calmly. “That gives me a certain flexibility. The wizarding world isn’t as tight-arsed about such things as Muggles. They honor the spirit of the law over the letter. I might get a warning and a fine, but nothing more. And being as it’s in the family, I’m not breaking the Statute of Secrecy. Everyone in this house already knows I’m a wizard.” Harry smiled as Uncle Vernon winced again at the sound of the vilest word in his personal lexicon. “An underage wizard is allowed to use magic if he’s being threatened with bodily harm. So all you have to do is keep your distance and I won’t have an excuse to turn you into a toad or something.”

Apparently taking Harry’s warning to heart, Uncle Vernon backed away from his nephew, eyeing the threatening wand apprehensively. His strained breathing relaxed somewhat as Harry slipped his wand into the special pocket he had sewn (with no small degree of difficulty) inside the left leg of his jeans.

“I dunno what you're so fussed about,” Harry said, his eyes warning his uncle that the wand he had just pocketed could just as easily be re-drawn at need. “You never wanted me here, did you? It was only Aunt Petunia’s promise to Dumbledore that kept you from chucking me out. Now you’re finally getting your wish. After today, you'll never see me again. You should be happy.”

“And what do I tell the authorities if they come asking about you?” Uncle Vernon grunted. “I’m still your legal guardian in the real world, and I’m for it if anyone turns up with questions about your disappearance.”

“That's a fair point,” Harry conceded.

Heretofore, Uncle Vernon had explained Harry’s disappearances by telling everyone that he attended St. Brutus’s Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys. This tale would have carried the Dursleys for another two years under ordinary circumstances. But when Harry failed to return to the Privet Drive while still shy of his 18th birthday, his absence was bound to be noticed by one or more of the nosy neighbors. Harry mused on this for moment, then shrugged indifferently.

“Tell them I ran off," he told Uncle Vernon. “I reckon it’s true enough in its own way, isn’t it? If I’m the rotter you've made me out to be in their eyes, that won’t surprise them. If you want to make a good show of it, call the police and report me missing. They won’t find me, and after a year, when I’m legal under British law, they’ll stop looking. If the neighbors ask where I’ve gone, tell them I emigrated to Australia. Tell them I died. Tell them anything you want. I don’t care. From this moment, Harry Potter ceases to be a part of the Muggle world.”

“Right, then,” Uncle Vernon said, drawing himself up in an attempt to regain his dignity. “Off you get, and good riddance! I never should’ve let Petunia talk me into keeping you on after that dementy-whatsis nearly killed Dudley. We’re well shut of you. And I warn you, if I ever see you anywhere near this house again – ”

“If you ever see me within a mile of this house after today,” Harry said calmly, his hand resting on his hidden wand, “you’d better run and hide – and Duddikins had better watch his backside.” When Uncle Vernon’s face paled, Harry responded with a disdainful sniff. “But there’s little chance of that. When I walk out that door, I'm never coming back.”

“Why did you come back?” Uncle Vernon said angrily. “Why didn’t you just stay with those – those – weirdos you’re always hanging about with?”

“I came back to activate the spell,” Harry said in mild exasperation. “Weren’t you listening when Professor Dumbledore explained it to you last year? He placed a protective spell on me after my parents were killed by Lord Voldemort.”

Harry waited for his uncle to recoil at mention of Voldemort’s name, as nearly everyone in the wizarding world did. But Uncle Vernon merely glared back at Harry, who shrugged.

“The special protection my mum gave me when she died is tied to blood,” Harry explained patiently. “She and Aunt Petunia were sisters. The spell is activated by my proximity to Aunt Petunia. I had to spend at least a fortnight here every year to trigger the protection. But now it’s done. The spell only works until I turn seventeen. That’s why I have no need to return here again. When the spell wears off, Lord Voldemort will be able to find me wherever I am. He might even kill me. That should make you happy. I’ll remember to have someone send you an owl so you can throw a party.”

Uncle Vernon was in the process of opening his mouth to issue some retort when the doorbell rang. Harry turned quickly – almost excitedly, his uncle reflected – and opened the door. Uncle Vernon peered over his nephew’s shoulder with a frown, expecting to find another freak from the magical world on his doorstep. He retained vivid memories of the time when certain members of the Weasley family had burst from his fireplace, turning his living room into a shambles. If his nephew was planning more such mayhem –

But when Harry opened the door, Uncle Vernon was surprised to see a very normal-looking young woman standing on the threshold. She was dressed very simply, in accordance with the heat of the day, and she gave every appearance of being perfectly at home in such attire. She wore a pair of baggy shorts that extended to mid-thigh, a loose-necked, short-sleeved blouse that was buttoned high to reveal little or no cleavage, and a pair of sandals. Her thick brown hair hung loosely about her shoulders, and she wore a very polite and reserved expression, conveying respect for her host and his home. Uncle Vernon relaxed, certain that this visitor was no one to be wary of.

Uncle Vernon did not find her overly attractive, with her bushy hair and uninspired features. But Harry’s face burst into the most brilliant smile his uncle had ever seen as he greeted the newcomer with arms thrown wide. The woman hurled herself at Harry in a most undignified manner, her arms locking around his neck. Uncle Vernon was further horrified when Harry placed his hands on either side of the woman’s face and kissed her fiercely, causing her hair to spill over his shoulders.

The pair parted at last, and Harry turned to see Uncle Vernon looking past him agitatedly, as if dreading the neighbors to have witnessed such a vulgar display through the open door. Closing the door smoothly, Harry turned toward his uncle and essayed an elegant bow.

“Uncle Vernon,” he said in a very proper voice, “allow me to present Hermione Granger, Head Girl and top student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”

Uncle Vernon recoiled as if struck a physical blow.

“You're – ” he stammered, his face going blotchy, “ – you’re a – a – ”

“I'm a witch, yes,” Hermione said with a friendly smile. She extended her hand, but Uncle Vernon made no move to take it. “Harry and I are classmates,” she went on, feeling increasingly uncomfortable as her hand dropped back to her side.

“And a bit more besides," Harry said, his eyes devouring Hermione avidly. Addressing his uncle once more, he said, “Hermione is Muggle-born, like my mum. You'd never know to see her now that she's the thumpingest witch at Hogwarts.”

Uncle Vernon seemed to be choking as he strove to retrieve his voice from the chasm into which it had sunk. Finally he croaked, “Out. Out! I’ll not have your kind in my house, do you hear? Out!”

Hermione’s smile fell slightly, but Harry’s grew proportionately larger as he rolled on the balls of his feet in a kind of stationary swagger.

“You might want to know,” he said casually, “that Hermione is of age, so she can legally use magic any time she wants. And I feel I should warn you that, as the keenest student at Hogwarts, she knows spells that would curl your moustache – not that it needs it.”

This remark brought a chuckle from Hermione’s throat. She was about to assure Uncle Vernon that she had no intention of abusing her legal status to hex her host, but she never got the chance. She blinked her eyes once, and suddenly she and Harry were alone in the hallway, the door to the dining room slamming resoundingly behind Uncle Vernon.

“He’s not keen on guests,” Harry explained mildly, his benign expression belying the devilish gleam in his eyes.

“At least, guests from the wizarding world,” Hermione said wryly. She turned her eyes from the door (from which the sound of a clicking lock was now heard) and gave Harry an appraising look. “How have you been?" she asked with genuine concern.

“It’s been a long three weeks,” Harry said, taking Hermione’s hands in his and caressing them. “The longest of my life, in fact. Made the time just after Voldemort’s return seem like a day at the zoo.”

Hermione was staring into Harry’s eyes, as if probing for something hidden behind their emerald depths.

“What?” Harry asked, feeling slightly uncomfortable under Hermione’s scrutiny.

“I don’t know,” Hermione replied, still probing Harry’s eyes. “You tell me.”

“You have the making of a good Legilimens,” Harry laughed lightly. “I’ll have to go back to my Occlumency lessons if I’m to keep any secrets from you.”

“Are we keeping secrets from each other now?” Hermione asked quietly.

“No,” Harry said, squeezing Hermione’s hands gently. “I’ll tell you all about it directly. Right now, all I want is to get shut of this place once and for good.”

Nodding her understanding, Hermione deftly changed the tone of the conversation by tugging at the neck of Harry’s shirt, which had fallen over his left shoulder and halfway down his arm.

“Nice look,” she said with a wry half-smile. “Nick this off an elephant at the zoo you just mentioned, did you?”

“As near as,” Harry replied as he tried to adjust his oversized shirt without success. “Ever since I learned I was a wizard, I’ve wanted to use a Shrinking Charm on Dudley’s leftovers. But I’ve had enough owls from the Ministry to last me a lifetime, and I’m not keen to see another, not when I’m so close to being legal."

“May I?” Hermione asked.

“Go ahead,” Harry said.

Drawing her wand from the concealed pocket in her loose-fitting shorts, Hermione pointed it at Harry’s shirt and said, "Reducio!" The shirt immediately began to shrink. Harry could feel the neck opening rising up his chest. When it had just reached his collarbone, Hermione let her wand drop, canceling the spell. Harry examined himself with approval. The shirt was not snug by any means, but it now hung from his shoulders with a kind of casual ease that brought a smile to his face.

“I left it a bit loose so it would be more comfortable,” Hermione explained. “Today is supposed to be the hottest day of the year so far.”

As Harry adjusted his sleeves and tugged his collar straight, he was suddenly aware of the contrast between his shirt and his oversized jeans, which were now fully exposed after being hidden under his formerly tent-sized upper garment.

“Step two,” Hermione announced, gesturing at Harry’s waist with her wand.

Harry unrolled his cuffs quickly, feeling even more like a buffoon as he found himself standing in two denim puddles gathered at his ankles.

“Better remove the belt,” Hermione said. “If it shrinks with the jeans, it’ll cut you in half.”

The moment Harry undid his belt, he felt his jeans slip down over his hips, exposing the elastic waist of his knickers. He gathered the sagging material in two handfuls and gave Hermione the go-ahead with a hurried nod. She repeated the incantation, and Harry’s jeans retreated until they were almost molded to his legs. When Hermione lowered her wand, Harry made to replace his belt, only to find that he no longer needed it. His jeans hugged his hips so snugly that there was no danger of their falling even a centimeter.

“Neat bit of magic,” Harry said as he tossed his belt aside and stuck his thumbs into the waist of his jeans.

“I had to be careful not to overdo it,” Hermione said as she pocketed her wand. “Fabric doesn’t take kindly to being shrunk and enlarged repeatedly. That’s why Madam Malkin takes such care measuring people for their robes. She’s learnt that it’s always best to get it right the first time.”

“That’s pretty much been your trademark at Hogwarts, hasn’t it?” Harry said admiringly.

“Not always as often as I wished,” Hermione said, a haunted look passing briefly across her face before her smile returned. “But I have to make that my priority from now on. If I’m to become a certified Healer, I can’t be experimenting with cures on living patients. I need to know exactly what to do, and when, and do it precisely every time. The alternative could be disastrous.”

“I have every confidence in you,” Harry said sincerely.

Blushing slightly, Hermione said, “Well, I think we’d better be off, don’t you?”

So saying, Hermione drew her wand again and waved it at Harry’s trunk, which immediately rose into the air.

“Non-verbal,” Harry said, impressed.

“I’ve been practicing over the holidays,” Hermione said seriously. “Ever since – ”

“Right,” Harry said, cutting her off from a topic neither of them wanted to resurrect just yet. He looked at his hovering trunk, then back at Hermione. “Can you manage my trunk?” he asked with a note of concern. Though Hermione was fully licensed to Apparate (unlike Harry), she was still a novice, and the job of transporting an object as large and heavy as Harry’s trunk might prove too much for her just yet.

“Possibly,” she replied with a note of doubt. “But I’d rather not risk it. If the seams should split in transit, I don’t think you want your knickers scattered over Cornwall, do you?”

“I can think of a better place I’d like to scatter them,” Harry returned, bringing an even deeper blush to Hermione’s cheeks. Turning her eyes aside, she spotted something that brought her back around with a questioning look.

“How are you going to transport Hedwig’s cage? I don’t fancy carrying it around with us when we get to Diagon Alley. Should I shrink it so it can fit inside your trunk?”

“No,” Harry said, shaking his head. “I’m leaving it behind. It’s a bit battered, and it’s time I bought a new one. Since Hedwig’s not likely to turn up until we reach the Burrow, if then, I should have plenty of time to replace it.”

“Are you going to bin it out back before we leave?” Hermione asked.

“Nah,” Harry grinned. “I’m leaving it for Uncle Vernon, something to remember me by. You know how much he loves owls.”

Hermione, remembering Harry’s account of the “peck of owls” that assailed the Dursleys’ house the Summer preceding Harry’s fifth year, laughed.

“We all ready to go, then?” Harry asked, eyeing the trunk hovering steadily at the point of Hermione’s wand.

“We can’t hail the Knight Bus this early,” Hermione said, her brow furrowing throughtfully. “Too much chance of being seen.”

“Any ideas?” Harry asked.

“Is the fireplace still unblocked?”

“The electric fire is back in place,” Harry said. “But that's no good anyway. Muggle homes aren't connected to the Floo network. Mr. Weasley made special arrangements when he came to get me to go to the Quidditch World Cup three years ago. I don't think they’ll make another exception.”

“I’d forgotten about that,” Hermione said. “What are we going to do?”

“Well,” Harry said thoughtfully, “I remember when I was going to run away after I blew up my Aunt Marge. I’d planned on making my trunk light, tying it to the tail of my broomstick, and flying off under the Invisibility Cloak.”

“That might have worked at night,” Hermione said, regarding Harry’s trunk doubtfully. “But there's no way the cloak could cover you and your trunk.”

“Unless...” Harry said slowly, his eyes narrowing behind his glasses.

“Unless what?”

“Unless we ride on the trunk – you know, like riding a horse on a carousel. That way, the cloak would hang down – ”

“We?” Hermione said, her eyes going wide in surprise. Her wand arm fell, and Harry’s trunk thudded to the floor.

“We wouldn’t have to fly far,” Harry explained quickly. “Just to some deserted spot where we could hail the Knight Bus without being seen.”

Hermione was looking at Harry as if he’d lost his sense. “But how can we possibly ride on your trunk? It’s not like we can bewitch it with a Flying Charm.”

“What, you don’t know the spell?” Harry teased. “I thought you were already halfway through our seventh-year Advanced Charms book?”

“That’s not the point,” Hermione said. “A trunk is classified as a Muggle Artifact by the Registry of Proscribed Charmable Objects. You remember the fuss over Ali Bashir wanting to import flying carpets? When he was caught, he received a heavy fine, and only just missed going to Azkaban.”

“I remember,” Harry said with a smile. “But I didn’t really have that in mind.”

“Then what?” Hermione asked.

“If I strap the broom to the top of the trunk,” Harry explained, “we can ride the broom and the trunk. All we have to do is make sure none of the neighbors catch sight of us in the back garden.”

“Well,” Hermione considered, “it should work, provided the trunk is weightless. But it’s a frightful risk. If the cloak should blow off and someone sees you – ”

“That’s why the Sticking Charm was invented, wasn’t it?” Harry replied. “But have you spotted that while I keep talking in the plural, you keep using the singular?”

“You know I don’t like to fly,” Hermione said quietly, her eyes not meeting Harry’s. “I never have.”

There was an electric tension accompanying this statement that neither of them needed to expand upon. Taking Hermione’s hands in his, Harry said, “There’s no shame in that. I reckon not everyone gets the same thrill that I do when I’m in the air. But you wouldn't be flying alone, you know.” Harry lifted Hermione’s hands and gave them a reassuring squeeze. “I won’t let you fall. I promise. I’ve always wanted to take you up on my Firebolt. It’s the one thing we’ve never shared – well, that and – you know...”

“Well...er,” Hermione said awkwardly, her resistance overwhelmed by the impish grin on Harry’s face, “I suppose I can bear up this once. And if it’s only a short flight – ”

“Smashing!” Harry said.

Releasing Hermione’s hands, Harry fetched his Firebolt and proceeded to lash it to his trunk, pulling the binding straps tight. When he tested the fruits of his labors, the broom did not move even a fraction of an inch from where he had positioned it. Hermione looked at the result with a mixture of approval and disappointment, as if she had secretly hoped that something would go amiss and prevent Harry from carrying out his plan.

“Ready?” he asked Hermione brightly.

Nodding resignedly, Hermione said, “All we have to do now is cast a Levitation Charm on the trunk, and cover ourselves with the Invisibility Cloak.”

Harry smiled in agreement, but his face suddenly went slack.

“What is it?” Hermione asked with mild concern.

“My Invisibility Cloak,” Harry groaned. “It’s still in my trunk.”

Hermione began to giggle as Harry loosened the straps and opened his trunk to extract his cloak, which he handed to Hermione. Amidst mumbled curses and heavy sighs (and punctuated by Hermione’s repeated laughter), Harry restored his trunk to its previous state. He reached for his wand, but thought better of it.

“I’m technically not allowed to do magic for another week,” he said.

With a silent chuckle, Hermione raised her wand and, pointing it at Harry’s trunk, gave it a smooth swish, followed by a sharp flick of her wrist.

“Wingardium Leviosa!”

Harry’s trunk rose into the air, as weightless as Aunt Marge had been when Harry had inadvertently inflated her to the size of a weather balloon four years ago in this very house. Harry steadied his trunk with his hand – he didn’t want it to float up to the ceiling, as Aunt Marge had done – and, after fumbling for a grip on his broom handle, guided the whole past the still-locked dining room door (Harry could not resist checking the handle with a grin as he winked at Hermione) and into the kitchen.

“Where are your aunt and cousin?” Hermione asked as she closed the kitchen door behind them and draped the Invisibility Cloak over a chair.

“Aunt Petunia is having tea with one of her friends. As for Dudley,” he grunted, “probably off thumping a six-year-old on the playground and taking his pocket money. I swear, as soon as I’m allowed, I’m coming back and – ”

“Harry,” Hermione said urgently. “Don’t.”

“You don’t know what it was like,” Harry said, his face growing hot. “If I had a shilling for every time Dudley or one of his mates knocked me around, I’d be richer than the Malfoys. I owe him.”

“Harry,” Hermione said more softly, “you have to let the anger go.”

“Yeah?” Harry grunted. “Why?”

“Because I don’t want you to sink to his level,” Hermione said. “Think about it. As a fully-trained wizard, you’re a thousand times more powerful than Dudley. That would make you the bully, wouldn’t it? The last thing you want is to become the very thing you despise. That’s not the Harry Potter I know. You’re better than that. Maybe you never had parents to love you when you were growing up, but I think you’re better off than Dudley. It might be better not to be loved at all than to be loved in the wrong way. Dudley’s parents helped make him what he is. They never taught him different. Theirs was a blind love – a destructive love that never gave Dudley what he needed to grow into a mature adult. I feel sorry for him. He’ll probably never know what he’s missed. For all his possessions, he’ll never understand how poor he is – or how rich you are.”

Harry found himself looking at Hermione with a greater appreciation than he had ever experienced. Releasing his trunk (which promptly floated up to the ceiling), Harry walked over to Hermione and cupped her face in his hands.

“I am so lucky to have you," he said. “I’m already richer than the Malfoys. I have you. You’re my treasure. You’re worth more to me than all the gold in Gringotts.”

Harry kissed Hermione softly. When their lips parted, Harry stared into Hermione’s dark, fathomless eyes, feeling as if could fall into them and drift forever in their comforting embrace.

“I love you,” he said quietly.

“I love you,” Hermione whispered.

Harry kissed Hermione again, then turned and pulled his trunk down from the ceiling and held it hovering at his side. He peered out the window at the back garden. Hermione joined him at the window.

“See anyone?” Harry asked.

“No,” Hermione said.

“Right,” Harry said. He directed Hermione to unfold the cloak and fling it over the trunk. Being designed to conceal someone of full height, the cloak hung down several feet past the bottom of the trunk, touching the polished wood floor. Harry nodded with approval. Hermione opened the back door, and Harry pushed the invisible trunk outside, careful not to slacken his grip on his broom handle, which he could feel perfectly well even if he could not see it. If the trunk got away from him outside the house, it would drift unseen into the stratosphere and never be seen again. Or worse, the Charm would wear off and the trunk would plummet like a meteor through someone’s roof. What would the Ministry say about that?

“How are we going to do this?” Hermione asked, a hint of doubt in her voice.

“You climb on first,” Harry said. “That’ll weigh the trunk down so I can get on. Quick as you’re settled in, use your wand to attach the front of the cloak to the trunk with a Sticking Charm. I’ll fasten my end down after I'm on.”

Nodding, Hermione looked in all directions before lifting the edge of the cloak and easing her leg over the curving flank of the trunk. Harry could not see her under the cloak, but he heard her adjusting herself for a few moments. When the sounds of her movements ceased, Harry suspected that she was settled in at last. This was confirmed when Hermione’s disembodied voice spoke from the seemingly empty space in front of Harry.

“Ready,” she said quietly.

Checking for curious neighbors as Hermione had done and finding none in evidence, Harry slipped under the cloak. The moment his head dipped under the silky fabric, he saw Hermione sitting astride the trunk, her hands gripping the strap holding the broom firmly in place under her. As Harry started to climb behind Hermione, he realized that he had forgotten something. The Flying Charm on a broomstick would not engage until the broom’s rider kicked off from the ground. How was Harry to kick off when he was seated atop his trunk, which was floating above the ground at a height beyond which his feet could not reach? This question seemed to have occurred to Hermione as well.

“How are we going to take off?” she asked, looking back at Harry.

Harry thought for a moment. He’d just referred to sitting astride the trunk like riding on a horse. He remembered something he had seen in the cinema years ago (back when the Dursleys still took Harry with them on outings, before they started leaving him with Mrs. Figg). In the American Western cinema, a cowboy would often leap onto his horse from behind, his legs spread wide as he landed squarely in the saddle. Harry hoped that something of that sort would serve him here. Instead of climbing atop the trunk behind Hermione, Harry planted his feet on the ground (aware that the lower part of his body was thus visible to anyone who chanced to look his way) and gripped the binding strap firmly with both hands.

“Hang on,” he said to Hermione, who was regarding him with increasing concern. “On three. One...two...”

On three, Harry kicked his feet hard against the ground. Trunk and broomstick shot into the air. Hermione let out a small squeal as she felt herself rising upward at increasing speed. Too frozen to look around, Hermione did not see Harry behind her, his lower half dangling over the end of the trunk as the Invisibility Cloak fluttered in the wind. Straining breathlessly, Harry pulled himself forward until he was able to fling one leg over the side of the trunk. After a couple of tries, he was able to hook the heel of his shoe against the binding strap, giving him the purchase he needed. With a great, heaving lurch, Harry landed astride the trunk behind Hermione. Breathing heavily, he gripped the strap with his left hand while drawing his wand with his right.

The trunk was still rising at a slight angle. Harry couldn’t tell how high up they were, but he was certain that, if he fell now, he would almost certainly plunge to his death. He would have preferred to fasten himself down with a Sticking Charm, bonding the material of his jeans to the trunk, but Professor Flitwick had warned everyone about the dangers of using the spell in the proximity of human flesh. “It can do very unpleasant things to the body,” the tiny wizard had admonished, his squeaky voice sounding dire. “You must remember to use spell on non-living matter only. Never use it anywhere near living tissue.”

Rather than risk the spell on himself, Harry trusted to the flying skills that had served him in six years of playing Quidditch (five and a half if one counted his suspension in Fifth Year by order of Professor Umbridge). Taking a few calming breaths, Harry set to it. With split-second timing, he released his grip on the strap and grabbed the corner of the Invisibility Cloak. Even as he felt himself sliding backward, he fastened the corner down with a Sticking Charm. He quickly caught up the strap again and pulled himself forward. He repeated the procedure on the right corner of the cloak, this time sliding so far back that he nearly missed grabbing the strap. But with the cloak now fully secured, it formed a barrier behind Harry, preventing him from sliding far enough back to fall off the trunk.

Let them charge me with practicing underage magic if they want, he thought. I’m allowed to use magic in life-threatening situations, and this definitely qualifies.

Pocketing his wand, Harry took a firm hold on the strap with his right hand, augmenting his anchoring left. Pressed close to Hermione, Harry felt her trembling slightly. At once he loosed his right hand and slipped his arm around Hermione’s waist. As he hugged her gently but firmly against him, he felt her relax. Harry didn’t know which was the more exhilarating feeling – the thrill of flying, or the blissful contentment of pressing Hermione’s soft, warm body against his. The two in combination were indescribable.

Seeing easily through the fabric of the cloak, Harry rested his chin on Hermione's shoulder and peered ahead. There was nothing around them but blue sky. White clouds drifted far above, none low enough to obscure his view. Looking down, he saw that they were very high, though not, he believed, high enough to risk a collision with an aeroplane. Birds were another matter. Harry had no fancy for his epitaph to read that he had died from a head-on collision with a sparrow.

Now that their situation was secure, the time had come for Harry to take control. His right arm still encircling Hermione, Harry loosed his left from the strap and curled his fingers around the shaft of his Firebolt. Now that he was in proper contact with the broom, it would obey his slightest command. Using his body English, Harry eased his unconventional conveyance into a smooth, gliding descent. They were moving very slowly now as Harry scanned the topography for a likely place where they could hail the Knight Bus without being seen. On his own, he wouldn’t have minded flying all the way to London. But Hermione was with him, and that under protest. Releasing his hold on her, he placed his hand on her shoulder and brushed her hair away so he could gently rub her neck.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Fine,” Hermione said in a thready voice.

Harry was not fooled. He cast about more urgently for a location that would serve their needs. After a few minutes’ scanning, he spotted what he was looking for. A drive-in cinema lay directly below; deserted in the daytime, it would come alive only when the sun went down. Harry gripped the broom handle firmly in concert with a crisp mental command. Broom, trunk and passengers descended lightly, hovering at last in the shadow of the giant cinema screen.

“Hang on,” Harry told Hermione. “I’m going to cancel the Levitation Charm.”

This he did, and the trunk, laden with the fifteen-stone weight of its passengers in addition to its own burden, thumped heavily to the ground. Looking about quickly, Harry jerked the Invisibility Cloak off (the corners yielding easily to the temporary Charm holding them in place) and cast it aside. He placed both hands on Hermione’s wrists, feeling the tenseness in her muscles and tendons as he disengaged her fingers from the strap which she had been holding for dear life. That description seemed appropriate as Harry beheld the repressed fear in Hermione’s eyes. When her hands were free, Harry wrapped his arms around her waist and snuggled his face against her shoulder, inhaling the flowery scent of her disheveled hair.

“We're down,” he said, doing his best not to laugh.

“Are we?” Hermione said in a shaky voice. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Like flying, do you?” Harry teased gently.

“Love it,” Hermione laughed uneasily. “Can’t wait to do it again.”

“Right,” Harry said, pressing his cheek against hers so that he could feel her slight trembling. “How about your birthday? Say, 2079? Make a nice centennial celebration, that.”

Hermione responded with a genuine laugh as she turned and smiled at Harry.

“It’s a date.”

Harry kissed Hermione on the cheek, then slid easily to his feet and helped her to stand. She wobbled for a moment before regaining her equilibrium. She felt like a sailor setting foot on land after a year at sea. After a moment, she sat down on the trunk, breathing more easily every moment. When she felt both her strength and her composure returning, she looked around and nodded approvingly.

"This should do nicely."

Harry stepped away from Hermione, looking around for any sign of human scrutiny. Seeing none, he raised his right hand high in the air, then jumped back quickly. There was a loud bang, followed by a squealing of tires and the groan of very ancient-sounding brakes. Faster than blinking, Harry found himself staring up at the flanks of a triple-decker, violently purple bus. The door opened, and a young witch fell out, nearly tripping over her own feet. Harry was momentarily surprised until he remembered that the previous conductor, Stan Shunpike, was currently residing in Azkaban (on what many, Harry included, considered a very doubtful charge). The driver was still unchanged. Harry nodded at Ernie Prang, who saluted briefly before turning back to stare with professional detachment over his steering wheel. Harry turned back to the witch, who had now regained her feet, if not her dignity.

“Welcome to the Knight Bus,” the witch said as she brushed a lock of stringy hair out of her eyes. “Emergency transport for the...for the...”

“For the stranded witch or wizard,” Harry finished pleasantly. “And you are...?”

“Um...” The witch fumbled for a moment with the collar of her uniform, which seemed even more ill-fitting than Stan’s had been. Harry would not have been surprised if the witch had not inherited Stan’s old uniform along with his job. Remembering herself, she smiled at Harry and said, “I’m Elspeth Woggon, your conductor.”

“Shake a leg, Elspeth,” Ernie said without looking around. “Got a schedule to keep.”

“Right,” Elspeth said. Spotting Hermione over Harry’s shoulder, she asked solicitously, “Where can we take you, sir and madam?” It appeared that she had taken neither of them for Hogwarts students, dressed as they were in Muggle attire, and that far more convincingly than most magical folk could have managed.

“Diagon Alley,” Harry said. “The Leaky Cauldron. But it’s only cargo, not passengers.”

“Sir?” Elspeth said uncomprehendingly.

“We have a trunk that needs to get to Diagon Alley,” Harry said. “We’d like you to deliver it to The Leaky Cauldron. We’ll be there to pick it up. That’s okay, isn’t it?” For Elspeth was now looking to Ernie for instructions.

“I have a room there,” Hermione said, peering up at Ernie. He looked at her for a moment, as if searching her expression for the verity of her statement, and gave a short nod.

“Same fare as for passengers,” he said.

“Right,” Harry said. “Eleven Sickles?”

“Fifteen,” Elspeth said apologetically. “Sorry. Times bein’ what they are – ”

“No problem,” Harry said. "I’ll get the money from my trunk.”

“Don’t bother, Harry,” Hermione said as she approached the young witch with a smile, Harry’s Invisibility Cloak draped over her arm. “I have some money with me.”

Hermione opened a small coin purse and handed Elspeth a Galleon.

“Keep the difference,” Hermione said, smiling more brightly.

Elspeth saluted enthusiastically, knocking her hat off. She picked it up and replaced it, her cheeks glowing. Hermione, pretending not to notice, pointed her wand at Harry’s trunk and said, “Locomotor trunk!” The trunk floated toward the bus, and Harry hastened to untie his broom.

“This goes with me,” Harry said. In a lower voice, he added as if to himself, “Sirius gave it to me.”

With the straps now undone, Hermione opened Harry’s trunk and placed the Invisibility Cloak inside. Harry drew his wand and pointed it at the lock, which clicked shut with a spell that could only be negated by Harry’s own counter-spell. When the trunk was loaded, Elspeth saluted again, this time avoiding knocking her hat off. Stepping up to the young witch, Hermione said, “Did the driver say your name is Elspeth? That’s a lovely name.”

“Not many as has it,” Elspeth said proudly as she mounted the lower step and placed her hand on the door to slide it closed.

“My mum had the same notion about my name,” Hermione said by way of formal introduction. “Hermione. Hermione Granger.” Elspeth responded with a polite bow. “And this,” Hermione said, turning to Harry, “is Harry Potter.”

Elspeth’s smile melted like ice on a hot stove.

“Blimey! Harry Potter?”

Harry felt Elspeth’s gaze fix, as had so many before her, onto his scar. The young witch mouthed silently for a moment before Ernie waved his hand at the door, which slammed closed in front of Elspeth. The next moment, there was another loud bang, and the Knight Bus was gone.

“Well,” Harry said with a weary smile, “the word will be out in no time that The Boy Who Lived is back in the wizarding world.”

“Voldemort’s spies are probably all over Diagon Alley,” Hermione said reasonably. “They’ll know almost the moment we arrive, anyway.”

“Not a comforting thought,” Harry said.

“Surely he won’t strike in broad daylight?” Hermione said.

Harry only shrugged. Hermione walked over and placed her hands on Harry’s shoulders.

“If Voldemort has any brains,” she said, “he’ll run and hide. Harry Potter is back and ready to kick his arse.”

“Not yet, I’m not,” Harry said seriously. “But with a little help, maybe I will be someday.”

“You know you can count on me to help in any way I can,” Hermione said.

“When have you ever not?” Harry said, his eyes touching Hermione’s with gratitude and love.

They shared a fierce hug, parting only when Hermione began to gasp painfully from the pressure of Harry’s embrace.

“Sorry,” Harry said sheepishly. “You know I cherish you, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Hermione replied. “I’ve always known.”

“Even when I was making moon-eyes at Cho?”

“Even then,” Hermione said. Harry detected a hint of pain in her voice.

“It was only her looks that attracted me,” he said, realizing almost at once what this confession implied. “I mean,” he added quickly, fumbling for words, “that’s not to say – ”

“It’s alright, Harry," Hermione smiled gently. “I’ve always known I'm not pretty. I’ve never been all that fussed about it. There are more important things to worry about.”

“There’s a world of difference,” Harry said, “between bring pretty and being beautiful. Cho may have a pretty face, but I found out the hard way that the outside doesn’t always reflect what’s on the inside. I remember Mr. Weasley telling us at the Quidditch World Cup that we shouldn’t go for looks alone. It took me a while before I understood what he meant. I reckon I had a bit of growing up to do. When I did, I saw that the most beautiful witch at Hogwarts had been right beside me all along.”

“I always knew we shared something special,” Hermione said. “Something deeper than a simple fancy. I kept telling myself that I was lucky to have someone like you in my life, in any capacity. We were close in ways that no one could understand. There probably isn’t a dictionary anywhere that can define the bond that grew between us. Whatever else I wished beyond that, I knew I was blessed to have what I did. I told myself it was enough.”

“Maybe it was enough at the start,” Harry said. “But not now. When I think of all the time we wasted...”

“Wasted?” Hermione said with a small laugh. “With all we shared, I don’t think we wasted a moment. Oh, we never went on a date to Madam Puddifoot’s, if that's what you mean. And,” she said in a very small voice, “I did rather hope that you’d ask me to the Yule Ball after Cho said she was going with Cedric.” Harry’s eyes took on a pained look, but Hermione smiled softly. “None of that matters now. Our lives are an endless series of moments, woven together into a tapestry that goes on forever. If there are a few threads we wish we’d never added, and others we didn’t add as soon as we might have done, what are they when measured against the whole picture? We’ve shared more in six years than most people do in a lifetime. Every one of those moments is more precious to me than gold. Any one of them is worth a hundred Yule Balls and Hogsmeade dates. And taken together, they’re beyond price.”

“I wish I’d seen that sooner," Harry said. “I was an idiot, too blind to see what was right in front of me.”

“What’s past is past,” Hermione said wisely. “If you spend all your time looking back, how can you see ahead to where you're going? Regrets are chains that hold us down and prevent us from moving forward. Yesterday is gone. All we can do is live today the best we can, and try to make each tomorrow better than the one before.”

“You’re a very wise witch,” Harry said. "You’d do to enter the Auror program with me. Moody says that forward planning is essential when one has to keep two steps ahead of the enemy. Add to that all the spells you know...”

“I think I’ll stick with my original choice,” Hermione smiled. “Unless there’s an opening for a Healer in the Auror division?”

“I’ll ask about that next time I see Kingsley,” Harry said. “Of course, we might have to wait a bit. Both of our certifications are a long way off. But,” he said with a thin smile, “I don’t reckon we’ll have any trouble keeping busy until then, will we?”

Looking at her watch, Hermione wondered, “How long do you think it’ll take for your trunk to arrive at The Leaky Cauldron?”

“Long enough for us to have a butterbeer, I reckon,” Harry said. “Will you do the honors?”

Tucking his broomstick securely under his arm, Harry reached out to take Hermione’s hands.

“Can you manage both of us and my Firebolt?” Harry asked.

“I’m sure I can,” Hermione said. “I may be new at Apparation, but a broom doesn’t compare to a fully-loaded trunk.”

“If my broom loses so much as a single tail twig,” Harry said wryly, “I’m taking the difference out of your backside. One Knut at a time.”

“Promises,” Hermione responded, her dark eyes smoldering defiantly.

Loosing one of Hermione’s hands, Harry reached around and slapped her playfully on the bum. Her eyebrows rose in surprise and amusement. Recapturing Hermione’s hand (serving the added function of ensuring that she could not reciprocate in kind), Harry smiled. Hermione stifled a snigger before assuming a more serious mien.

“Clear your mind,” Hermione instructed as she closed her eyes, holding Harry’s hands firmly. Harry saw her brow wrinkle gently before closing his own eyes and following orders. Not being of age, he was not yet allowed to Apparate legally (though he had done so under special circumstances a few weeks – and a virtual lifetime – ago). Hermione would thus use her magic to transport the both of them. He emptied his mind, allowing Hermione full control over his body. He felt a lurch, like and yet unlike the sensation that accompanied travel by portkey. It was a bit like being sucked down a plug hole. It was over in an eyeblink. The empty cinema lot was replaced on the instant by a small courtyard surrounded on all sides by a stone wall. There was a door on one side, and Harry heard the sound of much talk and laughter from beyond. It was well that they had not Apparated directly into the pub. Granted, Hermione had been able to "see" their destination in her mind, but all the same, they might have blundered into someone shifting to one side at the last moment. It was always best to Apparate into as open an area as possible.

As they entered the pub, Harry saw the familiar bald head of Tom the bartender bobbing above the crowd as he served his many patrons with his usual dispatch. Leaving Hermione to find them a table, Harry elbowed his way through the mass of witches, wizards, hags, and various other magical folk until he came to the front door. Opening this, he peered up and down the street. A few Muggles passed on either side, but none seemed to see him. Neither could they see the entrance to the pub, which was enchanted for that very purpose. In addition, this enchantment extended out just far enough so that the Knight Bus could come and go without going noticed by non-magical peoples, making this spot the one place in London where that singular vehicle could appear right under the Muggles’ noses at any hour without fear of detection. Seeing no sign of his quarry (nor hearing the telltale squeal of its tires, nor the groan of its brakes), Harry closed the door and made his way back through the press. He saw Hermione waving to him, and he sat down gratefully at the table she had secured for them, placing his broomstick across the table between them so it would not be out of his sight.

“Hmmm,” Hermione said as she eyed the gleaming handle of Harry’s prized broom (polished, no doubt, courtesy of the Broomstick Servicing Kit she had given him for his thirteenth birthday). “I wonder what Freud would say?”

“About what?” Harry asked.

“The way you placed your Firebolt here on the table. It might be interpreted as a sign.”

“Of what?”

“Division,” Hermione said. “It wouldn’t be the first time that a broom came between a witch and wizard.”

At first Harry thought that Hermione was serious, but he saw the corners of her mouth twitching as she fought back a smile.

“Never happen,” Harry said. Assuming a professorial mien, he explained, “If you’ll notice, I positioned my broom so it’s beneath the level of your head, thereby assigning it a place of lesser importance.”

“When did you become so deep and psychological?” Hermione smiled.

“Association,” Harry replied. “Hang about with a clever witch and something’s bound to rub off.”

Looking pleased, Hermione said, “Shall we order now? It may be a bit before your trunk arrives. We don’t know how many stops the bus has to make.”

“I don’t have any money,” Harry said foolishly, remembering all at once that he had left his money bag in his trunk.

Hermione opened her coin purse again. Harry frowned slightly.

“You don’t mind that I’m paying, do you?” Hermione said.

“No,” Harry said quickly, hoping he sounded convincing.

“The wizarding world is far more egalitarian than Muggle society,” Hermione went on as she fished some coins from her purse. “There’s no reason that a witch can’t treat a wizard when they’re out together, is there?”

"No," Harry said again, this time with more conviction. The truth was that he did feel a little awkward having Hermione spend her money on him, but he thought it best not to reveal this just yet.

Drawing his wand, Harry sent red sparks into the air, commanding Tom’s attention in the time-honored manner. As he shouted their order over the din, Hermione sent some silver coins arching toward the bar with a twirl of her wand. Tom caught the coins with the deftness of much practice (Harry suspected he might have been a Seeker on his House team back in his school days) and promptly sent two bottles of butterbeer flying back the way the money had come. Employing his own Quidditch-trained reflexes, Harry caught both bottles in a blur of speed, eliciting a delighted squeal from Hermione.

“If the rest of the team is in such good form this year,” she said as she opened her bottle with a tap of her wand, “I think Professor McGonagall can save some time and etch Gryffindor’s name onto the Quidditch Cup straightaway.”

“Do you think there’ll be Quidditch this year?” Harry responded with a serious demeanor. “I'm not sure anyone’s heart will be in it.”

Hermione paused with her bottle hovering before her mouth. “I’ve thought a bit about it,” she said at last. “And I think we might need the distraction of Quidditch more than ever this year. I doubt very much that there will be any Hogsmeade trips in the foreseeable future. Having Quidditch to look forward to would give everyone something light and less serious to focus on. Goodness knows we all need something to distract us, now more than ever. According to the dates on the plaques in the trophy room, no matches were cancelled during Voldemort’s first reign of terror.” She was careful not to speak Voldemort’s name too loudly, lest she upset any of the pub’s other patrons. “Voldemort was at the height of his power when your dad helped Gryffindor win the Cup in his last year at school, so there’s no reason I can see that his son shouldn’t do the same. And for the same reason. If we allow Voldemort to dictate our lives for us, he’s won already. Until we begin the fight in earnest, this will be our way of showing him what we think of his threats.” And she snapped her fingers dismissively.

“You always said Ron and I took Quidditch too seriously,” Harry said as he opened his bottle and took a long pull.

“You do,” Hermione said. “Maybe this year you’ll understand that there are more important things in life than who wins the Quidditch Cup, and treat it like the diversion it was intended to be rather than a small-scale war to be won at all costs.”

“But you still want Gryffindor to win?” Harry said experimentally as he regarded her over the top of his bottle.

“Of course I do,” Hermione responded. “But it’s still only a game.”

Harry was thinking of the best way to reply to this statement when his thoughts were interrupted by a loud bang from beyond the outer door. Jumping up so quickly that he nearly upset his bottle (Hermione caught it before it could tip over), he squeezed through the crowd and burst out into the street. The Knight Bus was sitting at the curb, engine idling. The door was open, and Elspeth was struggling to drag Harry’s trunk out.

“You should use your wand for something this heavy,” Harry admonished as his trunk thudded none too gently to the sidewalk.

“Oh, I’m dreadful with Charms,” Elspeth lamented. “That's why I took this job, if you get my meaning. Very little wand-work.”

Harry opened his trunk (grateful to find it undamaged, though one corner bore a dent he was sure was not there this morning) and pulled out his money bag. As the door was closing behind Elspeth, Harry called out to her. She turned, and Harry tossed her a Galleon. Though startled, she caught it as deftly as Tom had caught Hermione’s coins in the pub. Harry enjoyed the look of surprise on the young witch's face as she stared alternately at the Galleon in her hand and at the one from whom it had come.

“For your trouble,” Harry said. “Thanks.”

There was more than largesse involved. Despite his protestations to the contrary, Harry had not been entirely comfortable with the prospect of Hermione paying first for the transport of his trunk, and then for their drinks. He argued to himself that this was not attributable to pride, as with Ron (or so he judged). It was simply that Harry possessed what he considered to be an inordinate amount of gold to which he was not entitled. His combined fortune had come in the form of legacies, first from his parents, and then, only a year ago, from Sirius. Granted, these were legacies of love, and as such not to be despised. But Harry still felt ill-at-ease owning so much gold that he had not earned, especially when too many good people – the Weasleys, for example – had next to nothing by comparison. Harry thus felt it incumbent on himself to spend his wealth at every opportunity on persons other than himself.

He never considered that both Ron and Hermione might enjoy playing the role of host by the simple act of buying a round of drinks on a Hogsmeade visit. He knew only that the contents of his vault weighed on his soul, and the only way he knew to lighten that burden was by lightening the amount of gold heaped in his Gringotts vault. Hermione would not have hesitated to call him to task on this. He felt guilty at keeping this confession inside him. Should he not be able to trust her on this, as he had with so many other things? Maybe he was too proud, he decided. He promised himself that he would try to break down that wall between them. Hermione had never treated Harry any differently because he was The Boy Who Lived. Surely he could trust her in this regard; it wasn’t as though she had not seen (and pointed out, sometimes in harsh terms) certain other flaws in his make-up, and always without harming their friendship. Indeed, that honesty was one of the foundation stones of their long-time fraternity.

But what they shared now was – he hoped – something more than friendship, and that, in his view, changed the rules to a certain degree. He was more determined now than ever to make himself over into a wizard who was truly deserving of the cleverest witch at Hogwarts. He wanted to present himself as someone she would be proud to spend the rest of her life with. He decided that the time was not propitious to reveal another imperfection to add to a list already too long for his liking. Later, when he had accumulated more positives to balance out the negatives, he could admit to this failing, among others. But for now, the tiny (if admittedly foolish) wound in his pride could be salved in only one way.

“Good luck,” he called out to Elspeth as she slowly mounted the steps down which she had so laboriously dragged his trunk. Elspeth smiled, her thank-you cut off abruptly as Ernie, as he had done earlier, unceremoniously closed the door in her face. There was a loud bang, and Harry found himself alone on the deserted Muggle street.

Harry was about to follow his own advice to Elspeth and levitate his trunk with his wand, but he stopped himself with a frustrated growl. It was irksome to be so near to seventeen, when he could use magic freely. Not all his gold could erase the days, hours and minutes separating him from that status he longed for so desperately. Despite his threats directed at Uncle Vernon, Harry was not all that certain that the Ministry would not be as harsh on him now as it had been in the past on the subject of underage magic. In the end, he decided that it was not worth the risk. In a few days he would be of age. He would be allowed to use magic when and where he pleased (within reason, of course).

But there were two sides to even the shiniest Galleon. The moment he turned seventeen, the magical protection resulting from his mother’s sacrifice would evaporate with the expiration of Dumbledore’s spell. From that moment on, Harry’s survival would depend entirely on his own wits and skill.

But that wasn’t exactly right. He had his friends, people who had stood by him in hard times. They would be there for him again, he was sure. It was true that a few of them had wavered in the past. Harry still nursed a lingering hurt over Ron’s unwillingness to believe that he had not entered his name in the Triwizard Tournament. Even after so long, there was still a part of him that could not completely forgive that betrayal, coming as it did from the one person he had thought he could trust above all others. Yet another flaw to add to the many already enumerated by Hermione, he reflected.

But Harry smiled as he thought of the one just named, the one who had never deserted him, who had ever fought at his side, defended him, protected him. Loved him.

She was waiting for him now, just beyond that door. His heart feeling light (even if his trunk did not), Harry dragged his burden into the pub, wishing against hope that all of his baggage could be so easily discharged.

Comments:

I want to thank everyone who’s come to the party, whether they reviewed or not. It’s always an honor just to be read.

A question was raised over Harry’s vacillation where his feelings for Hermione are concerned. Let’s remember that Harry is only just turning seventeen. He’s still thinking as much with his hormones as with his heart (as a future chapter will demonstrate quite clearly). The title of this novel-to-be says it all. Harry has many decisions to make this year. One of them involves Hermione and his future with her. How he deals with that forms a large part of the story – one, unfortunately, that must wait to be developed. So far we’ve seen only the tip of the iceberg. If I can finish this before a real ice age swallows us up, all will be revealed in the end.

On the subject of Hermione, I’m a bit curious about how some people can hear the words “not pretty” and automatically assume they are a synonym for “ugly.” There are many celebrities who are by no definition pretty, yet who radiate a singular beauty that completely obscures their physical shortcomings. Katherine Hepburn wasn’t pretty in the conventional sense, but that didn’t stop her from shining brightly on the silver screen over a career lasting six decades (and winning a record four Oscars in the process). This is how I see Hermione. She may not be as pretty as Cho or the Patil twins, but she is far more beautiful than they will ever be (even before Madam Pomfrey shrank her teeth, and without need of Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion). At least, that’s how I see it, and Harry – prompted by my personal Muse – agrees.

I did my best to get the bugs out of this chapter on such short notice. Time to see if any sneaked through.

And did someone wonder where Ron was last time? Wonder no more.

When they had finished their butterbeers, Harry and Hermione mounted the stairs to the hired rooms situated above The Leaky Cauldron. Hermione used her wand to maneuver Harry’s trunk ahead of them and into her room, Harry opening the door with the enchanted key provided by Tom. As Harry’s trunk settled to the floor next to Hermione’s, he saw that her bed was littered with an abundance of books, as well as new quills, sealed bottles of ink, and scrolls of fresh parchment.

“I bought my supplies yesterday,” Hermione explained. “I spent the day with Mum and Dad. It was the last time I’ll see them until Christmas, so I wanted it to be just the three of us. You don’t mind that I didn’t come for you until today?”

“No,” Harry said at once. “I’m sure you all had a lot of goodbyes to say, and I would’ve just been in the way.”

“You’re never ‘in the way,’” Hermione assured him. “But I did want to give them my full attention, and that would’ve been impossible with you there.”

She gave Harry a look that a starving wolf would have had difficulty matching, and he blushed even as he felt very pleased.

When Harry’s broom was locked safely in his trunk, he stood up and surveyed the small room casually. He’d spent a fortnight here four years ago, the time he’d fled the Dursleys after the incident with Aunt Marge. But as his eyes swept over the familiar furnishings to linger on Hermione’s school supplies, he realized that something was missing.

“Where’s Crookshanks?” he asked.

“Funny thing about that,” Hermione said. “Shortly after I got home, he started going off at night. He’d turn up the next morning, wanting to be fed, after which he’d curl up in his bed and sleep all day. As soon as the sun went down, he’d wake up and prod his bowl again. Quick as his bowl was empty, off he’d go again. It went on like that for about two weeks. Then, one morning, he just didn’t turn up. I don’t know where he is, or for that matter, where he went all those nights. I was worried at first, but...”

Hermione paused, and Harry waited for her to continue. When she remained silent, Harry said, “We always knew that Crookshanks wasn’t an ordinary cat. He knew Scabbers wasn’t what he looked, and he spotted Sirius for a wizard when we all thought he was a Grim.” Hermione raised an eyebrow, and Harry amended, “Most of us thought.” When Hermione nodded approvingly, Harry said, “I think he’s out there doing his part, doing things none of us can, you know? Maybe he can talk to animals, the way he and Sirius communicated. It’s like he’s made himself our advance guard. He’s scouting the enemy, seeing that no one gets too close to surprise us. Maybe the time to worry will be when he finally does turn up again. Until then, I reckon he’s okay.”

“That’s what I think, too,” Hermione said with a fond smile. “If something had happened to him, I’d feel it inside. Does that make sense?”

Harry’s answer was a smile and a reassuring squeeze of her hand. Hermione turned and opened her trunk, kneeling before it. She began to rummage around, and Harry asked, “What are you looking for?”

“My money pouch,” Hermione said. “I thought it wise not to carry too much wizard money with me when I came to fetch you. If something unexpected had happened and my pockets somehow got turned out, how would I explain my having a pouch filled with funny-shaped gold and silver coins with images of goblin faces on them? In the end, I put a few coins in my change purse, just in case I needed them – which, it turns out, I did – and left the bulk behind.”

After a few seconds’ searching, Hermione drew forth a small drawstring pouch that clinked dully. Tucking this in one of the oversized pockets of her shorts, she began to replace the items she had dislodged, and Harry leaned closer with a curious expression.

“What are those?” he asked as Hermione began to neatly fold a number of what appeared to be dresses of various colors.

“Robes,” she said, her hands working methodically as she regarded Harry over her shoulder. “I realized over the holiday that this might well be our last time as citizens of the Muggle world. It seemed like a good idea to start weaning myself from wearing Muggle clothing and start accustoming myself to wizarding attire. So I went to a fabric store near my house and bought some bolts of dressmaking fabric and started turning them into robes. It wasn’t difficult. I just followed the pattern of our school robes, but where those are uniformly black, I made these different colors.”

That made sense to Harry. Apart from Snape, whom Harry had never seen wearing any color but black (perhaps as an outer manifestation of his polluted soul, Harry reflected), every adult witch and wizard at Hogwarts wore robes of varying colors. None had pushed the boundaries of this freedom further than Gilderoy Lockhart, whose robes ran to the limits of the visible spectrum, from mauve to canary yellow to (on Valentine’s Day) shocking pink.

“Maybe I should do that, too,” Harry said as Hermione finished her task and closed the lid of her trunk, locking it with a twirl of her wand.

“You should,” Hermione agreed. “Besides,” she added, running her eye up and down Harry’s magically altered clothing that had so recently been large enough to cover him three times over, “unless you have a magic pocket in those jeans containing a week’s change of clothes, I expect you’ll grow tired of wearing the same thing every day until we board the Hogwarts Express.”

“And I expect you and everyone else will grow tired of smelling the same clothes on me every day,” Harry chuckled.

They left Hermione’s room, Harry re-locking the door with the magical key, and went downstairs. Harry handed the key to Tom, who hung it on a specially enchanted board behind the bar. If anyone but the bartender tried to take a key down, the protective spells would stun the would-be thief senseless. Harry had seen it happen when he had stayed here four years ago. Tom could safely guarantee that no one would enter Hermione’s room in her absence.

Their first stop was Gringotts Wizarding Bank, where Harry, after a wild ride through the tunnels deep under London, collected a bagful of Galleons, Sickles and Knuts from the now enormous pile in his vault. His yearly withdrawals had been depleting his parents’ original legacy, but now, augmented by Sirius’ gold, the pile was larger than it had ever been. Looking at it, Harry felt his old insecurities return, reinforced by the sight of so much treasure that by rights should never have been his. It would take a supreme effort of will for him not to rush to pay for everything for himself and Hermione. He would try, but he knew it would not be easy.

They bought Harry’s supplies, which differed little from Hermione’s, save in one key area. In preparing himself to go off in search of Voldemort’s Horcruxes, Harry was indirectly pursuing his dream of becoming an Auror, so his books were predominantly devoted to the Dark Arts. Hermione had chosen another path, that of becoming a Healer. She had as many books as Harry, most of them in the same categories – Transfiguration, Charms and Potions, which skills were common to both of their chosen fields. But Hermione’s books were almost the direct opposite of Harry’s. The spells and potions she would learn this year were aimed primarily at preserving life. Harry’s, by stark contrast, dealt mostly with ways of harming living creatures rather than healing them. Hermione knew this was a necessary part of his training, but that did not quell her unease by any measure.

“All that’s left is my wizarding robes,” Harry said. “My new ones, that is. I reckon my school robes still fit well enough, and as this is our last year, there’s no point in replacing them.”

“Will we be going to Madam Malkin’s?” Hermione asked.

“I was going to,” Harry said, “but I changed my mind.”

“Why?”

“Well,” Harry said hesitantly, “you know that the Weasleys generally wear second-hand robes because they haven’t the money to spare for new ones – I mean, there’s a reason why I never ran into Ron in Madam Malkin’s shop on my first visit six years ago, like I met Malfoy – ” Harry’s voice caught for a moment before he resumed, “I thought it might be in bad taste for me to start parading around the Burrow in brand new robes, especially in front of Ron. He still hasn’t got over wearing those moldy old maroon dress robes to the Yule Ball. Yours are hand-sewn, so Ginny shouldn’t be too put off by them, but I reckon I’m better off going to the place where Mrs. Weasley bought Ron’s robes and seeing what I can find. If some of them don’t fit quite right, maybe you can alter them for me.”

“I’ll be glad to,” Hermione said, taking Harry’s hand and squeezing it affectionately. “It’s very sweet of you to have thought of Ron like that.”

They found the second-hand shop in a dingy corner of Diagon Alley, surrounded by dirty brick walls beyond which lay the back alleys of Muggle London. After searching the shop thoroughly, they found five sets of robes that Hermione assured Harry she could alter to his measurements. A couple of them needed patching, and Hermione would have put them back, but Harry stopped her.

“The more patches I have,” he smiled, “the better Ron’ll like them.”

When they left the shop, Harry’s money pouch was considerably heavier than it would have been had he opted for expensive new robes. He enjoyed having extra money that he could spend on others than himself. In particular, he wanted to buy Hermione something special for her birthday. He had yet to decide on a gift, but he was determined that money be no object. He did not forget Hermione’s admonition regarding his finances, but birthdays were an exception to the rule, which reasoning he would employ to override any protests she might put forth.

Their arms fully laden with bundles, they returned to the Leaky Cauldron. Hermione was carrying Harry’s robes, which were much lighter than his school supplies, the weight of which was beginning to make his arms ache. Hermione considered enchanting them to negate their weight, but Harry’s ire over being unable to do so himself might be roused, so she refrained, watching helplessly as he mounted the stairs one leaden step at a time until at last they reached the door to Hermione’s room. Setting her bundles down, Hermione opened the door and stepped aside so Harry could stagger through before he would have collapsed in the corridor. He was about to drop everything on the floor, but Hermione stopped him.

“If you’re going to be studying so many important subjects,” she said, placing his robes on her bed next to her school supplies, “you’d best start by becoming organized.”

Hermione drew her wand and described a complex rune in the air. Harry was surprised when his school supplies rose from his arms and, hovering before him, began to sort themselves into groups. Books, potion ingredients, ink, quills and parchment all separated. The scrolls of parchment arranged themselves into a pyramid, which settled onto the floor next to Harry’s trunk. The ink bottles settled in next to them, four square, with the quills leaning up against the slanted side of the parchment.

With the writing implements taken care of, Hermione next addressed Harry’s potion ingredients. The box of bottles, bags and tins detached itself from his still-hovering books and floated easily to the floor beside the parchment. All that remained now was to sort the books. This Hermione did, creating separate stacks divided into Transfiguration, Charms, Potions, and general Dark Arts categories with seemingly effortless waves of her wand.

“We won’t have as many classes together this year,” Hermione said as she surveyed her handiwork with approval. “I hope you’ll take my advice seriously, because I won’t always be there to keep things in order for you. You’ll have to take your own notes and keep them organized. There are more than grades and N.E.W.T. scores at stake now, as I’m sure you know better than I.”

This last statement bore a hidden meaning that did not escape Harry. He still had not told Hermione why he had changed his mind about leaving Hogwarts and heading off to search for Voldemort’s Horcruxes straightaway. He had sent letters to both her and Ron, via Hedwig, informing them of his sudden reversal. In their return letters, both had sounded grateful at Harry’s decision, but curious about his reasons, which his letters did not reveal. He had assured his friends that he would tell them everything when they were all together. That moment was now approaching, and Harry hoped he could explain everything to their understanding. There were many things that he still did not understand. Those answers awaited them all at Hogwarts.

Harry avoided Hermione’s questioning eyes by looking at his watch. “The Weasleys should be here any time,” he said. “I don’t suppose I’ll have time to try on any of my robes.”

“I’ll look them over properly tomorrow,” Hermione promised. “Besides,” she added, “Mr. Weasley loves to study our Muggle clothes, and if you remember how he was dressed at the Quidditch World Cup, I think we should give him all the support we can.” Harry nodded his agreement, grinning.

“We can have another butterbeer while we wait,” Harry suggested. He wisely avoided adding, “My treat.” If he was to learn financial discipline, he thought, he might as well get some practice here. Would that the obstacles facing him in the coming year were as easy to overcome as this one.

They walked downstairs, but just as Hermione was handing Tom her key, there was a great whooshing sound from the other side of the pub. Harry and Hermione looked as one, and as one their faces broke into bright smiles. In a burst of soot and ash and flickering green flames, a figure was disgorged from the fireplace. Unfolding his long, gangly arms and legs like a spider (which analogy would have horrified him), Ron Weasley stood up, assuming his full and very considerable height. He shook his head so that soot flew in dark clouds from his fiery red hair. He looked around, blinking soot and ash from his eyes, and spotted Harry and Hermione. His freckled face broke into its patented grin.

“Oi!” he called. “Escaped from the Muggles again, Harry?”

“For the last time,” Harry said, his eyes twinkling at the sight of his oldest friend.

Ron stepped aside just in time to avoid being engulfed by another belch of soot and flame. A moment later, Ginny Weasley stood beside her brother, her long red hair painted with soot. Ron quickly drew his wand and pointed it at his sister’s head.

“Evanesco!” he said smartly. The soot vanished, leaving Ginny’s hair as blazing red as Harry had ever seen it.

Ron pulled Ginny aside as the fireplace coughed again. Molly Weasley emerged, looking dignified despite the soot tumbling from her hair and shoulders. Ron repeated his cleansing spell on his mother, who thanked him with a kiss on the cheek that caused his ears to go pink.

The last Weasley now appeared. Tall as his son, Arthur Weasley was nearly bald, though the fringe of hair ringing his head was as red as that of his wife and children. Molly cleaned off her husband as Ron had done her and Ginny, and Arthur turned to greet Harry and Hermione. But before the words could leave his mouth, both Ron and Ginny had leaped forward to give their friends a proper greeting. Ginny wrapped Hermione in a tremendous hug, while Harry and Ron pounded each other on the back before clasping hands.

The foursome then switched partners. Hermione threw her arms around Ron’s neck, and he lifted her off her feet as he crushed her in his arms. Ginny emulated Hermione by flinging herself at Harry, who instinctively wrapped his arms around her. They all separated just as Mr. and Mrs. Weasley walked over, the latter looking Harry and Hermione over with narrowed eye before a smile appeared on her round face.

“Oh, Harry, dear,” she exclaimed, gently edging Ginny aside to hug Harry with motherly affection. Backing away to cast an appraising eye over him, she asked, “How have you been? Have the Muggles been feeding you properly?” Harry grinned, knowing from experience the only way to answer that question.

“Not nearly as well as you, Mrs. Weasley.”

Looking supremely pleased at this response, Mrs. Weasley then turned to Hermione as her husband shook Harry’s hand. “And how have you been, Hermione?” she asked politely.

“Very well, thank you, Mrs. Weasley,” Hermione said.

“Ron tells me that you’re taking preliminary Healer courses this year,” Mrs. Weasley said, not sounding as interested as she might have done. “A hard walk, that. But as Ron’s always said you’re the best witch at Hogwarts, I’m sure you’ll do nicely.”

Ron looked embarrassed at having his name brought in. He looked away as Hermione’s eyes flickered momentarily in his direction.

“I’ll certainly do my best,” Hermione said.

“I’m sure you will, dear,” Mrs. Weasley said in a detached voice from which even rudimentary interest seemed to have evaporated. She added as if to herself, “I hoped Ron would look into Healing as a career. It would have been grand to have a Healer in the family.” Her tone of voice seemed to imply that it would have been even grander to have Ron and Hermione sharing every class, especially since Harry was guaranteed to be absent from most of them.

It would have been injudicious, not to say insulting, for Hermione to point out that Ron’s grades were not high enough for him to aspire to such a career. Instead, she said, “Whatever career he chooses, I know he’ll do smashingly.”

“I’m sure he will,” Mrs. Weasley replied. “Arthur and I have high hopes for our last two, don't we, Arthur?”

But Mr. Weasley seemed not to hear his wife, engaged as he was in a discussion of the Dark Arts with Harry.

“I can't tell you how glad I am that you’ve decided to stay at Hogwarts, Harry,” he said. “When Ron read us your letter, Molly and I were very relieved, I can tell you.” Unspoken, but no less clear, was Mr. Weasley’s relief that his youngest son would not be following Harry into the dragon’s jaws for at least another year. “I’ve had a few chats with Kingsley and Tonks, and it sounds like you have your work cut out for you. Not everyone can be an Auror. Still, if anyone can manage it, I know you can.”

“Thanks,” Harry said. “I intend to work harder than I ever have this year. As Hermione said, there’s more at stake than test scores. I have to be at my best when I go off to – ”

Harry came up short, having caught himself just in time. No one except Ron and Hermione knew about the Horcruxes. He wasn’t even certain that Dumbledore had told Professor McGonagall. It was best for now that no one who did not need to know be told. The fewer who knew, the less chance that Voldemort would find out and increase the security on the remaining Horcruxes. Harry’s job would be hard enough without warning his enemy in advance. All anyone had known was that Harry intended to leave school early, and given Mr. Weasley’s knowledge of the Prophesy involving Harry and Voldemort (he’d been one of its guardians in the shadowy corridors of the Department of Mysteries), he had pieced together a reasonable facsimile of the truth. In Harry’s judgment, that was all he, or anyone apart from himself, Ron and Hermione, needed to know.

“When I go after Voldemort,” Harry finished quickly. As expected, Mr. Weasley flinched at the sound of Voldemort’s name, which effectively swept away any suspicion that may have been aroused by Harry’s momentary hesitation. The older wizard would assume that Harry was merely being circumspect in regard to speaking the Dark Lord’s name in public.

“I understand,” Mr. Weasley said.

Turning to address all of the Weasleys, Harry asked, “How long are you staying? Will we be having lunch here?”

“Oh, no,” Mrs. Weasley said at once. “We’re having lunch at the Burrow, so mind you don’t fill up on sweets.”

Ron looked annoyed when his mother’s eye remained fixed primarily on him. Turning to Harry, he asked, “Got your school supplies yet?”

“We both have,” Harry said, nodding toward Hermione.

With the subject of school supplies having surfaced, Ron and Ginny both produced a folded sheet of parchment on which the Hogwarts crest was just visible. But before either of them could speak, their mother cut them off.

“Oh, don’t you bother with your supplies,” Mrs. Weasley said to her children as she snatched the lists from their hands. “Your father and I will take care of that after we stop off at Gringotts. Go off and have a good time and we’ll catch you up shortly. But remember – ”

“Stay away from Knockturn Alley,” Ron and Ginny chorused. Ron grumbled something about being of age, but he did not press this argument. Harry smiled inwardly. Mrs. Weasley was living proof of the adage against waking sleeping dragons. Her fiery temper was formidable when aroused, and it was better to keep that fire from kindling than to try to extinguish it once it became a roaring inferno.

As the elder Weasleys departed for Gringotts, Ron and Ginny turned anxiously to Harry and Hermione.

“Right,” Ron said in a hushed voice. “Let’s go somewhere private where we can talk.” The intensity with which his eyes pierced Harry’s made the true essence of his statement all too clear. Let’s go somewhere private so you can tell us why you’ve decided to remain at Hogwarts.

The foursome began to walk past the shops of Diagon Alley. Some of these were still unoccupied following the devastation wrought by Voldemort and his Death Eaters months earlier. Many of the original merchants had remained, putting their shops in order as best they could. There were even a few new shops, inspired, Harry did not doubt, by the lower rents resulting from the general exodus last year.

By unspoken agreement, their first stop was Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes, the joke shop operated by Ron’s and Ginny’s twin brothers, Fred and George. They were not surprised to find the shop humming with customers. Harry remembered telling Fred and George that, with Voldemort back, the world would be likely to need all the laughs it could get. His words had proved prophetic, the brothers having profited handsomely in the two years since their shop was opened. Harry remembered also Hermione’s advice regarding Quidditch at Hogwarts. If the one had been proven, the other was just as likely to be valid. Harry could not deny that, even with the challenges facing him, the prospect of playing Quidditch again was compelling. Hermione would have said it was because of those challenges that he looked forward to the physical and emotional release of Quidditch. Right again, Hermione, Harry thought with a smile as they reached the doorstep of Number ninety-three and pushed through the door.

The front counter was completely obscured by dozens of Hogwarts students, all of them shouting orders and waving handfuls of coins. One by one those hands were emptied, to be filled instead by an assortment of wizarding paraphernalia that would no doubt be making Filch’s life miserable again this year. Harry, Ron and Ginny smiled, but Hermione kept her face neutral against the onset of a disapproving frown.

When the last customer was served, the crowd melted away, revealing the front counter and, perforce, the two proprietors standing behind it. Fred was first to spot the new arrivals, and he elbowed his brother sharply.

“Good to see you, Harry,” Fred said, shaking Harry’s hand. George followed with his own greeting a moment later.

“Looks like business is good,” Harry observed.

“Never better,” George beamed. He caught sight of Hermione’s expressionless face, and his smile dimmed somewhat.

“Anything on special today?” Ron asked as he peered in every direction avidly.

“Family discount always applies, little brother,” Fred said.

“And,” George added, avoiding Hermione’s eyes, “if you get a photo of Filch suffering as a result of a Weasley item, send it along by post-owl to get an extra ten percent off your next purchase.” He pointed to a space on the wall behind the counter that was papered with moving wizard photos of Argus Filch, the Hogwarts caretaker, fussing and fuming, his eyes bugging out of his head and his mouth forming silent words that it was well the soundless snaps could not convey to the onlookers’ ears.

“Come on,” Ron said to Ginny. “If we pool our pocket money, we can afford something really good.”

“As in, really bad,” Ginny said with a wink in Harry’s direction.

As Ron and Ginny prowled up and down the rows of magical objects, Harry stepped close to the counter and spoke in a low voice.

“You don’t seem surprised to see me here,” he said.

“We already heard you’re going back to Hogwarts,” Fred said.

“How?” Harry asked. “I only owled Professor McGonagall a week ago. She barely had time to send me my book list.”

“We have our sources,” George said, tapping his nose with his finger.

“I’ll wager one of them is about two feet tall,” Harry said slyly. “With mismatched socks and a tea cozy on his head. Any takers?”

“Even Ludo Bagman won’t take that bet,” Fred chuckled.

Hermione was pretending to read the warning label on a box sitting on the far end of the counter. George nodded in her direction as he said in a low voice, “Still a bit upset, is she?”

“Can you blame her?” Harry said without rancor.

“Reckon not,” George sighed.

“You know we weren’t trying to hurt anyone,” Fred said.

“I know,” Harry said. “I’m as much to blame as anyone.”

“I’m glad it all worked out,” George said sincerely.

“Me, too,” said Fred.

“I know,” Harry said with a small smile. “Thanks.”

Ron and Ginny returned, having found something they could agree on. They scooped some coins from their pockets and started counting Sickles and Knuts. When they had the price (less the family discount), Fred gathered it up while George bagged their purchase for them.

“New bags,” Fred told Ron quietly so that Hermione could not hear. “See the rune pattern on the side opposite the shop logo?” Harry, Ron and Ginny looked together and nodded. “Touch any three runes in succession with your wand, going clockwise,” Fred instructed. “That activates a security spell so no one can else open the bag to see what’s inside.”

“Not without getting a nasty surprise,” George grinned.

“And when you want to open it,” Fred said, “you repeat the procedure in reverse, going counter-clockwise.”

“With each customer setting his own sequence,” George said, “it ensures that no one can open anyone else’s bag.”

“The spell is good for ten openings and closings, or six months,” Fred concluded. “Whichever comes first. And mind you don’t forget what pattern you set, if you know what’s good for you.”

“What happens if someone tries to open the bag without entering the proper sequence?” Harry asked.

Casting an eye toward the end of the counter, George said, “Remember that hex Hermione used on the D.A. parchment the year Fred and I took our leave of Hogwarts in spectacular fashion?”

“You’re joking!” Harry exclaimed as his eyes flickered toward the place where Hermione stood apart from the rest of them.

“Care to test it out yourself?” Fred suggested with a canny smile.

“Excellent,” Ron grinned as he caught up the excess of his money (what little there was) and returned it to his pocket.

“See you, then,” Harry said, again shaking hands with Fred and George. As Harry turned, Fred added in a whisper, “Good luck finding the you-know-whats.” Harry’s head jerked about sharply, but Fred was tapping the side of his nose again.

“Dobby,” Harry muttered.

“What's that, Harry?” Ron asked.

“Nothing,” Harry said. He walked over to Hermione and tapped her shoulder.

“Are we leaving?” she asked, a touch of frost in her voice.

“Yes,” Harry said. “You want to say goodbye?”

“I don’t think a goodbye is necessary if one hasn’t said hello,” Hermione returned primly.

“Uh...right,” Harry said. As they followed Ron and Ginny out the door, Harry turned to wave at Fred and George. Hermione continued to look straight ahead.

Speaking very softly to Hermione, Harry said, “You’re the one who’s always telling me not to hold onto my anger, to let it go. Shouldn’t you take your own advice with Fred and George?”

“I’m not angry,” Hermione said.

“You’re doing a good imitation of it,” Harry smiled gently.

“I’m not angry,” Hermione repeated, her voice now very quiet. “I’m hurt. Some wounds run deeper than others, and it takes longer for the pain to go away.”

“It worked out alright in the end,” Harry reasoned, putting his arm around Hermione’s shoulders.

“So the end justifies the means, does it?” Hermione returned coolly, her hand finding Harry’s and touching it lightly.

“We have a lot to do this year,” Harry said. "Both of us – no, all of us.” His eyes swept over Ron and Ginny, who were peering into the windows of empty shops as they walked, giving Harry and Hermione the privacy to speak as if they were alone. “We have so many obstacles to overcome, I don’t think we can afford even a moment to spend on another, much less one we place in our own path.”

Hermione’s hand folded around Harry’s as it rested on her shoulder.

“I love you, you know,” Harry said.

“I know,” Hermione said. “Even when you don’t say it in words, you say it in other ways.”

“I want to say it out loud as often as possible. I love you, Hermione. We’ve overcome a lot to get where we are, but now that we’re here, nothing is going to keep us apart.”

Hermione allowed her head to rest against Harry’s arm. She closed her eyes, trusting him to lead her as they walked.

“Hey,” Ron said suddenly, “look there!”

Harry and Hermione looked together. Ron was pointing to a shop that neither of them recognized. Clearly this was a new establishment, erected on the ruins of one destroyed in last year’s rampage of destruction.

“It’s a tea shop,” Ginny exclaimed happily. “Let’s pop in, shall we?”

“Didn’t your mum say we shouldn’t fill up before lunch?” Hermione reminded Ginny.

“What, fill up on tea?” Ginny laughed.

Leaning close so that his mouth was next to Hermione’s ear, Harry whispered, “I recall you saying something about the two of us never having been on a date to a tea shop. Here’s our chance.”

Looking up at Harry, Hermione smiled. “I accept.”

But when they reached the front door, they found a sign, apparently attached by a Sticking Charm, reading: OPENING SOON.

“Bugger,” Ron said. “They’re not open yet.”

“When do you suppose they’ll be open for business?” Harry asked no one in particular.

“There’s one way to find out,” Hermione said, and promptly knocked on the door. After about half a minute, the door opened, revealing a witch who might have been in her mid to late 20’s. Her hair was black and shiny as a raven’s wing, so dark that Harry’s looked charcoal-colored by contrast. Her eyes were bluer than Ron’s, and they seemed overly large. Harry was reminded of Luna Lovegood, with a sprinkling of Sibyll Trelawney thrown in for good measure. The witch smiled at her visitors, and Harry saw Ron’s face go blank for a moment. When the witch spoke, it was in a musical voice that a veela would have envied.

“May I help you?” she asked.

“We were just wondering when you expect to be open for business,” Hermione said.

“If all goes well,” the witch replied, “I hope to be open by the middle of next week.”

“Splendid,” Hermione said. “If all goes as planned, we’ll be visiting Diagon Alley next Thursday, Harry and I.” She nodded in Harry’s direction. The witch, hearing Harry’s name (and immediately recognizing him from his photos in the Daily Prophet), did the obligatory search for his scar. Her eyes widened momentarily as they came to rest on that most famous brand in the wizarding world. Hermione went on, “After we’ve finished our business, I expect we’ll pop in to celebrate.”

“I’m getting my Apparation license,” Harry explained.

“That would be lovely,” the witch said. She reached into her robes and pulled out a small card, which she handed to Hermione. “Tell your friends about us, won’t you?”

After reading the card, Hermione looked up and said, “Of course. I hope you do well here. It takes a bit of courage to open a new business, after what happened last year.”

“I’m not giving in to that lot,” the witch said sternly. “I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.”

“Good for you,” Hermione said. “Anyway, we won’t keep you. I imagine you have loads to do before the grand opening.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” the witch nodded. “With all the work that needs doing, I wish I’d learnt how to brew the potion to grow extra arms.”

“Need a bit of help, do you?” Ron asked, finding his voice at last. “I’d be happy to – ”

But Ginny cut him off sharply. “We have a wedding to plan. Have you forgotten your brother is getting married in only nine days?”

The witch’s large eyes brightened. “A wedding? Smashing! Do you have a place to hold the reception?”

“It’s a small family ceremony," Ginny explained. “They’re heading straight off after.”

“Ah, well,” the witch said good-naturedly. "Considering how much I’ve left to do before opening, I probably wouldn’t have been on my game. But if you hear of anyone else who’s getting married...”

Her dark eyes flickered over Harry, who flushed slightly. The witch laughed.

“See you next week, then?”

“Definitely,” Ron said, ignoring Ginny’s audible grunt.

As the foursome resumed their interrupted journey, Harry saw that Hermione was reading the business card the witch had given her. He peered over her shoulder, and he let out a small laugh.

“What’s the joke?” Ron asked, seeing the delight in Harry’s eyes.

Rolling her eyes, Hermione said, “I expect Harry’s laughing because of this.” She handed the card to Ron, who read it before passing it to Ginny. Ginny promptly laughed in much the same way Harry had.

The business card read:

“She’s a fortune teller?” Ginny grinned. “I thought you didn’t believe in that rubbish, Hermione.”

“I admit, I used to be a little...tight-arsed,” Hermione said, eliciting a chuckle from Ron. “But we’ve all seen that real predictions do occur. And even if she is a fraud like Professor Trelawney, it’s all in fun, right? It’s not like we have to pretend to see things that aren’t there just to get a passing mark, or an O.W.L. And don’t give me that innocent look,” she reproved through a knowing smile, looking directly at Ron. “You never saw anything in Divination that wasn’t all in your imagination. Neither of you did, come to that,” she expanded, turning her eye onto Harry.

Harry exchanged a grin with Ron. But when they both looked to Ginny for confirmation, they were surprised to see her looking introspective.

“Come off it,” Ron said, accurately reading his sister’s expression. “You’re not saying you actually saw something in Trelawney’s ruddy tea leaves and bird entrails?” He grimaced at the memory of that distasteful area of one of his and Harry’s long-past Divination classes.

“Ginny?” Hermione said with growing interest. “Have you seen something in one of your classes?”

After a long pause, Ginny said, “I didn’t exactly see anything.”

A sudden, alarming thought occurred to Harry. “Did – did Professor Trelawney have – I mean, did she – ”

“Hang on,” Ron interrupted, his eyes fixing Ginny intently. “You don’t have Trelawney, do you? You’re in Firenze’s class!”

Harry didn’t know if this revelation was for better or worse. The only times Sibyll Trelawney had made a genuine prediction, both had been about Lord Voldemort. Knowing that she had not had another such vision was a relief, especially if it had included Ginny. But was Ginny any better off in the hands of Firenze? The centaurs were true seers, though their methods were as far above human understanding as the stars on which they gazed continually to glean glimpses of the future (and which knowledge they guarded jealously amongst themselves). If Firenze had seen something in the stars that concerned Ginny, that was not necessarily an evil omen. It all depended on the nature of the prediction.

Finding her voice at last, Ginny said in a low, cautious voice, “It happened in the last class of term – you know, just before – ”

Ginny’s voice trailed off, but none was in any doubt about what she meant. Just before the Death Eater attack – the attack in which Dumbledore died.

“Did Firenze see something?” Hermione asked in a near-whisper. “Something about you?”

Ginny nodded.

Hermione’s interest intensified. Like Harry, she knew that Firenze came from a race of true seers. Their ways and means of divining events were usually far beyond the scope of human minds to comprehend, much less interpret. Even they themselves did not understand all they saw. Hermione had heard Firenze declare on their first meeting in the Forbidden Forest that, “The stars have been read wrongly before now, even by centaurs.” That being so, whatever Firenze had seen in Ginny’s class might or might not be of any worth. Either way, Hermione was keen to know what Firenze had seen, and from their expressions, Harry and Ron were just as eager as she to hear Ginny’s answer.

Prodded by three pairs of anxious eyes, Ginny said at last, “We were burning some plants that Dobby had picked in the Forbidden Forest – Firenze can’t go in there, you know. None of us saw anything in the smoke, but Firenze seemed to see something. We all waited for him to tell us what he’d seen, but instead he just prodded the fire and sent another cloud of smoke into the air. It was almost as if he wanted to erase what he’d seen, to put it out of his mind.”

“Was it something to do with Voldemort?” Harry asked, unable to remain silent. If somehow Ginny’s safety had been compromised by her relationship to him –

“No,” Ginny said. “At least, he didn’t mention him by name.”

“But he told you something,” Ron pressed. Ginny nodded. “What did he say?”

“I was just leaving class when he called me back,” Ginny said. “I didn’t know what it was about. I never gave a thought to it being connected to some kind of vision. He looked down at me and said, ‘I saw two shadows in the smoke earlier, Miss Weasley. One shadow had your face. The other I could not see clearly, though I suspect from earlier visions whose it was. I saw the two shadows merge into one. I do not yet know what this means. If I see anything more, I will tell you.’ And then he just turned and walked out of the classroom.”

“That’s it?” Ron exclaimed. “Two shadows, one with your face? What’s that supposed to mean?”

Harry’s fears jumped another notch. What if the other shadow did belong to Voldemort? And Firenze’s description of the two figures merging – Harry swallowed dryly. There were times during his fifth year when Voldemort had invaded Harry’s mind, seen through Harry’s eyes. That was why Dumbledore took such care to avoid Harry that year, fearing that Voldemort might see something through the windows of Harry’s eyes that he shouldn’t. Nor were those fears groundless. In their painful talk following Sirius’ death, Dumbledore had spoken of Voldemort, telling Harry that he had ‘thought to see a shadow of him stir behind your eyes’ on more than one occasion.

That danger was now past. When Voldemort realized that Harry could see through his eyes as easily as he saw through Harry’s, he severed the bond between them. He would no more risk Harry divining his putrid thoughts by possessing him in such manner again.

But – Harry’s blood ran cold at the thought – what was to prevent Voldemort from possessing another person as he’d once inhabited Harry? The two shadows in Firenze’s vision, merging into one – could Voldemort be planning on inhabiting Ginny so as to spy on Harry? It would be too obvious for him to possess Ron or Hermione. The three of them were so intimate that Harry believed he could spot any aberration in either of them at once. But Ginny – hovering on the periphery of Harry’s life, going virtually unnoticed – how easy would it be for Voldemort to observe Harry through Ginny’s laughing, innocuous eyes?

Harry made a silent promise to keep a close watch on Ginny this year. He wasn’t sure what he would do if he suspected that Voldemort was, in fact, using Ginny as a conduit to observe the goings-on at Hogwarts. Ordinarily, he would have gone straight to Dumbledore. He supposed that he could tell Professor McGonagall. He realized for the first time that, with Dumbledore gone, he didn’t know who would take over as leader of the Order of the Phoenix. But Ginny was his primary concern now. He made a second promise like unto the first, to remain alert this year to learn if Firenze had any more visions concerning Ginny and the mysterious “shadow without a face.” If that face did indeed belong to Voldemort, he wanted to know at once so he could take whatever steps he could to safeguard Ginny’s life. Too many people close to him had died. He would do everything in his power to keep Ginny’s name from being added to that list.

“Well,” Hermione said with a reassuring smile, “I wouldn’t worry about it. For all you know, the hidden face could be that of the wizard you’re going to marry.”

“Yeah,” Ron said. “Hey, maybe next time you can have Firenze see who I’m going to marry. I mean, I don’t want to waste a lot of time and money on a bird who’s only going to throw me over for some other bloke. Better to pick the right one the first time, I say.”

The tension seemed to be melting away. “Thanks, everyone,” Ginny said. “I’m glad I told you. It’s been on my mind a bit lately, what with all the precautions we’re taking for the wedding.”

“That’s what friends are for,” Harry said, submerging his apprehensions behind a smile he hoped did not look as forced as it felt to him.

They were just approaching their designated meeting place when they all seemed to realize at the same time that Harry had not yet explained to them his mysterious reason for returning to Hogwarts. That would now have to wait until they returned to the Burrow, for Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were now approaching, the former’s arms laden with the books and supplies they had purchased for Ron and Ginny.

“Did you have an interesting time?” Mrs. Weasley asked.

“Yeah,” Ron said, casting a sidewise glance at Ginny. “I guess you could call it that.”

“I hope you didn’t fill up on cakes and butterbeer,” Mrs. Weasley said. “I’ll have lunch on the table in an hour. That will give you plenty of time to de-gnome the garden and pick some vegetables for supper. You’ll work up a good appetite that way.”

“Great,” Ron said enthusiastically, and Harry knew from long observation of Ron’s dubious acting skills that this was no sham for his mother’s benefit. As Mrs. Weasley led her husband toward the Leaky Cauldron, Ron edged up to Harry and said, “That’ll be the perfect time for you to tell us why you’re coming back.”

Nodding, Harry said, “Okay.” In a softer voice, he asked, “Should we tell Ginny? Not about the Horcruxes,” he clarified quickly, his voice falling to a whisper. “Just about why I’m coming back.”

“I think we’d better,” Ron said. "She’ll find out anyway. There’s a lot of Fred and George in her, and I dunno yet if that’s a good thing or not. Either way, better if she hears it straight from the dragon’s mouth.”

“Right,” Harry said. He had been of a mind to tell Ginny from the start, though he wasn’t sure why he felt that way. Now that Ron had given his approval, the burden was off Harry as far as the decision went. All that remained now was to find a way to explain his reasons that made sense.

Back at the Leaky Cauldron, Harry and Hermione packed their school supplies in their trunks, after which Hermione and Ron used their wands to levitate them down the stairs. Harry looked on jealously, wishing he were of age to use magic openly. It would only be a few more days’ wait, but he still envied his friends their earlier birthdays. Ginny seemed to understand Harry’s chagrin as she fiddled with the wand in her robes as if longing to use it. There were a lot of things that Ginny and Harry understood that no one else did or could. He was glad to have her at hand at such times as this. It made him feel less alone, less put upon by rules and regulations that seemed to exist for no other reason than to cause him misery.

The Weasleys were now queuing up at the fireplace, which suddenly had a very long line of students and their families waiting to Floo home. Harry stared at the milling throng for a long minute, then he stepped forward suddenly. “Look,” he said, “this is going to take forever. Ginny and I are the only ones who aren’t allowed to Apparate. Why don’t you all just go on ahead and we’ll follow you in the fire?”

“You’re certain, dear?” Mrs. Weasley said.

“Yes,” Harry said. “No sense standing around here when you could be back home getting lunch ready,” he smiled. “Don’t worry, we’ll catch you up.”

Receiving an approving nod from her husband, Mrs. Weasley handed Ginny their pouch of Floo powder. The bag was far from full, but as there had obviously been enough remaining to transport the entire family back to the Burrow, there would be more than enough for Harry and Ginny to make the journey.

As the elder Weasleys turned toward the door, Hermione came up to Harry and slipped her arms around his waist. “Are you sure, Harry? If it comes to that, we’ve already Apparated together once today. What’s one more?”

“That was different,” Harry said. “No one was there to see us then. I wouldn’t put it past some Slytherin – or Ravenclaw (he added this with unnecessary savagery) – to recognize me and report me to the Ministry. After all the MLE’s put me through in the past, the last thing I need is to be charged with unlicensed Apparation in a public place. Besides, if I Apparate with you, Ginny will be all alone to wait in line. These are dangerous times, and I don’t think Mrs. Weasley would want her only daughter put at risk that way.”

“Then I’ll stay with you while the others go on,” Hermione said.

“It’s such a useless waste of time,” Harry returned. “Look there,” he nodded, “while we’ve been standing here, six more have joined the queue. Anyway, didn’t you tell me you wanted to start practicing some healing spells straightaway? You can be ready in case one of us comes up with a bite during the de-gnoming.”

“I do have a lot to learn this year,” Hermione admitted, “and the sooner I start, the better.”

“Off you get, then,” Harry smiled. “Keep a plate warm for me.”

“I’ll keep more than a plate warm for you,” Hermione replied as she bared her teeth ferally.

Harry kissed Hermione, then shooed her off toward Ron.

“Save some gnomes for me,” he called out to Ron over Hermione’s head.

“The one with the sharpest teeth is all yours,” Ron promised with a laugh.

As Harry and Ginny watched, their companions proceeded to step outside (the inside of the pub was warded against Apparation, to prevent anyone from ducking out without paying) and vanish one by one. Ron went first, his mother loading his arms with his school supplies, leaving Mr. Weasley still holding Ginny’s. With an inarticulate grunt, Ron vanished with a sharp snap.

“You next, Hermione,” Mrs. Weasley said solicitously.

“I just thought,” Hermione said as she turned in the doorway leading to Diagon Alley. “Your house must be protected by anti-Apparation spells, just like the pub. I won’t be able to get through since I’m not family.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that, dear,” Mrs. Weasley said. “We had those wards modified ages ago. You can come and go any time you please. We’ve always thought of you as a member of the family.” When Hermione responded with an amazed expression, Mrs. Weasley added, “And Harry, too, of course.”

With an uncomfortable look at Harry, Hermione stepped into the enclosed courtyard and vanished, with a very soft popping sound that would have gone unheard next to Ron’s louder report. Mrs. Weasley turned to Ginny and said, “Mind you don’t lose the pouch, now.”

Harry saw Ginny’s brow furrow with annoyance at this chastisement, especially in a room full of strangers (not to mention Harry himself, in whose presence she was often self-conscious). Looking aggrieved at being treated like a child, Ginny smiled indulgently and held up the pouch as her mother smiled back and nodded.

“You’ll see that nothing happens to Ginny, won’t you, Harry?” Mrs. Weasley said as Ginny thrust the pouch forcefully into her pocket, looking sullen.

“No worries, Mrs. Weasley,” Harry assured her. “I’ll take care of her.”

An odd sort of look passed over Mrs. Weasley’s eyes as she smiled at Harry and Ginny. But before Harry could devote any thought to the matter, Mrs. Weasley turned to her husband and said, “Let’s go, Arthur. Ginny will be in good hands with Harry.”

“See you, Harry,” Mr. Weasley said as he was ushered outside. He and his wife vanished, leaving Harry and Ginny alone. They blinked once, then stepped quickly to the end of the queue.

Whereas Harry and Ginny had been conversing normally only minutes before within the foursome, they now fell into a tense silence. Harry thought he knew the reason for Ginny’s sudden lack of communication, and it had nothing to do with Firenze’s vision. When Madame Ariadne had glanced at Harry in concert with her reference to future weddings, he could have sworn that her eyes had lingered for heartbeat on Ginny. If Ginny had seen this as well (and this was all too likely – she had demonstrated her alertness any number of times in regard to spotting imperfections in Ron), then her awkwardness was easily understood. Her childhood crush on Harry might be a thing of the past, but there were times when Harry thought he detected a spark of the shy young girl who had sent him the singing valentine in his second year (her first) hiding beneath the surface of the bold young woman she had become.

Unable to avoid looking Ginny’s way any longer, Harry smiled and asked her, “What sort of courses do you have this year?”

Harry knew that last year had been Ginny’s O.W.L. year, but in the mayhem following the Death Eater attack – and with so many students having been withdrawn by their parents immediately after – final exams for the school – including O.W.L.’s and N.E.W.T.’s – had been cancelled. Presumably, seventh-year students could take their exams later by special arrangement, most likely at the Ministry. He wasn’t sure what the O.W.L. students would do. In all likelihood, they would choose their sixth-year courses based on their teachers’ assessment of their work throughout the previous year, aided by their career evaluations from their heads of House.

“Nothing special,” Ginny said with a small shrug, not quite looking at Harry.

“What did you and Professor McGonagall talk about during your career chat?”

Harry remembered his own chat with the head of Gryffindor House on the occasion of his impending O.W.L.'s. He had told her that the only career he had ever seriously considered was being an Auror. She had promised him that she would do everything in her power to see that he realized his dream. Would she be able to fulfill that promise now that she had assumed the post of Headmistress of Hogwarts? With that mantle of responsibility suddenly laid on her, would she even be able to retain her position as Transfiguration teacher, as she must have already relinquished her place as overseer of Gryffindor?

Ginny answered Harry’s question with another shrug. “I wasn’t interested in anything special,” she said. “To tell you the truth, I didn’t know what I wanted to do after I left school. I realized I probably felt a bit like Ron must have done, and I sort of understood him a little better – but don’t tell him I said that,” she smiled. Harry grinned, and Ginny let out a sigh. “In the end,” she finished, “Professor McGonagall advised me to take Advanced Transfiguration and Charms. She said I had an aptitude for both, and I’d get in automatically if I got an E in my O.W.L.'s in both subjects. Even though I never got to sit my exams – “ Ginny hesitated before going on, “McGonagall and Flitwick both reckoned I’d have got an E on my O.W.L.’s, so they scheduled my courses based on that.”

“So, maybe we’ll have some classes together,” Harry said. The Advanced classes were so specialized that only a few students from any House ever qualified. Even combining the sixth and seventh years, the classes were still only half as large as a normal one. That meant that each student received more attention and encouragement from their professors, promoting excellence befitting the classes’ Advanced status.

“I thought you were going to be studying Defense Against the Dark Arts subjects,” Ginny said in mild surprise.

“I am,” Harry said. “But first I have to learn the basics. There are special disciplines I’ll need to master before I learn the really dangerous spells. When the new term starts in January, I’ll begin learning the forbidden spells I’ll need to know as an Auror. That’ll be in Advanced Defense Against the Dark Arts, of course. Until then, my Defense classes will mostly be learning how to apply the spells I’ll eventually be using. The new teacher, whoever it turns out to be, will drill me on how to react in various situations. An Auror faces life and death situations every day, and I can’t afford to make a mistake that might get someone killed – especially me,” he grinned. “It’s like learning to duel with a wooden sword. They won’t give you a real one until you’ve proven you won’t cut your head off, or the instructor’s. But a swordsman only has to master one weapon. An Auror has to know hundreds of spells, even thousands – and he has to know when to use each one, and when not to. Only when I’ve learned all that will it be safe for me to learn the spells themselves.”

“Will Hermione be in the same Advanced class?” Ginny asked cautiously.

“No,” Harry said. “She needs to learn very special spells that aren’t covered in even the Advanced classes. Madam Pomfrey will be teaching those classes, which will be limited to students with similar career goals.”

Ginny digested this for long moments before looking up at Harry with new interest.

“Professor McGonagall entered me in those Advanced classes after talking with Mum and Dad,” she said. “She sent them an owl to tell them how my career chat went. Percy told me once that’s standard procedure. Sometimes the parents respond by owl, but others prefer a face-to-face meeting.”

Harry smiled inwardly at the thought of the Dursleys receiving an owl informing them of their nephew’s career choices as a wizard-in-training. Even more amusing was the image of Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia turning up at Hogwarts to meet with Professor McGonagall.

“Apparently,” Ginny went on, “Mum and Dad told her I could handle anything. I wish they hadn’t done that.”

“Why?” Harry asked. “It sounds like they believe in you. I wish I had parents like that.”

This simple statement seemed to take Ginny by surprise. Recovering herself, she said, “I don’t know if I’m as good as they believe. I mean, I know I got high marks in my classes, but afterward I thought that was more by luck than skill. A week later, I couldn’t remember half of the spells I did that won all those points for Gryffindor. If they’d asked me to do them over...” She paused, her eyes dropping away for a moment before rising to meet Harry’s again. “If things get sticky this year, will you – will you help me to get through? Mum will be disappointed if I don’t meet her high expectations. I know she’s already had two school Heads in the family – and even Ron got a prefect’s badge, though Merlin knows how he did it. But it’s different with them. They’re boys, and it always seemed that what they accomplished was more a reflection on Dad than Mum. Being the only girl, I feel I’m the repository of all the dreams Mum never got to fulfill when she married Dad. Maybe that sounds stupid, but all the same, I’d hate to let her down. So – would you?”

“Do you even have to ask?” Harry said in genuine surprise. “Of course I’ll help you. You may have to help me a time or two,” he said in an effort to boost Ginny’s confifdence. “I only got E’s in those subjects myself a year ago. The only O I got was in Defense Against the Dark Arts, and that’s not going to be much help when I’m pretty much starting all over again with spells I’ve never seen. I reckon a bit of a refresher couldn’t hurt.”

“We’ll help each other, then,” Ginny said, looking up at Harry with a vague sort of expression. “We’ll get through it together.”

“Together,” Harry nodded, holding out his hand to seal the bargain. Ginny took it with a grateful smile that, to Harry’s surprise, faded almost at once.

“Harry?” Ginny said, her hand pressing against his with a kind of wordless urgency. “Would you do me another favor and not tell anyone? About the shared classes, I mean?”

“Why not?” Harry said in surprise. “Everyone will find out eventually, won’t they?”

“Yes, I suppose. But we really won’t know for sure until we get our schedules, will we? Until it’s official, would you mind keeping it just between us?”

“No, if that’s what you want.”

“Thanks, Harry,” Ginny smiled, leaning forward to give him a peck on the cheek.

“Oi!” an impatient voice called out from behind them. “Keep it movin’, you lot! Others is waitin’!”

Harry was startled to see that he and Ginny were now at the head of the queue. How had the time passed so quickly? The same thought seemed to have occurred to Ginny as she hastened to release Harry’s hand so she could dip into her pocket and pull out her Floo pouch.

“Time flies when you’re having fun,” she smiled awkwardly. When she made to open the pouch, Harry saw that the drawstring was loose. Ginny had spotted this as well as she said in a deflated voice, “The string must have come loose in my pocket.” Harry remembered the force with which Ginny had jammed the pouch into her pocket, but he said nothing of this, responding with a sympathetic nod. Hefting the nearly weightless pouch meaningfully, Ginny said, “It looks like there’s only a pinch left. Whatever spilled out in my pocket will be useless, contaminated with lint and such. Sorry.” She smiled apologetically at Harry.

“No problem,” Harry smiled back. “If we’re sharing classes, we might as well share the Floo.”

“Get a move on, then,” the irritated voice behind them said.

Ginny scooped up the last pinch of silvery powder between her thumb and forefinger and tossed it into the grate, which instantly erupted in emerald-green flames. Linking arms to avoid in-flight separation, Harry and Ginny stepped into the flames and said together, “The Burrow!”

Notes:

Sorry this wasn’t posted sooner. Life has a way of interfering with important things like fanfiction. I still feel like this chapter isn’t as good as I want, but time is short, so here it is.

In answer to one question, this story (what there is of it so far) will be posted as quickly as possible so I can beat the publishing deadline for DH. That’s why I’m posting these first chapters ahead of time, so I can sneak in my “explanation” for Hermione’s odd behavior before the real answer (if any) is revealed in Book 7. The first of these revelatory flashbacks appears in the next chapter (following a set-up in this chapter). But as my introductory notes stated, this novel is a long way from completion. When these few finished chapters are posted, there will be a long delay before the story resumes. The basic plot is fixed in my head, but as this is planned as a massive novel (my first), it will take a while before those bones can be fleshed out into a proper story. All I can promise is that I’ll do my best not to make the wait any longer than it has to be.

And as far as Ginny is concerned, she will be an integral part of the story, playing, if you will, the role of our favorite couple’s personal “garden gnome.” I admit, I’ll be playing with the readers’ heads in much the same manner as J.K. has done. When Ginny gets rolling, I imagine everyone will be wishing for a “de-gnoming,” and as soon as possible. But at least I can guarantee a happy H/Hr ending (as if this site would permit any thing else!). However, I can’t promise that the journey won’t be fraught with perils, not all of them at the hand of Voldemort.

Thanks, as always, to brad for not hesitating to balance the positives with the inevitable negatives. A fan writer who makes no mistakes is either lucky, or too good to be wasting his time writing for free. Since the latter is out of the question here, I’ll take the former and be glad for it. I’m likewise glad that I’ve piqued your curiosity. I promise, all will be explained in short order. And Harry’s just venting a little leftover Changst (I just made that word up) when he references less-than-trustworthy Ravenclaws. But maybe he’s on to something. Despite Hagrid’s assertion that there was “not a single witch or wizard who went bad who wasn’t in Slytherin,” I wouldn’t be surprised if there were a few Ravenclaws among Voldemort’s supporters, hiding behind a veneer of respectability.

It’s time for the adventure to resume (including the details of Harry’s dream). You lot keep an eye on Ginny for me, won’t you? I don’t trust her any more than you do.

Harry and Ginny fell out of the fireplace at the Burrow and landed in a tangled heap on the rug. It had been a dizzying journey, made more exciting by a near-collision that nearly lost Harry his glasses. When Harry tried to orient himself, he found himself surrounded by darkness. His glasses were still clinging to his face (just barely). Why could he see nothing? An intake of breath quickly revealed the answer. A flowery scent filled his nostrils, accompanied by a tickling sensation that nearly made him sneeze. His head was completely smothered by Ginny’s hair, which fell around his shoulders like a satiny waterfall. He was trying to find his balance to extricate himself from his predicament when –

”What in Merlin’s name is going on here?”

The sound of Mrs. Weasley’s voice spurred Harry like a shot of Pepper-Up Potion. He reeled back, his head falling clear of Ginny’s and banging against the fireplace. He sat up slowly, rubbing the knot on the back of his head.

“Are you okay, Harry?” Ginny asked in a worried voice as she caught him by the elbow and helped him to sit up.

“I’m fine,” Harry said, though he felt otherwise. Turning quickly, he looked up at Mrs. Weasley and said, “Sorry, I lost my balance. Someone nearly collided with us on the Floo network. Whoever’s working the switchboard must have accidentally sent us on an intercept course with someone flying across our path. If I hadn’t caught Ginny at the last second, there’s no telling where she’d have ended up. I didn’t want her to pop out somewhere dodgy, you know, like I did that time I came out at Borgin and Burkes in Knockturn Alley.”

Ginny was now smoothing out her robes, which had been flung above her knees in her tumble. Harry turned away as quickly as he could, not wanting Mrs. Weasley (nor, indeed, Ginny) to think him a voyeur. He scrambled to his feet and helped Ginny upright. Her long red hair danced around her shoulders like threads of fiery silk, and she brushed it out of her face hastily, sending a small trickle of soot down her back.

Looking for a quick change of subject, Harry asked, “Where’s Hermione? Is she upstairs studying?”

“She was,” Mrs Weasley said, her tight expression relaxing as she drew her wand from her apron pocket and performed the cleaning spell on Harry and Ginny. “She came down a few minutes ago and went out to help Ron with the de-gnoming. Now that you’re here, you can go give them a hand. I’ll call you when lunch is ready.”

“Right,” Harry said. He hurried past Mrs. Weasley and out the back door, Ginny hard on his heels. When the screen door banged shut behind them, Harry heaved a sigh of relief. To his surprise, Ginny began to giggle. “What’s so funny?” Harry asked.

“You,” Ginny answered through her muffled laughter. “You should have seen your face when Mum was looking down on you.”

“I didn’t want her to get the wrong idea,” Harry said.

“The way we were rolling about,” Ginny said, “it’s a wonder she didn’t turn you into a toad. Trevor Potter, the Toad Who Lived,” she giggled.

When Ginny’s laughter showed no sign of abating, Harry said, “Ron’s right, you’re too much like Fred and George.”

“And if I am?” Ginny challenged with a cocked eyebrow. “Mum never gave them enough credit. They’ve got the right idea, you ask me. Have a few laughs today, for tomorrow You-Know-Who might do you in.”

“That’s nothing to joke about,” Harry said seriously.

“I’m not joking,” Ginny said as her smile retreated. "Mum said it herself two years ago. Nearly the whole family’s in the Order of the Phoenix. We could all snuff it tomorrow. Fenrir nearly did Bill in only a month ago. Any one of us could be next, and we might not get off with only a scarred face. And that’s not counting Tom Riddle nearly killing me in the Chamber of Secrets my first year at Hogwarts. If You-Know-Who wants to kill all of us, what’s to stop him?”

“Me,” Harry said quietly, with no trace of bravado. “I’ll stop him.”

Ginny looked at Harry as if she had never seen him properly before. She leaned very close, so close that Harry could again smell the familiar bouquet of her hair. He pulled away suddenly, and Ginny retreated, her face going pink.

“Sorry,” she said softly. “I...I didn’t...”

“I know,” Harry smiled thinly. “Come on, let’s go see Ron and Hermione. I have something to tell all of you.”

Ron and Hermione were in the final stages of de-gnoming the vegetable garden. Sighting over the back hedge, Harry saw tiny shapes that were unquestionably gnomes, wandering about dizzily. Even as he watched, a small, dark shape flew through the air and landed with a muted thump in the field beyond the hedge.

“Good one, Hermione!” a familiar voice exclaimed. Turning, Harry saw Ron nodding his approval at Hermione’s toss. Hermione was looking rather pleased with herself. Harry grinned. She had apparently got over her reticence at dispensing with garden gnomes in so precipitous (and seemingly callous) a manner. Hermione had a soft spot in her heart for all living things (which went far toward explaining her choice of career), and she had been a bit timid about de-gnoming the Weasleys’ vegetable garden on her first visit to the Burrow five years ago. But if her expression now were any measure by which to judge, she had finally come to accept Ron’s repeated assurances that the gnomes were more than hardy enough to shrug off being tossed through the air into the field. Harry recalled his own hesitation on the occasion of his first de-gnoming. He had tried to drop the first gnome he caught gently over the back hedge in what he perceived as a humane manner, only to be rewarded for his compassion with a painful bite from the gnome’s needle-sharp teeth. He didn’t know if Hermione had been initiated in like manner, but she would have seen by now that the gnomes did indeed return to the garden time after time with no harm done. Armed with that assurance, she had become a de-gnomer to please even Mrs. Weasley.

There were many aspects about Hermione that pleased Mrs. Weasley. The coolness she had demonstrated toward Hermione in Diagon Alley seemed to have manifested itself only recently, and Harry was sure he knew why. He preferred not to dwell on that, however. Now, he waved to Ron and Hermione, calling out to them. Hermione turned, her face breaking into an even brighter smile as she saw Harry.

“Did you see?” she said excitedly as Harry walked up to her. “That gnome won’t be nicking any more turnips from the garden today.”

“Hermione,” Harry said in a voice brimming with mock severity, “don’t you know gnomes have feelings, too?”

“There are plenty of wild plants that gnomes can eat that people can’t,” Hermione said reasonably. "We don’t go into the forest to nick their food, so they shouldn’t feel the need to come here and steal ours.”

Harry wrapped his arms around Hermione, staring into her dancing eyes. He had to be careful not to lose himself to the point where he forgot to breathe. He kissed her lightly, and her hands teased at the back of his head, riffling through his untidy hair. They parted quickly, and they were unsurprised to see both Ron and Ginny smiling a bit awkwardly.

“Did you leave any gnomes for me, Ron?” Harry asked somewhat clumsily.

“I was going to,” Ron said with an exaggerated shrug. “But Hermione was like a house afire. She has a future in magical pest control if she decides not to go after the Minister’s job.”

Blushing slightly at the compliment, Hermione looked at Ron and said, “I think we’re about done, don’t you?”

Ron looked around grandly and said, “Not a gnome in sight. Full marks, Miss Granger.”

“Thank you, Professor Weasley,” Hermione said with a nod. Harry laughed. But the smile quickly melted from his face, and he cast his eyes back toward the house searchingly. Seeing this, Ron altered his own expression into one of anticipation.

“We only have a few minutes,” Harry said. “Your mum will be calling us for lunch.”

Ginny, who had not spoken since her and Harry’s discussion on the subject of Lord Voldemort, said in a low, expectant voice, “You said you wanted to tell us something. Is it about why you’re coming back to Hogwarts?”

“Yes,” Harry said. “Come on, let’s take a walk.”

Following the line of the back hedge, Harry led his friends a safe distance away before turning and facing them. Keeping one eye on the towering roof of the Burrow, he turned to look at Ginny as he said, “Ron and Hermione already know a bit about what I'm going to say. I didn’t mean to hurt you by leaving you out. I figured the fewer people who knew the truth, the less chance Voldemort would find out too quickly. The less Voldemort knows about our plans, the better.” Ron and Ginny both flinched slightly at the sound of Voldemort’s name. Hermione’s aspect did not alter. “After Snape killed Dumbledore, I was determined to set straight off to rid the world of Voldemort. That’s what the prophesy says I’m here to do, and I reckoned I’d better be about it before anyone else died.”

“Except you,” Ginny said quietly, her words echoing the thoughts of the other two listeners.

“I was going to set off right after the wedding,” Harry said, still looking at Ginny. “Ron and Hermione were going to come with me. I didn’t ask them to come. But they wouldn’t let me go off alone.”

“Too right there, mate,” Ron said determinedly as Hermione nodded her agreement.

“But now you’re not going?” Ginny said, unable to disguise the relief in her voice. “You’re staying on to complete your last year?”

“Yes,” Harry said.

"What changed your mind?" Ron asked.

“Not what,” Harry said. “Who.”

“Did someone visit you at the Dursleys and persuade you to postpone your decision?” Hermione asked. “Was it Remus? Or Tonks?”

“No,” Harry said. “It was...it was Dumbledore.”

“But...” Hermione said, “but...Dumbledore’s dead. How could he talk to you? Is he – is he a ghost?”

“No,” Harry said. “He came to me in a dream.”

“Are you sure it was him?” Ron asked reasonably. “Maybe it was You-Know-Who, getting into your head again, like when he made you think Sirius was being tortured.”

“It wasn’t,” Harry said, fighting back the misery of remembering his role in his godfather’s death. If he had not blindly followed Voldemort’s false trail to the Department of Mysteries, where he believed Sirius was being tortured to death, the real Sirius would not have been lured to the Ministry to rescue Harry. He would still be alive. “What, you think Voldemort is so afraid of me that he’d try to keep me in school so I wouldn’t come after him? And Dumbledore’s advice was completely the opposite to what Voldemort would ever want me to do.”

“I’m guessing he told you that getting another year of training will better prepare you to face Voldemort when the time comes,” Hermione said.

“Exactly,” Harry said. “He made me realize that I don't know anywhere near enough magic to go up against even a Death Eater, much less Voldemort himself. You remember when I tried to stop Snape from leaving Hogwarts after he killed Dumbledore? I might as well have been a First Year for all the good I did. He blocked every spell I tried without batting an eye. I should have known right then that if I couldn’t defeat one stinking Death Eater,” Harry spat out these words as if they were stinksap on his tongue, “I definitely wasn’t trained enough to go after Voldemort. But I was fired up, I wanted to make him pay for what he’d done. If it had been Voldemort in my dream, he’d have liked nothing better than to have me come straight at him, blind with hatred. If I’d done that – done what I originally intended – I would have gone off and got myself killed. Worse than that, I’d have got my friends killed with me. Enough people have died because of my stupidity. If I can’t stop my friends from coming with me – ”

“And you can’t,” Ron said firmly, a moment before Hermione would have said the same thing.

“Then at least I can prepare myself as best I can before we all go off,” Harry finished. “That’s what Dumbledore told me to do. He said there are special courses I can take to arm myself against the forces of Darkness. Professor McGonagall has already been alerted, because my Hogwarts letter contained a book list for those new courses. According to Dumbledore, my parents took the same courses I’ll be taking, and so did Sirius. That’s one of the things that decided me. In a way, it’ll be like they’re all still fighting on through me. Of course, that extra learning wasn’t enough to stop Voldemort from killing my mum and dad,” he added grimly. “But according to Dumbledore, I have an edge they didn’t. There’s something about me that can destroy Voldemort. I don’t know what it is, but I’m finally convinced that it’s there. I just have to find it. I used to think that was all I needed to carry me through. But Dumbledore reminded me that it takes more than talent and ability to accomplish something. If Hermione is smarter than any of us – which she is – ” Harry smiled at Hermione, who blushed slightly, “that doesn't mean she got all those high marks without working hard for them. If there’s something about me that can do in Voldemort, I won’t be able to use it properly until I’ve learned everything I can about how to combat the Dark Arts. So that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to stop mucking about and learn everything I need to know to defeat Voldemort.”

“And then you can go after the Horcruxes,” Ginny said.

Harry, Ron and Hermione all jerked their heads in Ginny’s direction.

“How do you know about that?” Ron said in astonishment.

“I have my sources,” Ginny said mysteriously. Harry managed a hard smile. Fred and George had said the same thing to him in Diagon Alley. Harry reflected again that Ginny was indeed much like the twins, whether for good or ill.

Ron’s eyes were now narrowed suspiciously at his sister. “I hope you aren’t thinking about coming with us to chase down the Horcruxes?”

Rather than replying immediately, Ginny assumed a thoughtful mien. Her eyes falling on Harry, she said at last, “I haven’t decided yet. After what Harry just said about being prepared, I don’t know if I’d be a help or a hindrance. And I won’t be seventeen until after the end of the school year, so the point is moot until then. Mum and Dad would never let me go, and if I left anyway, they’d report my absence to the Ministry, and that would endanger all of you. You’d hardly be able to keep your mission a secret from You-Know-Who if my trail was being hounded by Magical Law Enforcement wizards. So for now, I’m keeping my options open. It’s not a decision I’ll make lightly. If I think I can make a real contribution – well, we’ll see. But if I’m convinced at the end of the year that I can pull my weight, I hope I’ll have your support – all of you.” Her brown eyes were fixed firmly on Ron as she spoke. He opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it, substituting a silent nod. The gesture seemed to Harry more an acknowledgment of Ginny’s statement – of her stubborn determination so analogous of his own Weasley temperament – than outright agreement. Perhaps sensing this herself, Ginny did not press her brother further, but responded with a short nod of her own.

As if that answering nod had been a signal, Molly Weasley’s magically magnified voice rang out, “Lunch is ready! Everyone who isn’t at the table in one minute will go hungry!”

“She means it,” Ginny said with a strained smile. “I’ve heard that tone before.”

“So have I,” Ron said.

“Let’s go, then,” Hermione said. “I don’t think there’s anything more to discuss now.”

Listening with more than his ears, Harry heard the unspoken words that followed Hermione’s declaration: “We’ll resume this later, when we’re alone.”

“Right,” Harry said, nodding to Hermione in acknowledgment of her silent pronouncement.

After lunch, Harry and Hermione excused themselves from the Weasleys and headed off past the vegetable garden and into the woods that surrounded the Burrow, masking its presence from the non-magical inhabitants of Ottery St. Catchpole. They walked unhurriedly, hand-in-hand, enjoying the tranquility of the countryside, the smell of the moist earth mingled with the perfume of the trees and wildflowers compassing them on all sides. Neither seemed inclined to disturb the silence by speaking. At length Hermione cast her eyes around them and sighed.

“I love it here,” she said. “It’s like something out of a dream.”

They turned to face each other. Both seemed to sense a deeper meaning behind Hermione’s words, though even she wasn’t sure if she had spoken spontaneously or with purpose aforethought. Either way, the subject had been broached. Harry smiled, his hold on Hermione’s hand increasing slightly.

“Do you want to tell me about your dream?” she asked. “I could tell by looking at you that there was a bit more than you told Ron and Ginny.”

“Yeah,” Harry nodded. “It was an odd sort of dream. I was standing on the Hogwarts grounds. It was just after Dumbledore had fallen from the tower. I was looking down on him, like I did for real last month. But this time, when I was looking at his face, he – he opened his eyes and looked back at me.”

“That must have been horrible,” Hermione said.

“There was no one else there,” Harry continued. “Just the two of us. We looked at each other for a moment, then Dumbledore got up and stood in front of me. He looked straight into my eyes – he still had his glasses on, and he looked over them, like he used to do when he wanted to tell me something important.”

“My grandmum used to do that,” Hermione said. “I think it was her way of showing me that what she was about to say was so important that nothing, even two little panes of glass, should come between us at that moment. It was just the two of us, becoming one.”

“I think you’re right,” Harry said thoughtfully, as if he’d never looked at it that way before.

“What exactly did Dumbledore say?” Hermione asked.

“Well,” Harry said, “it’s pretty much like I said. He told me that I had a big job to do, and that he wouldn’t be there to help me like he did before. I had to learn to take care of myself, and the first step toward that was to go back to school so I could finish my training. He said – he said it was what my mum and dad would have wanted, and Sirius, too. He told me to send a letter to Professor McGonagall, saying I was coming back. He said she’d know what to do. He said something about plans already having been made for me, whatever that means.”

“It probably means,” Hermione speculated, “that Dumbledore knew you’d have to face Voldemort eventually, so he must have prepared your courses in advance for your final year.”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “I remember our talk the night Sirius died. He said that, according to the Prophesy, Voldemort and I couldn’t exist together. One of us – one of us would have to kill the other. Maybe he made plans for that right then. I think – ”

“What?” Hermione said.

“I think that’s the real reason he went and got Professor Slughorn out of retirement.” Harry said. “McGonagall told him about our career chat, and when I didn’t get an Outstanding O.W.L. in Potions, he knew Snape wouldn’t accept me into his advanced class, and I couldn’t qualify as an Auror without taking Advanced Potions.”

“You’ve only just figured that out, have you?” Hermione said, wearing her maddeningly familiar expression of superiority, tempered now with a devilish twinkle in her eye that was more maddening still, if in an entirely different way. “Dumbledore knew that Snape could easily fill the Defense Against the Dark Arts position, leaving Slughorn to step in as Potions Master, thus solving two problems at once.”

“But how in the bloody hell did Dumbledore expect me to pass my Defense class with Snape in charge?” Harry demanded argumentatively. “He must have known that Snape would do everything he could to keep my marks down so he’d have an excuse to fail me, like he did in Potions. Remember when he smashed my potion sample on purpose so he’d have an excuse to give me a zero? He was doing pretty much the same thing all last year, working to keep me from learning enough to get the N.E.W.T. mark I’d need to qualify as an Auror trainee. The way I look at it, Dumbledore would’ve done better to pull ruddy Lockhart out of St. Mungo’s and give him his old job back. All I’d’ve had to do then is stay out of his path and learn what I needed to know on my own, like I did when we were conducting the D.A. meetings behind Umbridge’s back.”

If Harry expected his argument to change Hermione’s expression, he was mistaken. If anything, her transcendent smile grew even wider.

“But you’ve just said it yourself, Harry,” she beamed. “Don’t you see? You got your only Outstanding O.W.L. in Defense Against the Dark Arts, despite Dolores Umbridge’s best efforts to the contrary. You proved to everyone, not least Dumbledore, that you could teach yourself what you need to know. I think Dumbledore had every confidence in you that you could do it again, and he was right, wasn’t he? Snape did his worst, but in the end, you excelled in the class. If we’d sat our exams at the end of the year,” she said with a slight catch in her voice, “I think you’d have done smashingly, and I’m sure Dumbledore thought the same.”

“Last year, yeah,” Harry said grudgingly. “But what about this year? It’s too much to hope that Dumbledore would have found another Defense teacher and sacked Snape, like he should have done years ago. What if all that rubbish last year hadn’t happened and Snape carried on again like before? I know Snape always said I was too sure of myself by half, but even I’m not arrogant enough to think I could learn enough on my own to go off and face Voldemort. What would Dumbledore have done then?”

“I think it’s perfectly obvious what he would have done,” Hermione said, her smile softening, and the triumph in her voice giving way to a quiet reverence. “He would have taught you himself. Everyone knows that Dumbledore was the greatest wizard in the world. Even Voldemort knew it. Who better to prepare you to face the challenges ahead of you than Dumbledore? He knew you were set on going off after you finished school. Nothing anyone could do or say would stop you. Knowing that, do you think he’d have sent you off without doing everything he could to help you succeed?” Hermione’s voice dropped still lower as she said, “I know you said Dumbledore apologized to you for a lot of things he wished he’d done differently over the years. But he always did them with your best interests at heart. If he’d lived to carry on, he’d have done everything in his power, not just to help you pass your N.E.W.T.’s and qualify as an Auror, but to prepare you to go off against Voldemort. I know he would have done. And I think you do, too.”

And as Hermione’s voice faded into silence, Harry knew in his heart that she was right.

“Dumbledore took over teaching me Occlumency last year,” he murmured. “He said that he knew my sessions with Snape hadn’t worked out the way he hoped. To be exact,” Harry smiled thinly, “he said they’d been a fiasco.”

Hermione squeezed Harry’s hand, and his eyes locked onto hers, reflecting a deep sorrow that made him look as old as she had ever seen.

“When Dumbledore found what he thought was another one of Voldemort’s Horcruxes,” Harry said heavily, “he took me along. At first I thought it was so I could get back something of what Voldemort took from me when he killed my parents. That was part of it, but there was more to it than that. I think – I think Dumbledore knew he was dying. The Dark Curse that withered his arm when he destroyed the first Horcrux was killing him, and he was afraid, but not of dying. He was afraid he would die without doing what he set out to do, to find and destroy all of the Horcruxes. If he’d done that, Voldemort would have been mortal again. I would at least have had a chance against him when I went off. But he came to realize he’d never live long enough to do that. So he took me along to kind of, I dunno, show me what had to be done so I could carry on after...”

Harry’s throat tightened. Hermione said nothing, but held his hand tightly, lending him her strength. Perhaps drawing upon this, Harry took a deep breath and let it out slowly. When he spoke again, it was with a renewed conviction, tempered with a touch of weariness that added to his aged aspect.

“If Dumbledore was planning on doing what you said – and I think he was – that’s all done now. But Dumbledore never did anything by halves. He must have drawn up some kind of plan that he intended to follow. And even though he’s not here to carry it out, I think that plan still exists. That’s what he meant when he told me in my dream that plans had already been made. He must have left instructions for Professor McGonagall, just in case. I expect she’ll hand those plans over to whoever she hires to fill the Defense job, maybe even carry out some of them herself, just to be sure. It’ll almost be like Dumbledore himself is still here, keeping his promise.”

Harry let out a heavy sigh. It seemed to Hermione that his eyes became noticeably brighter. He looked down at her and smiled.

“I don’t know if I could’ve told all that to anyone else, even Ron.”

“That’s it, then?” Hermione said, feeling the weight of their shared burden lift from her. “Is that when the dream ended and you woke up?”

Harry’s expression grew serious again. Hermione came alert at once.

“Was there something else Dumbledore said? Something you just remembered?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Two things, actually. But the first wasn’t anything new.” When Hermione questioned Harry with her eyes, he said, “He just told me again what he’s said before, you know, about how the power I need to destroy Voldemort is inside me. He said I should never forget my mum’s sacrifice – that it was the power of love that saved me that night, and it would be that same power that would destroy Voldemort. But – there was something different this time – something about the way he looked at me, you know, over the rims of his glasses. It was like he knew something – a secret he thought I should know without his having to say it. And then, all at once, I knew. I understood what he’d meant all along.”

“What do you mean?” Hermione said.

Harry smiled, and his aged aspect seemed to fall away like a tattered cloak. His face appeared to glow in such fashion that the golden sunlight shining down on them paled by contrast.

“Like I said, Dumbledore must have told me that a hundred times,” Harry said softly. “I always thought it was rubbish. But that was only because I didn’t understand what he meant. Now I do.”

Harry looked deeply into Hermione’s eyes, the two of them embracing on a level beyond the physical. Hermione could feel her heart beating, the sound magnified against the quiet surrounding them. Having forgotten to breathe, Hermione inhaled softly and whispered, “You said there were two things Dumbledore said? What was the other?”

Shaking himself back to the moment, Harry opened his mouth, hesitating as a distant look passed over his eyes. In a voice that seemed to come from miles away, he said, “It was something really strange. He said that, even though he was gone, he’d still be there for me when I really needed him.”

“What do you suppose he meant by that?” Hermione pondered. “Is he going to keep visiting you in your dreams?”

“Dunno,” Harry said. “But the very last thing he said was that if I had any questions, I’d find the answers at Hogwarts.”

“What happened then?” Hermione said.

“While he was standing right in front of me,” Harry said, “he suddenly erupted into a column of fire. He shot straight up into the air, lighting up the whole sky – and then he turned into a phoenix, you know, like we saw over – ”

“Over his tomb,” Hermione finished quietly.

“That’s when I woke up,” Harry said, shivering at the memory despite the heat of the day. “The first two times it happened, I thought it was just a dream. But the third time, I realized it was more than that. So I told Dumbledore I’d do what he said. I reckon he must have heard me, wherever he is, because I didn’t have any more dreams after that.”

There was nothing more to say. Their hands still linked, Harry and Hermione resumed their walk. Their burden shed, they opened themselves once more to their surroundings, becoming one with earth and sky, and with each other. Topping a low rise, they passed through an opening in the trees and emerged into the paddock where the Weasley children would practice Quidditch out of sight of Muggle eyes. They halted, and Harry lifted his head to stare longingly at the open sky. Hermione smiled as she placed her hand on his neck and teased at the fringe of hair above the collar of his shirt.

“Are you going to speak to Professor McGonagall about continuing Quidditch this year?” Hermione asked.

Harry nodded, not taking his eyes off the sky. “You’re right, we’ll all need something to take our minds off everything. I think Professor McGonagall will agree.” Turning, he added with a note of melancholy, “But it won’t be the same.”

“Nothing can ever be the same,” Hermione agreed. “Hogwarts won’t seem right without Dumbledore.”

“One thing isn’t going to change,” Harry said quietly. “The way I feel about you.”

Harry placed his hand on Hermione’s arm. The fingers that had been teasing his hair slipped around his neck and drew his face to hers.

“I’m afraid, Harry,” she said, her voice aching as her eyes embraced his. “I don’t want to lose you. I’ll never forget how I felt when Ron and I were waiting outside the hospital wing at the end of our first year – waiting to hear if – if you – ”

Harry slipped his hands around Hermione’s waist and pulled her against him. He buried his face in her hair, inhaling the sweet, flowery aroma permeating her thick, bushy tresses.

“I love you,” he murmured almost painfully through her hair.

Their lips found each other’s in a soft, urgent kiss that deepened with every moment. Harry’s fingers tangled in Hermione’s mane as hers clung to his back. They sank to the soft grass, their kisses becoming more passionate. Hermione’s hands, acting as if with a will of their own, were under Harry’s shirt, stroking the smooth skin of his back. Harry’s own hands were moving along Hermione’s hips, sliding up her middle toward the soft swell of her breasts. His fingers found the neck of her blouse and began to toy with her buttons. One after another they parted, and Hermione felt the inner curves of her bosom tingling to the warmth of Harry’s breath. His lips touched her skin, and Hermione sighed deeply. But a moment later she pulled back, her hands slipping from around Harry to fumble with her buttons.

“We can’t,” she said, her eyes staring down the shallow valley between her breasts as she hastily buttoned her blouse.

As Harry’s muddled brain slowly cleared, he sat back and watched blankly as Hermione methodically slid each button into its slot until the pale skin below her neck was once again hidden from his hungry eyes. When Hermione looked up at last, fearful what Harry’s response to her sudden reversal might be, she was surprised to see a wan smile on his face.

“Things were a lot simpler between us before last year, weren’t they?” he said.

“I don’t think things were ever as simple as we imagined,” Hermione said, her hands falling into her lap with the completion of her task. “But they definitely became more complicated last year. And it’s only going to get worse. I’ve begun to think the founders should have added an extra spell to the wards protecting Hogwarts. Something to prevent students from falling in love. It would make it much easier to focus on our studies if we weren’t distracted by...other concerns.”

“I don’t think there's a spell ever invented that could have stopped me from falling in love with you,” Harry said seriously. He leaned close and took Hermione’s chin between his thumb and forefinger. “But I can’t deny that it’s going to be bloody difficult concentrating on ways to kill Voldemort when all I can think about is how fantastic it feels to touch you.”

Her cheeks going red, Hermione said, “I feel the same way. When you touch me, a part of me wants to throw common sense to the wind and let my passion run wild. Just now, there was a moment when I wanted nothing more in the world than to pull you against me and...”

Hermione’s voice trailed off as the pink glow on her cheeks began to creep down to paint the portion of her bosom not hidden by the neck of her blouse. Harry touched her face, and she wrapped her hand around his and held it against her cheek.

“There are too many trap doors for us to rush into something like this,” Hermione said. “And what’s waiting at the bottom is a lot dodgier than Devil’s Snare. We need to go slowly.”

“Are you having doubts?” Harry asked.

“About us?” Hermione said quickly. “No. Never. But it’s too soon for us to move to the next stage. We have too many other things to do first. We need to think clearly about where we’re going – and it’s bloody difficult for me to keep a clear thought in my head when you kiss me like you’ve been. If we’d carried on like we nearly did, I’d never be able to look at you all year at school without remembering. How would it look for me to be sitting in Madam Pomfrey’s class, trying to memorize the ingredients of a healing potion with a silly grin on my face?”

“It would look like you were channeling Ron from the Welcoming Feast for Beauxbatons,” Harry said. Hermione laughed so hard she fell back on the grass. Harry lay down beside her. His hand caressed her shoulder and neck, but did not approach the buttons she had so recently done up. He kissed her, and Hermione held him against her, writhing against the firm, Quidditch-hardened muscles underneath his shirt.

“Harry,” Hermione breathed into his ear. “I need you to keep your mind on your studies this year. I couldn’t bear to lose you for any reason, but if I thought I was the cause...”

“My thoughts are going to be centered on you no matter what,” Harry said. “In every class we don’t share, you’ll be sitting beside me. Your voice will be in my ear, telling me to do my best. Your smile will give me hope when everything seems hopeless. I’ll think of the day when we can finally be together – really together. I’m not going to let anything stop me from spending my life with you. I’m going to work like I’ve never worked before. I’m going to become the best wizard I can be. Because I’m in love with the cleverest witch there is, and I never want to be less than worthy of her.”

“I told you a long time ago that you were a great wizard,” Hermione whispered, her eyes brimming with tears of love. “I was right.”

“If I am,” Harry said, “it’s because of you.”

They held each other, Harry’s hands laced through Hermione’s bushy brown hair. He inhaled her sweet fragrance as he clung to her desperately, never wanting to let her go. He never knew how long they lay together, but the sun was edging toward the tops of the trees when they finally disentangled themselves and sat up. Hermione brushed her hair out of her eyes, Harry lending her a hand.

“I think I’d better wash my hair tonight,” she said, combing leaves and twigs from her bushy tresses.

“After you’ve dried off,” Harry said, “can I have your towel to sleep with? It won’t be as good as having you, but if you’re going to keep putting me off, I’ll have to settle for what I can get.”

Hermione laughed, and Harry kissed her. The vibrations from her laughter tickled his lips, making him laugh in turn. For a moment, their love was become something pure and innocent, almost child-like. But Harry knew that, if he remained in contact with Hermione for much longer, he would be overcome with feelings of a more adult nature, stirrings which, once awakened, he would be hard pressed to put to sleep again. Reluctantly, he pulled his face from Hermione’s, savoring her taste on his lips. He rose up, drawing her with him. He slipped his arm around her waist, and Hermione imitated the gesture after a fashion, her hand falling below Harry’s hips to cup his bum.

“You’re a cheeky monkey,” Harry laughed as Hermione gave his backside a squeeze.

“Just because I’m not indulging in the banquet just yet, that doesn’t mean I can’t sample the side dishes,” she said, her dark eyes twinkling.

Hermione was careful to raise her hand to a more socially acceptable position before coming in sight of the Burrow. As if reading each other’s mind, they parted smoothly, their hands sliding into each other’s. Hand-in-hand, they walked unconcernedly into the Weasleys’ back garden, where they found Ron and Ginny sitting in chairs with glasses in their hands, the light of the westering sun lending their faces a golden glow.

“Where’ve you two been?” Ron asked.

“More to the point,” Ginny said, eyeing Hermione’s disheveled hair, “what have you been doing?”

“Nothing worth Rita Skeeter writing about in the Daily Prophet,” Hermione said, winking at Harry.

“Bugger,” Ron said, his blue eyes smirking over the rim of his glass as he drained its contents.

“How are plans for the wedding coming?” Harry asked.

“Slow but sure,” Ginny said. “I’ll be helping Mum all day tomorrow.”

“Can you use an extra hand?” Hermione asked.

“I was counting on it,” Ginny smiled.

“Can I help?” Harry asked.

“You can help me,” Ron said. “Dad needs to put up some sort of bower, with flowers and stuff, for Bill and Fleur to stand under. Dad fancies himself a builder, but, well...” His eyes rolled up toward the drunken lines of the Burrow, which structure looked as if the next gust of wind might send it tumbling to the ground. Harry had suspected from the moment he first saw the Burrow that it must be held up by magic, and his subsequent visits had done nothing to disabuse him of that notion.

“Who’s performing the ceremony?” Harry asked, turning his attention back to Ron. He’d given little thought to that aspect of the ceremony. In all the times he’d looked at his parents’ wedding photos, he’d never thought to ask what sort of ceremony they’d had. It was too late to ask their Best Man, Sirius, but he would make a point of asking Remus the next time he saw him.

“I keep forgetting,” Ron said, “you and Hermione don’t know a lot of stuff about the wizarding world, growing up in Muggle homes.”

“I’ve been reading up a bit on wizard weddings,” Hermione said.

“Any special reason?” Ginny smiled.

Hermione coughed lightly, and Harry interceded by asking Ron directly, “So, how will Bill and Fleur be getting married?”

“It’s a standard ceremony,” Ron said. “Nothing fancy. Basically, they just exchange vows in front of everyone, declaring their love for each other and all that rubbish.” Ginny shot Ron a sour look, which he either did not notice, or pretended not to. “When that’s done,” Ron went on, “the groom’s attendant – I think the Muggles’d call him the Best Man – hands over the license for them to sign.”

“Who did Bill choose as his attendant?” Harry asked. “Your dad? Or Charlie? Or does he have a best mate, like my dad had Sirius?”

“No,” Ron said, going slightly pink. “It’s, uh, me, actually.”

“That’s quite an honor,” Harry said, feeling the aura of pride emanating from Ron.

“Not really,” Ginny said as she swirled her drink casually, her eyes focused on the ice cubes spinning in slow circles around the circumference of her glass. “It’s tradition to ask the youngest male family member. Bill didn’t have a choice. Since Pigwidgeon didn’t exactly qualify, it was Ron or nothing.”

Seeing Ron’s cheeks going pink, Harry said, “With you holding the license, the whole ceremony is in your hands. Apart from the bride and groom, you’ll be the most important person there.”

“The license is enchanted, isn’t it?” Hermione said, following Harry’s lead to divert Ron from his sister’s barbed comment. Despite her inflection, it was less a question than a statement.

“Right,” Ron said. “When the Ministry issues a license, they place an enchantment on it, something like the one you used on those fake Galleons that signaled us when a D.A. meeting was being convened.”

“A Protean Charm,” Hermione said, her voice catching slightly in a manner that only Harry noticed.

“The license also comes with an enchanted quill,” Ron continued. “When Bill and Fleur sign their copy of the license, their signatures will appear at the same moment on another copy of the license at the Ministry. That officially sanctions the union under wizarding law.”

“Where are the license and quill now?” Harry asked.

“The license is in my room,” Ron said. “I’ll have it in my robes when the ceremony begins, and I’ll hand it over once the vows are completed.”

“I suggested he give it over to Mum for safe keeping,” Ginny said. “With all the mess and clutter up there, you could lose a herd of thestrals.”

“I’m not going to lose it,” Ron said petulantly, sounding as if this were not the first time he and Ginny had clashed in this manner.

“What about the quill?” Hermione asked, trying to defuse the situation. Ron was about to answer, but Ginny spoke first.

“The bride’s attendant – you’d call her the maid of honor – keeps that. That’ll be Fleur’s sister, Gabrielle. She’ll present it when Ron hands over the license.” A jaunty lift of her fiery eyebrow added an unspoken, “If he hands it over.” Ron frowned again but made no other reply. “When both Bill and Fleur have signed,” Ginny concluded, “they’ll draw their wands and tap the document together. That will activate the enchantment, bonding the signatures permanently on both copies. The moment that happens, the quill will crumble to dust in Fleur’s hand – traditionally, the bride signs last,” she clarified for Harry and Hermione. “As a final gesture, Fleur will hold out her hand, and she and Bill will blow the dust away, signifying that the ceremony is final and irrevocable.”

“Sort of like breaking glasses at a Muggle wedding,” Hermione observed.

“I wonder if my mum and dad got married that way?” Harry mused aloud. “Mum was Muggle-born, so they could have gone either way.”

“I expect they had two ceremonies,” Hermione said. “One wizard ceremony, the other, Muggle. That would explain Sirius being Best Man, since Ron just said wizard ceremonies don’t have that position to fill. Hagrid specifically called him the Best Man, not the attendant, which argues for a Muggle ceremony in addition to a wizarding one.”

“Why two ceremonies?” Harry asked.

“Because that way, the marriage would be legal in both worlds,” Hermione said. “Your mother was Muggle-born, so it’s reasonable that they’d want to have a ceremony her parents could attend. And if for some reason they ever had to live in the Muggle world, I don’t imagine they could show anyone a license with the seal of the Ministry of Magic on it, could they?”

Harry looked at Hermione curiously. Her earlier remark implied that she had been giving serious thought to the subject of marriage, and this had only been underscored by her attention to Ron’s and Ginny’s description of the upcoming wedding at the Burrow. If she had been thinking along such lines, did that mean she was pondering her own wedding in more than an abstract sense? It was certainly something Harry had thought about, though he had as yet said nothing to Hermione. With so much to do, so many dangers lying ahead of them, marriage was not something he’d considered for the near future. Later, when Voldemort was gone, there would be plenty of time for such plans. For now, however...

“It’s all a lot of fuss,” Ron said dismissively, turning Harry’s thoughts back to the present. “As far as the Ministry is concerned, Bill and Fleur don’t even have to have the ceremony. They could just sign the license and head straight off for the honeymoon.”

A hungry look flickered across Ron’s eyes, which presented a very transparent window to his thoughts that could hardly go unnoticed. Harry was sure that a small part of Ron – or one not so small – still remembered the thrill attendant to Fleur’s magical veela aura, which had enchanted so many boys at Hogwarts, both before and during the Triwizard Tournament, and none more so than Ron. Oddly, Harry had not been affected by Fleur’s siren-like enchantment during her stay at Hogwarts (though he had succumbed readily enough at the Quidditch World Cup when the Bulgarian National Team’s veela mascots were cavorting across the pitch). He and Fleur had been in close proximity many times in their roles as their respective school Champions. Harry had frequently stood close enough to Fleur to reach out and touch her, yet he’d never felt the slightest urge to do so. By contrast, Ron could not come within a dozen yards of the vivacious veela without dissolving into a drooling idiot (though Ginny would have remarked caustically that this was only marginally removed from his natural state). Harry had given this dichotomy no thought at the time, his attention being distracted by the Triwizard Tournament (among other things). It was only last month that he understood why he had been immune to Fleur’s charms.

“Is that all you think marriage is about?” Ginny said coldly, eyes narrowed.

Ron shrugged, trying unsuccessfully to hide a grin. “It’s still legal,” he said.

“That wouldn’t be very romantic, would it?” Hermione observed. “I’ve read about loads of different wizarding ceremonies that sound fascinating. It’ll be hard to choose when the time comes. But I’ll definitely want something special, something I’ll remember for the rest of my life.”

“When are the bride and groom arriving?” Harry asked Ginny, trying to divert her attention from Ron’s dreamy expression.

“According to custom, they’re not allowed to see each other until the moment the ceremony begins,” Ginny said, her eyes not quite leaving Ron as she turned to face Harry. “Mum said Fleur will be in France, with her family, until the day of the ceremony. Since Fleur’s sister isn’t old enough to Apparate, they’ll all arrive by Intercontinental portkey. I’m not sure where they’ll be staying, but I imagine the Department of International Magical Cooperation will arrange something for them, if they haven’t already. They’ll all pop in early, with the rest of the guests, except for Fleur. At the proper moment, she’ll Apparate under the bower at the same moment as Bill.”

“Bill will be staying here,” Ron answered the second part of Harry’s question when Ginny ran out of breath. “He’ll arrive a day early, to help out. On the actual day, he’ll have to stay up in his room until the time comes to pop in.”

“How will he know when Fleur is arriving so he can Apparate under the bower with her?” Hermione asked with her usual insight.

“Easy enough,” Ron said. “You know how Apparation works, right? First you see your destination with your mind, then you let your body follow after.” Hermione nodded. “Dad’ll place a Charm on the bower so that it gives off a kind of signal that only a mind open to Apparation can hear. Bill and Fleur will already be concentrating on the bower, and when they hear the signal, they’ll both Disapparate from their respective locations and appear together at virtually the same moment.”

“That’s so beautiful,” Hermione said, and Harry thought he saw a gleam in her eyes as if to indicate that she was making a mental note of all that Ron had said. He’d seen that same look in class a hundred times when a teacher said something significant that she wanted to remember for future reference.

“You know,” Ginny now put in, “there’s a superstition that goes along with the role of attendant in a wizard wedding.”

“What?” Hermione said, her curiosity aroused.

“Ginny – ” Ron began in an exasperated tone, but Ginny spoke over him.

“Superstition has it that the attendant will be married himself within a year,” Ginny said, grinning broadly at her brother.

“That’s a load of rubbish," Ron said gruffly. “Gabrielle is Fleur’s attendant, she she’s hardly old enough to marry. She’s only just starting at Beauxbatons this term.”

“Well,” Hermione said knowledgably, “if I remember correctly, French wizarding law allows a girl to marry at any age as long as her parents give their consent. Some marriages are arranged at birth, and they take place as soon as the promised couple receive their wands.”

“This isn’t France,” Ron said stubbornly. “I don’t plan on getting married for a bit.”

“That shouldn’t prove difficult,” Ginny remarked. “Who’d have you?”

“Loads of girls,” Ron said hotly.

“Name one,” Ginny challenged airily.

His ears going pink, Ron rose from his chair and entered the house, slamming the screen door behind him.

“That was cruel, Ginny,” Hermione said reprovingly.

Ginny merely shrugged and sipped nonchalantly from her glass.

Looking for a way to ease the tension between Hermione and Ginny, Harry asked, “How many people will be coming?”

Lowering her glass, Ginny said, “We don’t know yet.”

“Has everyone R.S.V.P.’d?” Hermione asked.

“Yes,” Ginny said. “But each guest is allowed to invite one person to come along. Some will bring a date or a friend, and others will come alone. Since the guests often don’t know themselves if they’ll be bringing someone until the last minute, the final number is always up in the air until the last guest arrives.” Casting her eyes back toward the door through which her brother had just vanished, she added tartly, “Some blokes never do manage.”

“It’s still a small guest list, right?” Harry said.

“Yes,” Ginny nodded. “For security purposes, every guest will be personally approved by Mum or Dad. We can’t take chances, especially after...you know.”

Silence fell around the small group. The tragic events of the previous school year were scarcely a month old, and none of them was as yet prepared to reopen that wound.

“I expect you’ll have invited only family and a few close friends,” Hermione said. After a pause, she asked, “Have you invited anyone to be your personal guest?”

Ginny suddenly turned a very deep shade of pink. “No,” she said slowly. “No, there’s – there’s no one I want to invite.”

Hermione saw that Ginny was suddenly looking in every direction except toward Harry. Harry could not fail to notice this as well, and he, in turn, abruptly found himself looking away from Hermione. The awkwardness of the moment was broken by a voice from the house.

“Ginny, Hermione,” Mrs. Weasley called out, “I need you to give me a hand with something.”

Grateful to have a reason to look in a specific direction – any direction away from Harry – Ginny turned in her chair and said, “Coming, Mum.”

Ginny and Hermione rose together, trotting off toward the Burrow. Harry watched as they disappeared through the door, which banged shut behind them. Alone now, Harry sat for a moment, pondering all that had been said – and more, what had not been said. Needing to clear his head, he realized that what he wanted more than anything was to take to the air on his Firebolt. Shading his eyes with his hand, he estimated that, allowing for travel time, he would have perhaps another twenty minutes of daylight before dusk settled over Ottery St. Catchpole. That should be time enough to practice a few dives and turns in preparation for the upcoming Quidditch season. He might even have a go at the Wronski Feint.

His broom was up in Ron’s room, lying across the camp bed that sat parallel to Ron’s regular bed. Ron had taken Harry’s trunk upstairs to their shared room, and had been unable to resist the temptation of taking Harry’s broom out and admiring it. When Harry had playfully taken Ron to task for “violating his privacy,” Ron replied straight-faced (doing his best imitation of Percy) that, the room being his, he made the rules and Harry could “ruddy well walk up one flight and kip with the ghoul” if he didn’t like it.

In fact, Mrs. Weasley had offered Harry his own room – there was plenty of space now that Percy and the twins had all vacated the house. Hermione had likewise been offered her own room for privacy’s sake. She and Harry had both declined, preferring to share living quarters with Ron and Ginny. With so many plans to be sorted out for the coming year, and beyond, it was paramount to have someone at hand with whom to exchange thoughts – and fears – especially in the late-night hours when the imagination was most vulnerable. The value of such an arrangement far outweighed the minimal benefits of a private room. Harry knew that his head would explode if he did not have an outlet for his turbulent thoughts in this time following the events of the previous month. Apart from Ron, the only person with whom Harry could be completely honest in such matters was Hermione.

Harry had entertained the notion of asking Mrs. Weasley if he and Hermione could share one of the spare rooms. He dismissed the idea almost as quickly as it came. He knew she would never agree to such an arrangement. He could hear Mrs. Weasley's voice sniffing, “It’s not proper for an unmarried witch and wizard to share the same space under one roof.” No matter that he and Hermione would be sleeping in separate beds (knowing Hermione as he did, he knew better than to suggest otherwise). Being completely honest with himself, Harry could not say whether he could resist the temptations attendant to sharing a room with Hermione, separate beds or no, and that indecision would be his undoing where Mrs. Weasley was concerned. If Mrs. Weasley was not a true Legilimens after the fashion of Dumbledore (not to mention Voldemort and Snape), she would do until one came along. She had demonstrated an uncanny ability to look straight through her children as if they were made of glass, nor had Harry been spared in this regard. Nothing short of his opening a vein and swearing an oath on his own blood would have shifted her from her resolute position of immobility.

An odd thought sprang unbidden into Harry’s mind. What if the present living arrangements were reversed, but the other way around? What would Mrs. Weasley’s reaction be to Harry rooming with Ginny, and Hermione with Ron?

Harry shook his head. Where had that notion sprung from?

With a sharp mental jerk, Harry returned his attention to the problem at hand. The sun was sinking toward the trees, and his Firebolt was at the very top of the house. Trudging up and down the many flights of stairs leading to Ron’s room would waste valuable time better spent in the air. In addition, Ron, seeing what Harry was doing, would almost certainly want to join him. And for reasons not quite clear, Harry felt the need to be alone right now. There were times in a friendship when distance was as important as intimacy, and this was one of those times.

There was only one thing for it. Drawing his wand, Harry pointed it at Ron’s window and said, “Accio Firebolt!” A moment later, Harry’s faithful broomstick leaped from Ron’s open window and darted to his side.

The Ministry won’t know whose spell that was, Harry argued in his mind. For all they know, it could have been cast by Mrs. Weasley, or Ron, or Hermione. All the same, Harry hurried away as quickly as he could without breaking into a full run. If a Ministry owl turned up while he was absent... If I don’t see it, it’s not really there, is it? He chuckled. That kind of reasoning might pass for sound logic when one was five years old, but it would hardly serve for a wizard about to enter his majority. But for now, in the absence of something more substantial, it would have to do.

Harry walked up the hill back to the paddock, following the well-worn path through the woods beyond which the Muggle inhabitants of Ottery St. Catchpole lived in blissful ignorance of the nearby family whom Uncle Vernon had referred to as “weirdos.” Remembering what had nearly happened here between him and Hermione only a few hours earlier, Harry forcibly jerked his thoughts back to the purpose of his return. Staring at the open space framing the indigo sky overhead, Harry recalled the last time he flew his broomstick here. A sharp twinge pricked at his insides. He shrugged it off impatiently and straddled his broom. He kicked off, soaring high into the sky. He pulled up quickly. If he soared too high, there was a danger that he would be seen by Muggle eyes. That was not something that could be brushed off as easily as an underage spell. Ministry Obliviators would have to be called in to modify the memories of any non-magical persons who had seen “a young man flying on a broom.” That would bring unwanted trouble down on the Weasleys, made worse for that Mr. Weasley was a Ministry employee. He’d already got Mr. Weasley in trouble when he and Ron had flown the enchanted Ford Anglia to Hogwarts when Dobby had blocked their access to Platform 9 3/4. No matter that Harry had more than repaid Mr. Weasley by saving his life when Voldemort’s snake, Nagini (possessed by Voldemort himself) had bitten him outside the Department of Mysteries over a year ago. The Weasleys had become family to Harry. He owed it to them to treat them with the respect they deserved, and not to carelessly bring unnecessary troubles down on their heads. Merlin knew they already had enough to be getting on with.

Leveling off at a safe height, Harry began to zoom around the confined space, imagining he was chasing the Golden Snitch as Gryffindor’s Seeker. He practiced twists and turns, climbs and dives. He tried the Wronski Feint a few times, but he was unable to begin his dive at a great enough height to get the proper feel of the maneuver, so he gave it up. He wanted to practice catching the Snitch, or something at least approximating the tiny winged sphere, but he was unsure how to duplicate a magical object when he was forbidden to do magic (curse the slowness with which the days between now and the 31st were passing!).

In times past, he and Ron had taken turns tossing apples into the air for the other to chase down. With no one but himself present, Harry tried chucking small stones as high as he could (he wanted to test his skills on something more closely approximating the size and shape of the Snitch; apples were too large). But even standing astride his broom, he was unable to kick off quickly enough after throwing the stones to catch them before they fell to the ground. His biggest handicap was his inability to throw the stones high enough. His feeble tosses only served to remind him how lucky he was to be playing Seeker on the Gryffindor Quidditch team. He could never have made the team as a Chaser with such a poor throwing arm. His father had been a Chaser in his day. Ginny Weasley was an excellent Chaser. If she returned to the team this year, Gryffindor might have a passable squad, even without a pair of Beaters to equal the departed Fred and George. They still needed to fill the other two Chasers’ positions, but they were solid at Keeper with Ron protecting the goal rings.

It struck Harry of a sudden that, even if he followed Hermione’s advice to play Quidditch for therapeutic reasons, there was no way he could repeat as Quidditch captain. He had far too much to concentrate on without adding the burden of whipping a team into a competitive frenzy throughout practices and games, not to mention the many strategy sessions that would be necessary.

In Harry’s judgment, there was only one choice for the job. Years ago, Ron had looked into the Mirror of Erised and seen himself holding the Quidditch Cup, wearing both Quidditch captains’ robes and a shining Head Boy badge. While Harry had already been given the Head Boy badge per Dumbledore’s instructions, there was no reason why Ron could not realize the second of his two mirror fantasies (the first had come to pass a year ago, when Ron was carried off the pitch by his jubilant teammates after their spectacular victory over Ravenclaw, the Cup held high in his hands). Harry nodded, a smile spreading across his face. The Quidditch captain was chosen by mutual consent of the team and the head of House. He was sure Professor McGonagall would gladly name Ron to succeed him as Captain of Quidditch, and the team, with Harry’s support, would concur.

But Harry’s heart sank as he remembered that Professor McGonagall was no longer head of Gryffindor House. Having assumed the position of headmistress, she must now designate another to replace her as the administrator of Gryffindor House. Harry realized that he had no idea who would fill that vacancy. There would be two new heads this year. Professor Slughorn had already been named to replace Snape as head of Slytherin House. Harry’s stomach knotted every time he thought of Snape, of his treachery and deceit – and murder. He shook his head. Vengeance was a path leading only to ruin. If he was to fulfill his destiny as the destroyer of Voldemort, it must be out of a sense of duty, not revenge. There was a time not so long ago when he would have scoffed at the notion. Voldemort had killed Harry’s parents, leaving him to be brought up by the Dursleys. That decision had ultimately been Dumbledore’s, of course, and Harry knew now (as he had not until only recently) that it was the only decision the old wizard could have made under the circumstances. But it would not have been necessary if not for Voldemort.

Harry shook his head again. He had come out here to clear his thoughts, not burden them with such weighty matters. Sighing heavily, he stooped to pick up another small stone. He rolled the hard, round object in his palm, staring up at the darkening sky contemplatively. Lost in his musings, he was unaware that he was no longer alone until a quiet, throaty voice spoke from behind him.

“I can do that for you if you’d like.”

Harry whirled suddenly. A girl with very long dirty-blonde hair was ambling toward him. Her eyes were so overlarge that they were easily visible in the gathering dusk, and she had a dreamy look on her face as she looked up at the sky before stopping in front of Harry. She smiled wanly, her pale face glowing in the twilight, and Harry responded in kind.

“Hi, Luna,” he said. “How long have you been here?”

“Here?” Luna replied vacantly. “You mean, here in the village, or here as in here in the clearing with you?”

It was all Harry could do not to laugh. Luna Lovegood was in Ginny’s year, though in Ravenclaw. She lived with her father in Ottery St. Catchpole (her mother was dead), one of only three wizarding families in the small village. The other, apart from the Weasleys, was the Fawcetts. To Harry’s knowledge, they had no school-age children. Luna had been attending Hogwarts as long as Ginny, but Harry had met her for the first time only two years ago. There were times when Luna seemed as detached from reality as if she were a ghost who had lost her way on the path to the next world.

“Here with me,” Harry said at last. “Been watching me practice, have you?”

“I hope you don’t mind,” Luna said.

“No,” Harry said quickly. “Er – you said you wanted to help me practice?”

“Yes,” Luna smiled. “It looks like you could do with a bit more height on your throws.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Harry laughed. “How’s your throwing arm?”

“Pretty good,” Luna said. “I was asked to try out for Chaser on the Ravenclaw team last year, but I was never that enthusiastic about playing. I like to watch, though.”

“Right,” Harry said. He extended his hand, offering Luna the stone. She took it and examined it as though it were a perfect diamond and not a common pebble. At length she lifted her oversized eyes, which caught Harry’s before turning skyward. Harry mounted his broom, and Luna hurled the stone high without warning.

Harry was off like a projectile. The stone had already begun its descent when Harry looped and sped downward. He reached out and plucked the stone from the air. A short distance below, Luna clapped. Harry smiled down on her, bowing his head.

“Have another go?” he asked. When Luna nodded, Harry dropped the stone carefully so that it fell a few feet in front of her. She picked it up and threw it over Harry’s head. He turned quickly, his eyes straining to catch sight of the tiny object against the deepening gloom. The failing light, he decided, added to the challenge, offsetting the obvious drawbacks of not having a real Snitch to chase. He spotted the falling stone when it was less than six feet from the ground. His Firebolt instantly obeyed the forward lunge of his shoulders, exploding in a blur of motion. Harry caught the stone so close to the ground that the untrimmed grass tickled the back of his hand as the faux Snitch fell into his palm. He tucked and rolled, tumbling a few yards before rising smoothly to his knees, his prize held high.

Luna clapped with more enthusiasm than Harry expected. Laughing at the absurdity of the situation, he bowed.

“Does this mean that you’re going to be playing Quidditch this year?” Luna asked as she walked over to Harry.

Standing up now, Harry said, “Hermione thinks it’s a good idea. She says it’ll keep me from becoming too serious over the school year if I have something to divert my attention from time to time.”

“She’s right,” Luna said. “I’ve always believed that life shouldn’t be taken too seriously. My mother told me that we only have a short time in this world, so we should enjoy every moment while we can.”

Harry could not help staring at Luna with a sense of wonder. She looked every bit the essence of “Loony Lovegood,” with her ever-surprised expression and her wand tucked absurdly behind her left ear. But she was wiser than anyone might have guessed from her outward appearance alone. The Sorting Hat had done a good job putting her in Ravenclaw.

“I guess I should be getting back,” Harry said. The sun was now a red glow struggling to penetrate the thick branches, and stars were appearing in the Eastern sky. “Lots to do over the next few days.”

“You mean Bill and Fleur’s wedding,” Luna said.

“You know about that?” Harry said.

“Oh, everyone knows,” Luna said. “It’ll be in all the papers and magazines. Daddy plans on making it the cover story in The Quibbler the week after next – unless something spectacular should come up at the last minute.”

Like a herd of Crumple-Horned Snorkacks chasing the Queen Mum through Buckingham Palace, Harry thought with a carefully concealed smile. Aloud, he asked, “Where will he be getting the details to write about if he’s not there to see it?” This was a fair question, since Harry knew that only close friends were invited to the wedding. The Lovegoods might be neighbors, but Harry had never heard the Weasleys speak of them even in passing. Amos Diggory had mentioned the Lovegoods atop Stoat’s Head Hill when Harry, Hermione and the Weasleys were preparing to portkey to the Quidditch World Cup three years ago. Had Ginny not introduced him to Luna more than a year later on the Hogwarts Express, Harry would never have known she existed at all.

“Oh, I expect he’ll call the Weasleys by fire and ask them for the highlights,” Luna shrugged. “And some of the guests, too, to add some varying perspectives. Daddy conducts most of his interviews that way. He’s not too keen on going out. People make him nervous.”

A sudden inspiration hit Harry. “Luna,” he said, “how would you like to attend the wedding as my guest?”

“Your guest?” Luna repeated vaguely.

“Ginny said everyone’s allowed to bring one guest if they want,” Harry explained. “Everyone I would have asked will already be there. So – would you like to come? You can give your personal account of the ceremony. Your dad might even let you write the article, with your own by-line.”

Luna regarded Harry closely for a long moment. Smiling warmly, she said, “That’s very nice of you, Harry. Yes, I think I’d like that very much.”

“Good,” Harry said. “I’ll let everyone know you’re coming. The ceremony will be at 1:00 on Sunday, August 3rd, but you’ll want to arrive early to get a good seat. Shall I come and get you?”

Harry realized even as he spoke that he had no idea where the Lovegoods lived. Ottery St. Catchpole was a small village, even by Muggle standards, but it didn’t require much space to conceal the only three wizarding households in the vicinity. However, Harry judged that Luna must live close by; she carried no broomstick, and she was, like Ginny (and Harry himself), not yet of age to Apparate. She must therefore have walked from her house to the Weasleys’ paddock, implying that the distance separating the two wizarding homes could not be excessive.

“That’s okay,” Luna said. “I’ll meet you there.” She paused before adding, “Thank you for asking me.”

Waving his goodbye, Harry tucked his Firebolt under his arm and turned to walk back to the Burrow. He stood atop the rise, and looking back the way he had come, he saw Luna following him with her eyes (which were so large, he could see them clearly even in the gathering darkness). He waved again, and Luna waved back. Then he turned and descended the hill, leaving the paddock – and Luna – behind.

It’s time for the first flashback, wherein a scene from HBP begins as we saw it in the book, but ends in a very different manner (one more to my liking, and, I hope, yours).

Harry was relaxing on his camp bed, his middle full to bursting with Mrs. Weasley’s superb cooking. As usual, she had fretted over him all through supper as though he were her own son, which made him feel both very pleased and yet somehow uncomfortable. It seemed to Harry that Mrs. Weasley had not quite accepted his and Hermione’s new relationship. Looking back on his previous visits to the Burrow with Hermione, he could now see many instances where Mrs. Weasley was clearly of a mind to pair up her daughter and youngest son with her two guests. Until recently, she might have had good reason to think that her efforts would come to fruition. Though he and Hermione had been together for more than two months, this was the first time Mrs. Weasley had seen them acting the couple. She appeared to be accepting this new turn of events gracefully, but there were moments when Harry was sure that she was still looking at him as a prospective son in more than the adoptive sense.

Harry stared around Ron’s room abstractedly. He had grown used to the perpetual crimson glare of the many Chudley Cannons posters papering the walls and ceiling, though whenever he caught sight of himself in Ron’s bedside mirror, he saw that he was squinting unconsciously. The first time that had happened, more than a year ago, he had laughed to note that, with his raven hair added to his slitted eyes, he might have passed for Chinese. It had been an amusing thought that he might so resemble the erstwhile girl of his dreams, Cho Chang.

Harry’s stomach knotted slightly now as he thought of Cho. He had pursued her in a state of near intoxication for three years, only to discover that his fancy had been no more than dandelion fluff. What was worse, his blind fixation with Cho had blinkered his eyes in regard to the girl who should have been the object of his attention all along, yet whom he had taken for granted as nothing more than one of his two best friends. The fact that he and Hermione were together now in no way absolved Harry of that guilt. So much time wasted, he thought. Time we’ll never get back.

But almost at once, he heard Hermione’s voice in his mind, speaking in harmony with her stern but loving gaze on a day last June when he had expressed that regret to her under the trees beside the lake at Hogwarts. “Our time together was never wasted, Harry. We were always playing our assigned roles. We’ve always been part of each other. Nothing could have changed that. Even if we didn’t know where our paths would lead, somehow we both knew deep inside that those trails would always be parallel, leading to the same destination. Now our paths have merged into one. And even if they diverge again, we’ll still be going the same way. No matter what happens, we’ll always be there for each other. That will never change.”

“I hope our paths never diverge,” Harry murmured, his words heard by none save the Quidditch players on Ron’s ubiquitous posters. “I don’t want us to travel separate roads. I want us to look to the future – the same future – together.”

A loud grunting sound snapped Harry from his reverie. He chuckled, turning his head to look at Ron, asleep on his bed. True to form, Ron had eaten more than anyone at the table tonight (though Mrs. Weasley had done her best to keep Harry on pace with her son, which task was doomed before it began). Harry could easily understand why Ron always appeared at least three inches taller when Harry saw him again after the Summer holidays. Mrs. Weasley seemed to harbor a secret fear that the House-elves at Hogwarts were not doing all they could to keep her children properly fed (though, Harry noted with amusement, her concerns did not seem to spill over onto Ginny, whose physical aspect she deemed nothing less than perfect). Only when no one could eat another bite did Mrs. Weasley feel that she had accomplished her mission. When the two boys finally trudged up the many flights of stairs to Ron’s room, the door had scarcely opened when Ron fell across his bed and proceeded to do, as Hermione might have said, “his best imitation of a concussed troll.”

Ron’s snore had been so loud that it jerked him from his slumber. He rolled over, blinked his eyes and mumbled, “You say something, Harry?”

“You were snoring, mate,” Harry said through a silent laugh.

“Rubbish,” Ron said thickly. “I don’t snore.”

Harry was about to respond, but he decided that he felt too good to start a row just now, even if it meant a good laugh. Instead he lay his head back against his pillow and relaxed, trying to recapture the blissful feeling Ron's outburst had interrupted. But Ron was having none of it. Now fully awake, the tall redhead sat up and stretched.

“I never should have had that kip,” he said as bones popped audibly in his neck and back. “Now I’ll be awake all night.”

“Are you joking?” Harry chided good-naturedly, carefully opening one eye while keeping the other firmly closed. “I once saw you sleep for ten straight hours in the middle of a thunderstorm. If the mountain under Hogwarts turned into a bleedin’ volcano in the middle of the night, you’d kip on until the ash covered your face.”

“Yeah,” Ron agreed, forcing a very strained smile, “but I’ve got a lot on my mind just now.”

“Like what?” Harry asked, both eyes now squeezed shut against the glare of a poster hanging just over his head.

“The wedding,” Ron said. “I mean, I’ve got an important job to do. What if I lose the license, like Ginny said? I’ll not only ruin the wedding in front of a garden full of guests, I’ll be giving Mum a load of ammunition to chuck at me, as if she needs any more.”

“What are you talking about?” Harry said. “What does she have to get on your wick about? You did a smashing job last month when Voldemort’s lot invaded Hogwarts. She should be proud of you.”

Jumping slightly at the sound of Voldemort’s name, Ron said, “Yeah, I suppose. But that was all down to the Felix Felicis, wasn’t it? You chuck that out, and what have I done? I mean, going all the way back to when we started school, what have I really done that’s worth a hippogriff’s bleedin’ toenail? I’ve been looking back on the last six years, and there are so many things I wish had been different.”

“Join the ruddy club, mate,” Harry rejoined, his reflections of Cho Chang returning to flicker across his mind’s eye.

“No, seriously,” Ron said. Harry heard the bed creak, and opening both eyes in the face of the red glare of the poster-strewn walls, he saw Ron sitting up and staring at him, his expression strained. Harry levered himself onto his elbow and surveyed Ron closely.

“What is it?” he asked. “What’s got you on this way?”

“I told you, it’s the wedding,” Ron said. “But not just the wedding itself. It’s all it implies. Bill’s moving forward with his life. He’s found someone to share his life with, someone to fill up the empty places inside him. And I – ”

Harry now sat up and faced Ron squarely.

“What?” Harry said. “You don’t think you’ll have the same thing some day? That’s rubbish and you know it.”

“Do I?” Ron returned. “I haven’t done very well so far, have I?”

“What, you think because you haven’t found someone yet, it’ll never happen?” Harry said. “There’s nothing in the Hogwarts charter that says students will find the person they’re going to spend their lives with before they graduate – and as often as Hermione’s quoted from Hogwarts: A History,” he grinned thinly, “I can say that with absolute certainty.”

“You did,” Ron said quietly, his eyes leaving Harry’s to survey a spot on the floor between his large feet. “Your parents did.”

“Bill didn’t,” Harry countered. “He didn’t find Fleur until she came over to compete in the Triwizard Tournament. If the Ministry hadn’t arranged for the Tournament to be resurrected after so long, he’d never have met her at all. He only came to Hogwarts in the first place to cheer me on during the final task. If Barty Crouch hadn’t put my name in the Goblet of Fire on Voldemort’s orders (Ron flinched again), Bill would be in Egypt right now, de-Cursing a tomb, not getting ready for a wedding.”

Harry stood up now and seated himself next to Ron.

“You never know when it’s going to happen,” he said as Ron continued to look down. “Look at me. How long did I go on acting the berk over Cho, never seeing what was right in front of me? And if circumstances hadn’t gone just the right way, I might never have seen. I’m telling you, mate, there’s just no reckoning something like that. According to Hermione, everything is part of a grand plan. She said it’s like a road map that no one learns how to read until we’ve completed the journey, when, of course, it’s too late to do us any flippin’ good. But if we stand back now and then and have a good look, maybe we can see a just a bit of what’s ahead so we don’t take as many wrong turns as we might have done. It’s down to us to use a bit of sense to spot the signposts before it’s too late. Maybe I’m the wrong one to talk, after all the signs I missed. But you can learn from my mistakes. I mean, if I couldn’t stop myself from being such a git, at least I can help my best mate from doing the same thing. All you have to do is have a look at me and do the exact opposite.”

“How do you mean?” Ron asked, lifting his head just far enough to regard Harry from under the ridge of his flaming eyebrows.

“For starters,” Harry said, “learn to see what’s really important. I found out the hard way that things that seem grand at a distance don’t always look as good up close. Don’t be staring so hard at the top of the mountain that you can’t see what's in your own back garden, you know? I mean, I dunno, maybe the girl you’re looking for is on the other side of the world right now, waiting for your paths to cross. Or maybe she’s so close that you’ll turn around one day and be staring straight at her without knowing it. That’s when you have to learn to open your eyes and spot the real from the rubbish.”

“And how do I do that?” Ron said, a shadow of his old familiar smile creeping across his face.

Harry shrugged. “Beats me, mate. You’re looking at a bloke who’s set to go off and spit in the eye of the most dangerous Dark wizard in the world. I dunno if I’d trust anything a nutter like that says.”

Ron responded to this with a genuine laugh, and Harry smiled.

“I can tell you this much, for what it’s worth,” Harry said seriously. “When you do find the one you’re looking for, for Merlin’s sake, don’t muck things up like I nearly did. Don’t let anyone or anything stand in the way of the two of you being together.”

Ron looked up, his eyes reflecting a new-found confidence that made him look so much like Bill that it was startling. “Thanks, Harry.”

“No worries,” Harry nodded. “What are mates for?”

The awkwardness between them was broken by a knock on the door.

“Come in,” Harry and Ron said together, inspiring another brief spate of laughter.

The door opened, and Hermione appeared. She was clad in a pink bathrobe, and her head was wrapped in a damp towel from beneath which a few strands of thick, dark hair had escaped to curl about her shoulders. She smiled at Harry, who grinned up at her.

“Just washed your hair, did you?” he said.

Shifting her smile to Ron, Hermione said, “Now you know why he got all those O.W.L.’s a year ago. Never misses a trick, that one.”

Ron fell back on his bed with a hoot of laughter, his oversized feet just missing Harry’s face. Harry jumped back and fell onto his camp bed, propping himself up on his elbow in what he hoped was a casual manner.

“So,” Harry said, “to what do we owe the honor of this visit?”

“I’m on my way to Ginny’s and my room so she can give my hair a good brushing,” Hermione said.

“And you’re inviting me to come along and help?” Harry said playfully. Casting a critical eye over the damp tangles trailing over Hermione’s shoulders from under her towel, he mused, “If Ginny and I each take a side, I reckon we can have every hair in place by, say, eleven o’clock – midnight at the latest.”

Hiding a smirk, Hermione gave Harry’s untidy hair an appraising glance and observed, “Ron’s mum always says you should put your own garden in order before pointing out the gnomes in someone else’s. Good advice, that.”

Harry quickly patted down a few trouble spots on his head that he had long since committed to memory, and Ron laughed again.

“Now,” Hermione smiled, “as to why I’m here, when we were talking outside earlier today, you asked me to give you something.”

Hermione carefully unwound the towel from her head and tossed it to Harry. Though caught off his guard, he snatched it easily as Hermione shook out her hair, running her fingers through the gleaming strands in a casually erotic manner. With a smile and a wink, she turned and left, closing the door behind her.

“What was that all about?” Ron asked as Harry sat with the towel in his hands and an enigmatic smile on his face. Very slowly he folded the towel into a compact square and raised it to his face, inhaling deeply. He sighed, his eyes rolling back in his head, and Ron said, “You’ve lost it, mate. You’ve gone round the twist.”

Ignoring Ron, Harry lay back, Hermione’s towel held just under his nose. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply again, and Ron grunted and rolled over on his bed.

As Harry inhaled Hermione’s scent from her towel, his mind drifted back to the first time he had encountered the fragrance now filling his senses like heady wine. No, he reminded himself, not the first time, exactly. Rather, it was the first time he had taken note of an aroma that had been around him many times, yet which he had failed to notice properly until a certain fateful day at Hogwarts...

“I s’pose you think I cheated?”

Harry was glowering in Hermione’s direction. The expression on her face was making his blood boil. He thought at first that he’d imagined the unspoken indictment in her prolonged silence as he explained to her and Ron how he had been employing the notes scribbled in the margins of his Advanced Potion-Making textbook to produce the results that had so delighted Professor Slughorn in their first class of term. He was certain that she must be playing with him, having him on. But the steely glint in her eyes, the thin line of her mouth, concealed no trace of humor. With every revelatory word he spoke, her face stiffened as if a slow-acting Petrificus spell were turning it to stone. And when his explanation was done, there was no longer any doubt in his mind as to the thoughts burning behind Hermione’s incriminating stare. She was accusing him of cheating! Harry’s eyes flashed like green fire, and Hermione met his gaze unflinchingly.

“Well, it wasn’t exactly your own work, was it?” she said in hard, clipped tones.

The stiffness in her voice would have removed all doubt, were there even a gram remaining in his mind. He began to seethe inside like the cauldron of potion that was the bone of contention between them. Distantly he heard Ron taking up his defense (Harry’s throat was so constricted with anger that he couldn’t utter a sound), but Hermione was having none of it.

It was then that it happened.

“Hang on,” said a voice on Harry’s left. “Did I hear right? You’ve been taking orders from something someone wrote in a book, Harry?”

Harry jerked his head around. If another row was wanting, he had more than enough anger boiling inside him to spare a portion for Ginny if she were taking a position like unto Hermione’s. But almost instantly his anger was tempered by an intoxicating aroma coming from Ginny’s hair. It was the same flowery scent he had smelt in the fumes wafting from the Amortentia in Advanced Potions class, the scent he had unconsciously associated with the Burrow, and, correspondingly, with utter contentment. The fire inside him cooled, and when he replied, “It’s nothing,” his voice was quiet and reassuring, its former edge blunted.

As Ron valiantly carried on with Hermione, Harry continued to stare at Ginny. He’d not meant to stare, but his mind was trying to grasp the implications of these two events and sort them into some reasoned perspective. Professor Slughorn had said that Amortentia stimulated feelings of love and contentment in those who partook of it, whether by drinking the potion or merely inhaling the fumes. These feelings, he went on, were unique to each individual. The potion did not create such feelings; it merely brought to the surface such as it found within the subject and enhanced them, fanning those embers to full awakening.

And one of the scents assailing Harry that morning had been the very fragrance permeating Ginny’s hair. If Amortentia was, as Hermione had declared to Professor Slughorn, the post powerful love potion in the world...

“Harry?” Ginny said, regarding him over the goblet of pumpkin juice she was raising to her mouth. “Is there something you wanted to ask me?”

“What?” Harry stammered, feeling foolish at having stared at Ginny at all, much less for prolonging the action until she could not help but notice.

“You were staring,” Ginny said with a small smile, the goblet just touching her lips.

“Oh,” Harry said as Ginny took a sip and set her goblet down. “Sorry.”

“Is there something you want to ask me?” she repeated, and Harry thought he detected a trace of barely-concealed excitement that had not punctuated her question the first time.

“No,” Harry said quickly. Then, before he could stop himself: “Yes.”

“What is it?” Ginny said, her soft brown eyes glittering in the light of the candles hovering high above the dining table.

“It’s – ” Harry began. He swallowed. “I – I was just noticing – I mean – your hair – ”

“My hair?” Ginny said, unconsciously tossing her head so that a sheet of blazing red trickled over her shoulder like liquid fire.

“It, er,” Harry said haltingly, “it – smells nice. Flowery.”

Ginny's smile brightened. “Do you like it?”

“Um, yeah,” Harry said, feeling his heart racing in a very disconcerting manner.

“So do I,” Ginny said. “It’s the best shampoo ever, don’t you think?”

Harry nodded, and Ginny caught up a handful of her long hair, letting the fine strands trickle through her fingers like water falling across a sunset.

“I’ve only just started using it,” Ginny said happily. “I’m so glad Hermione finally remembered to bring me an extra bottle this year.”

Harry’s eyes widened slightly. “Hermione gave it to you?”

“Yes,” Ginny said. “It’s a Muggle brand. There’s nothing like it in the wizarding world. I should know, I’ve been looking for a decent shampoo forever. I gave up on Diagon Alley ages ago. The apothecaries there cater mostly to stodgy old witches and wizards who only care about their bloody potions. I thought I might do better in Hogsmeade – you know, what with so many students buying from them, but – ” She shrugged. “From her first visit to the Burrow, I was always telling Hermione how smashing I thought her hair smelt just after she washed it. I asked her straightaway if I could use her shampoo, but Mum overheard me and told me off, saying a proper host never imposes on a houseguest, and if I kept on she’d see I regretted it, so in the end I gave it up.

“But,” she added slyly, glancing over her shoulder at the warring twosome at the far end of the table, “Hermione promised she’d bring an extra bottle next time and give it to me on the train where Mum couldn’t see. Unfortunately,” she sighed, “what with one thing and another, she never seemed to manage. Either something having to do with school drove it out of her head, or if she did remember, she’d have so many books to pack that there wasn’t enough room in her trunk, and she’d spend the first week at school apologizing, promising to do better next time. But last month on the train,” Ginny grinned triumphantly, “I got on her wick and made her promise faithfully that she wouldn’t forget again. I may have mentioned something about using the Bat-Bogey Hex on her,” Ginny smirked. “But whatever it was, it worked, and this time she came through at last!”

“You say you’ve never used it before?” Harry said, his confusion growing.

“Today’s the first day,” Ginny said happily. Her eyes twinkled as she added, “Looks like it’s working already.”

“I – ” Harry said slowly. “I – thought I’d smelt it before – at the Burrow.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised if you’d done,” Ginny said. “Like I said, Hermione’s never arrived without it, and she washes her hair every couple of days, always trying to condition the bushiness out of it.”

She giggled softly, casting a wary eye at Hermione, whose debate with Ron appeared to be reaching a crescendo. The color rising on Ron’s cheeks was ample testimony as to how the argument was going. Hermione’s hair was fairly bristling from the intensity of her verbal assault on Ron’s position (though her voice never rose above its usual, maddeningly calm level of deportment). Harry wasn't the only one to spot this.

“She doesn’t seem as concerned about it after she gets to Hogwarts, does she?” Ginny said in a low voice brimming with overstated casualness. “Too busy studying to be bothered, I suppose. But it’s not as if it really matters, is it?” she concluded with a melodramatic sigh in which Harry thought to detect a barely-disguised note of unkindness. “Just between us,” she whispered, turning so that none but Harry could see the complacent smile spreading across her freckled face, “I think it favors me better. Don’t you think?”

As if to confirm her appraisal, Ginny tossed her head gaily, sending her long, silky hair swirling about her shoulders as if buoyed by a Levitation Charm (in such manner as Hermione’s could never have done without benefit of large amounts of Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion).

Harry saw movement on his right. Hermione was rising from her seat, a triumphant expression on her face. Ron appeared a bit disgruntled, judging from the force with which he stuffed a bite of black pudding into his mouth. Hermione left the dining hall without looking back. Harry gathered that she was still aggrieved at him for the manner in which he had inadvertently overshadowed her in Potions class. He stared after her, watching as she ascended the winding staircase leading to the upper portions of the castle and, ultimately, to Gryffindor Tower.

When Hermione was out of sight, Harry turned back to the dining table, only to find Ginny looking at him with narrowed eye.

“Sorry,” Harry smiled awkwardly. “My, uh, mind must have wandered a bit. I think the potion fumes I inhaled this morning might have made me a bit groggy. It was the Draught of Living Death,” he improvised. “Dodgy stuff, that.”

This explanation seemed to mollify Ginny, who relaxed and resumed her meal. For his part, Harry found that he had lost his appetite. He stood up and walked past Ron, who had exchanged his black pudding for a large treacle tart. The sight of it reminded Harry again of Potions class, and of the scents the Amortentia had inspired in him. Treacle tart...the woody smell of a broomstick handle...

And Hermione’s hair.

What did it all mean? Even as the question formed in his mind, he realized that he knew the answer, even if he did not understand it.

Do I fancy Hermione? he wondered. He shook his head. That’s nutters. A bloke can’t fancy one of his best friends. Can he?

And as the question reverberated in his head, an answering voice said, Why not? She’s a girl, isn’t she?

Harry felt a hand clap his shoulder in a friendly manner.

“Come on, Harry,” Ron said. “Let’s go upstairs so I can have a look at that book. Only I want to copy a few of the notes onto the leaf of my book before our next class. You don’t mind, do you?”

“No,” Harry said quickly.

“Let’s go up to our dorm so Hermione won’t see,” he continued in a low, conspiratorial voice. “I’m not up for another row just yet.”

“Right,” Harry said. He was glad Ron had suggested they go up to their dorm rather than remain in the common room, where Hermione would presumably be doing her homework by the fire. He needed to put some distance between himself and Hermione while he muddled over this unexpected revelation.

I can’t fancy Hermione! he told himself again.

Why not? repeated the voice in his head.

And as he and Ron walked up the stairs on their way to Gryffindor Tower, he was bugger-all if he could come up with a rebuttal.

“Oi, Harry!”

Harry lifted his head from his pillow, his reverie broken. He saw Ron standing over him, but before he could gather his thoughts to form a question, Ron jerked his head toward the door.

“Dad wants us to look at the plans for the bower,” he said. “We’ll start building it first thing tomorrow.”

“Right,” Harry said. He stood up, turning to place Hermione’s towel on his pillow. Ron rolled his eyes, but made no other comment as he led the way downstairs, Harry fast on his heels.

When Harry followed Ron into the Weasleys’ small parlor, he did not go all the way inside, but stood on the threshold for a moment, surveying the room and those inside it. Here, he had thought more than once on his previous visits to the Burrow, was the essence of what made this more than a house, but a real home. This was exemplified no more profoundly than by the mantel over the fireplace (the same one he and Ginny had tumbled out of this morning, and up which he’d gone five years ago wherein he’d accidentally come out in Knockturn Alley). Stretched along the full length of the mantel was a row of framed photos, one for each member of the Weasley family. But even as Harry surveyed the moving photos, each of whose occupants smiled a welcome in his direction, he spotted something that struck a dull note on his heartstrings.

One of the frames was empty. Harry knew who was missing even before he swept his eyes searchingly along the length of the row, silently naming each face in turn. Percy. This was not too surprising, given the strained relations between Percy and the rest of the family. Harry wondered why the frame had been retained if there was no photo in it. He answered his question almost at once. It must be a gesture, he decided, an open invitation to Percy that his place in the family was still open, waiting for him to reclaim it.

“Harry!” a deep voice called out from inside the room. “Come on in, then, and have a look.”

“And don’t dawdle!” the hallway mirror added sternly.

Harry shook himself from his musings and smiled at Mr. Weasley. The tall, balding wizard was sitting on the family sofa, bending over a sheet of parchment that was spread out across a long, low table which was normally used to serve tea and biscuits to guests. Now, Mr. Weasley was using it, and the parlor, to map out his plans for the wedding. Ron was sitting next to his father, studying the parchment intently. Harry smiled at Mr. Weasley and entered, sitting down in a chair on Ron’s left.

When Harry had looked over the plans for the bower, he told Mr. Weasley, “There ought to be a library in Ottery St. Catchpole. I bet I can find a book on carpentry that will show us how to build this properly.”

“Well,” Mr. Weasley said sheepishly, “I’ve never actually used any Muggle tools – though I have a very fine collection out in the back shed,” he added proudly. “I constructed the Burrow entirely by magic.”

“We won’t need tools,” Harry explained. “We’ll use the book to show us what steps to take, and in what order. But we won’t need a hammer and nails to do the actual work. We’ll use Sticking Charms and the like. That’ll make it easier to undo after the ceremony. How does that sound?”

“Don’t you need some sort of membership to take out a library book?” Mr. Weasley asked.

“Normally, yes,” Harry said. “But in this case, I don’t think we’d be amiss using a bit of magic to help things along.” He thought for a moment, then said, “Once I’ve found the book we need, I can carry it out using my Invisibility Cloak. Quick as we’ve finished with it, I can return it the same way.”

Harry heard a sniffing sound behind him. From the corner of his eye, he saw Mrs. Weasley carrying fresh towels toward the stairs. He turned, and she frowned at him over her burden in a manner that reminded him of Hermione.

“Borrowing something without permission is stealing,” she said curtly. She appeared to want to say something more definite, but perhaps she was taking her own advice about treating houseguests with courtesy. No doubt she would not have hesitated to tear into Fred and George like an Atlantic hurricane had they just proposed something similar to Harry’s suggestion.

“If we don’t get this bower built properly,” Harry said, “it will affect the entire wedding. We wouldn’t want to disappoint Bill and Fleur on their big day, would we?”

Mrs. Weasley gave this argument a good deal of thought before she spoke in a more conciliatory voice. “Right, then. But mind you have that book back where you got it the moment you’re finished with it – and woe betide you if the Ministry hears about it, because I’ll not put the family in jeopardy over something as trivial as a library book.”

“I’ll go with Hermione,” Harry said. “That way if something goes wrong, it’ll be on our heads alone.”

Mrs. Weasley sniffed again before turning to mount the stairs.

“Ah,” Mr. Weasley said as he let out the breath he had been holding, “well, I suppose there’s nothing more to be done tonight. You’ll go fetch that book tomorrow morning, then, Harry?”

“No worries,” Harry said with a nod. “We’ll build a bower that Bill and Fleur will be proud to stand under when they speak their vows.”

“And,” Ron put in, likewise breathing easier now that his mother was out of sight, “we’ll take some snaps of it so everyone will remember how grand it looked.”

“Splendid,” Mr. Weasley said. “Very well, boys. I’m off to the kitchen for a spot of tea. Either of you care for a cup?” When Harry and Ron shook their heads, Mr. Weasley nodded and said, “Until tomorrow, then.”

As Mr. Weasley rolled up the plans and moved toward the kitchen, Harry asked Ron, “Is Hermione still up in Ginny’s room? I need to tell her about the library.”

“I think so,” Ron said. “I haven’t seen anyone come downstairs. Of course, there are a lot of floors in this house. No telling where she might be. She could be up in the attic, seeing if the ghoul needs a pillow or something. You know Hermione.” The two friends exchanged a knowing smile. As an afterthought, Ron said, “Pity I can’t save you a trip up the stairs and just pop into Ginny’s room and have a look for you.”

“Why can't you?” Harry asked, remembering how Fred and George had summarily Apparated into his and Ron's room at Sirius’ house two years ago. “I mean, apart from the fact that she’d probably use the Bat-Bogey Hex on you.”

“She would, too,” Ron laughed. “But we can’t Apparate into anyone’s room here like Fred and George did at Grimmauld Place," he declared as if reading Harry’s mind.

“Why not?” Harry asked.

“Privacy spells,” Ron explained. “The bedrooms are all harmonized for their owners. One of the first things a wizard does when he learns to Apparate is safeguard his personal space against unwanted visitors. I did my own room straightaway the day I got my license.”

“But Ginny isn’t old enough to Apparate,” Harry said.

“But other people can,” Ron said pointedly. “Like I said, we all need a space of our own, someplace we can go and tell the world to bugger off. When I was old enough to get my own room – I think it was around the time Charlie left Hogwarts – Mum and Dad warded it against everyone but themselves – well, that’s to be expected, innit? But quick as I got my license, I adjusted the spell so I’m the only one who can come and go now – I’m entitled now that I’m of age, and Mum and Dad respect that. Ginny can’t Apparate yet, but she still needs a place where she can feel safe – I mean, blimey, it wouldn’t do for someone to just pop in unannounced when she’s wearing only her knickers, would it? It’s all about respecting a person’s privacy, something some blokes never get the hang of – my knees haven’t been the same since Fred and George landed on them at Sirius’ house,” he said with a wry grimace.

“And they were only able to do that,” Harry said insightfully, “because Sirius’ house had sat unoccupied for so long, the magic on the rooms had all worn off.”

“Right in one,” Ron smiled. “Here at the Burrow, any of us can move about freely through most of the house – except the loo, of course, which is completely impassable – and it’s the same when we’re coming and going. You were here once when Dad came home from work and Apparated straight into the kitchen, remember? It was the same this morning when we left Diagon Alley, we all popped straight into the parlor, easy as walking through the door from the back garden. But if any of us tried to pass through someone else’s private room in either direction, they’d just bounce off the walls like a Quaffle. And speaking of Quaffles,” Ron said abruptly, “do you think McGonagall will let the Houses play Quidditch this year?”

Harry had never seen anyone change from one subject to another so quickly, nor as smoothly. The eagerness in Ron’s voice was thick enough to cut with an axe.

“Hermione reckons everyone will need the diversion,” Harry said. “We won’t know for sure until we talk with McGonagall, but Hermione is sure we can convince her.”

“Hermione could chat up a herd of thestrals into turning vegetarian,” Ron grinned.

“I’d better go find her,” Harry said. Leaving Ron behind, he mounted the stairs to the second floor and stood before Ginny’s door, his ear perked for sounds. Hearing nothing, he knocked lightly. To his delight, Hermione’s voice answered.

“Come in.”

Harry entered and found Hermione bent over Ginny’s writing desk, an open book on her left and an uncapped bottle of ink on her right. She was copying from the book, her quill scratching softly on the parchment in front of her. She had exchanged her bathrobe for her original clothes. Her freshly-washed hair cascaded over her shoulders, and she brushed it aside as a strand fell across the line she was copying. Harry stood for a moment, inhaling the fragrance of Hermione’s hair, then stepped up beside her. Hearing his approach, Hermione looked up just as her hand was moving toward her ink bottle. In her moment of distraction, she misjudged her aim; her quill overshot its target, and her wrist impacted with the neck of the bottle. Harry gasped, expecting the bottle to crash to the floor. But to his surprise, the bottle halted Hermione’s wrist as if it were nailed to the desk – as, indeed, it was, if only in a magical sense.

“I didn’t want to keep capping and uncapping the bottle,” Hermione said, seeing Harry’s surprise, “so I used a temporary Sticking Charm to hold it in place.”

There was a smudge of ink on Hermione’s wrist. She spotted it at once and turned to Harry.

“Would you mind taking my wand out of my pocket, Harry?” she said. “I can’t reach it left-handed, and I obviously can’t use my right without getting ink inside my pocket.”

Harry walked around Hermione’s chair and reached into her wand pocket.

“Mind you don’t touch anything else while you’re in there,” she smirked, and Harry laughed. He drew out Hermione’s wand, which she took in her left hand and pointed at her right wrist. “Scourgify!” she said, and the ink vanished.

“Couldn’t you have cleaned your clothes the same way if you got ink on them?” Harry asked.

“I could have done,” Hermione said. “But repeated use of the Scouring Charm takes its toll on fabric. Skin is much easier to clean.”

“Well, then,” Harry said innocently, “since it’s such a warm night, you could save a lot of fuss all around if you took your clothes off while you’re working. I can give you a hand if you like. If you’ll recall, I’m pretty good with buttons.”

“It takes a bit of courage to say something like that to a witch who’s holding a wand,” Hermione said, a corner of her mouth rising in tandem with an eyebrow. “If you show the same bollocks when we go after Voldemort, I’d say he’s for it from day one.”

Smiling, Harry found another question to replace the one just answered.

“Why was your wand in your pocket? I usually leave my wand on the table next to my bed. It’s there now, in fact.”

“I used to do the same thing,” Hermione said. “But after what happened last month, I don’t feel comfortable unless my wand is always within easy reach.”

After a thoughtful pause, Harry said, “So, when you came to see me to give me your towel...”

“My wand was in my bathrobe, yes,” Hermione said seriously. “I kept it on the sink while I was washing my hair, where I could keep an eye on it every moment. I’d have taken it into the shower if I thought the water wouldn’t warp the wood.”

“I’m beginning to think the wrong one of us is taking preliminary Auror classes this year,” Harry said with a half-smile.

Harry sat down on Ginny's bed, and Hermione turned her chair about to face him.

“You’re going to make a smashing Auror,” Hermione said seriously. “And do you know why? It’s because you think with your heart as well as with your head.”

“Thinking with my heart’s nearly got me killed more times than I can count,” Harry countered.

“That’s because you made the mistake of putting your heart first,” Hermione replied. “That’s good advice for everyday life, but not for an Auror. But – if you ignore your heart altogether, you’ll hardly be better than a Death Eater. You have to learn to keep your mind and your heart on a kind of wheel that you can spin about at need. That way you can put one in front of the other when the time is right, and not be locked into either one at the wrong moment. Even though Healers and Aurors seem to be working at cross-purposes, that’s the one attribute they share, the thing they have to master if they’re to do their jobs properly.”

“Remus was right when he said you were the cleverest witch he’d ever met,” Harry said.

“If I’m so clever,” Hermione said, “why did it take me so long to tell you straight out how I feel about you? I could have saved everyone a lot of bother if I’d just spoken out when I had the chance. Merlin knows there were enough opportunities with all the time we’ve spent together.”

Harry was caught momentarily off his stride, but he recovered quickly.

“You said it yourself. You put your head in front of your heart when you should have done the opposite.”

“We both made the same mistake, didn’t we?” Hermione said. "Our heads told us that we were best friends, you and I, and that’s all we’d ever be.”

“I wonder if we owe Fred and George more than we know?” Harry said unexpectedly.

Hermione’s smile fell away. “What?”

“Well,” Harry said, “in a way, we’re together because of them.”

“The way I see it,” Hermione said stiffly, “we’d have been together a lot sooner if they hadn’t stuck their noses in where they didn’t belong. And last year – ”

“I just meant,” Harry said quickly, “that I was such a berk, I needed a kick in the bollocks to knock some sense into me.”

“As to that,” Hermione said, her smile returning slowly, “I don't think you're different from any other boy who’s ever been. You needed time to sort out your feelings, to see what was real and what was only in your head.”

“I thought I fancied Cho,” Harry said. “I did fancy her, come to that. But I was only fancying what was on the outside, because that’s all I could see. I imagined that she was just as beautiful on the inside, but when I learned the truth...”

“We all start out thinking that way,” Hermione said with a small blush. “I fancied Gilderoy Lockhart, didn't I? I was the same age you were when you first took a fancy to Cho. But we both grew out of it in the end. I suppose it takes boys a bit longer to grow up,” she said philosophically, “but that’s nature’s way, and even magic can’t help it along.” Hermione’s expression darkened suddenly as she muttered, “If it wasn’t for those two...”

“So, uh,” Harry said quickly, “what are you working on?” He indicated the book and parchment on Ginny’s desk, and Hermione shook herself, her dark mood clearing almost at once.

“I’m copying some notes for Advanced Medical Potions class. Mrs. Weasley pointed out some chapters I should familiarize myself with before term starts, to get a jump on the other students.”

“Mrs. Weasley studied to be a Healer?” Harry said in surprise.

“Not in the way you mean,” Hermione said. “She never intended it as a career choice. It’s just that she and Mr. Weasley had decided to get married and start a family as soon as they left school, and she reasoned that she’d do well to take some secondary Healing classes to supplement the domestic spells she was learning. If you’re going to care for a houseful of children, a bit of medical training can save a lot of misery, not to mention costly trips to St. Mungo’s. You’d think more witches and wizards would have the same foresight, wouldn’t you?”

Harry remembered now that Remus Lupin had hinted at a certain amount of Healer training when Ron had his leg broken in their third year. “I’m not as good at healing bones as Madam Pomfrey...” He could heal bones, then (which was more than the just-mentioned Gilderoy Lockhart had been able when Harry had fallen from his broomstick during a Quidditch match and broken his arm).

“Maybe I should take some Healer courses,” Harry said. “It would give us another class together, and Merlin knows we’ll have few enough this year.”

“You will be,” Hermione said knowledgably. “A certain amount of Healer training is a standard part of the Auror curriculum. But they’ll be different classes than mine.”

“Why?” Harry almost demanded. “Healing is Healing, isn’t it?”

“Fundamentally, yes,” Hermione said. “But we’ll both be moving beyond the basics, and because we’re pursuing different goals, we’ll be moving along slightly different paths.” Seeing the confusion in Harry’s eyes, Hermione explained, “I’ve chosen Healing as my life’s work. I have to know a little bit about every aspect of Healing before I apprentice myself. But you’re studying to become an Auror, so you don’t need to know about the ordinary rubbish, like curing colds and the like. You’ll be learning how to heal severe injuries quickly, hopefully without doing more damage in the process. But that’s not always possible. You’ll be facing life and death situations of a very different sort than I will. You’ll have to make decisions under conditions that I can’t even imagine. The potions you’ll learn to brew will be quite apart from mine. For the most part, I’ll be treating people slowly and carefully, with safety my first concern. Healers don’t take the same oath as Muggle doctors, but both follow the same fundamental rule: ‘First, do no harm.’ As an Auror, you won’t always have that luxury. You might have to give an injured colleague a potion that will either cure him quickly – or kill him. That’s a choice I hope I never have to make.

“It works the same way in reverse, of course, when it comes to Auror training.”

Harry nodded with belated understanding. “You and Ron are taking Defense Against the Dark Arts. But they’re not the same as mine.”

“That’s because our courses are determined by our career choice,” Hermione nodded. “You just said it. Ron and I will be learning how to defend ourselves against Dark magic. You’ve declared as an Auror, so your courses will include attacking spells as well as defensive ones. But Ron and I have chosen different roads, so we can only study whatever the Ministry-approved curriculum allows in our standard Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook.”

Harry smiled inwardly at Hermione’s judicious use of the term “different road” in reference to herself and Ron. Even out of Ron’s hearing, she had been polite enough to refrain from saying that Ron, unlike his two friends, had no true career goal. Lacking as he was a primary course of study, all of his courses, even those designated as “Advanced,” were by definition secondary. Chances were good that the three of them would begin the term by sharing Advanced Charms and Advanced Transfiguration. Like Harry, Hermione would start off by honing her general skills in those branches of magic before moving on to Madam Pomfrey’s classes. As Hermione had already alluded, the school nurse would even be her Potions Mistress, as her knowledge of these special brews exceeded even that of Professor Slughorn in many areas.

But though Hermione would not be taking Advanced Potions as she had done last year (which class Ron would be taking as part of his general Advanced studies), that was not to say she would not be seeing the new Potions Master (and newly-appointed head of Slytherin House) this year. Harry knew that a portion of all seventh-year Defense classes was devoted to the brewing of dangerous potions. During that period, Professor Slughorn would assume the duties of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher in addition to his everyday role as Potions Master. (By contrast, Harry would be seeing Slughorn weekly throughout the year, learning to brew the dangerous potions Hermione had just referenced as part of his Auror studies.)

When the seventh-year Defense class moved on to its next field of study, Slughorn would relinquish his extra duties in favor of the regular teacher (who would not have been idle, having six other years of students to teach in the mean). Harry still did not know who had been engaged to fill that position, so recently (and spectacularly) vacated by Severus Snape. If Professor McGonagall knew – if, indeed, the position had been filled at all – she had not seen fit to reveal that knowledge to anyone, including her Head Boy and Girl.

“I wish we could have more classes together,” Harry lamented. “At least Ron will be sharing Defense Against the Dark Arts with you all year. When we begin our specialized courses, we’ll be lucky if we see each other at mealtimes.”

“When Ron and I go off with you after the end of the school year,” Hermione said confidently, “we’ll both have learned all we can in the art of Dark Defense. All the school will allow us to learn, at least.”

“Ron really wanted to take Auror classes with me,” Harry said. “But his grades weren’t high enough in the key areas.” Hermione nodded solemnly. “You could have shared all of my classes,” he said with quiet emphasis. “With your grades, you’d have got into the Auror program easily.”

“I seriously considered it,” Hermione said. “The temptation was never greater than last year, after the attack on Hogwarts. But I’d been toying with the notion of becoming a Healer since the end of our second year. I was in the Hospital Wing twice that year, you remember. I went in first as a cat-girl, and the second time as a statue – all told, I think I spent more time in my hospital bed than I did in my four-poster,” she smiled. “Both times, Madam Pomfrey cured me. But I think I began taking it seriously after I nearly died when Dolohov’s spell hit me at the Ministry. I wouldn’t be sitting here having this conversation with you if it weren’t for Madam Pomfrey’s healing skills. So even if I made the actual decision only recently, I think I knew all along that I wanted to become a Healer. And since this is our last year, if I don’t take these classes now, I won’t be able to get the apprenticeship I’ll need to carry on after I leave school. I have every intention of surviving long enough to become a licensed Healer.” The hardness in her eyes as she said this was not to be misinterpreted. “So even if I don’t get the same level of instruction you will this year in, shall we say, ‘certain areas,’ I’ll still manage to learn enough in my ordinary Defense classes to carry on with. I’m determined that I won’t be a hindrance to you when we go after Voldemort’s Horcruxes.”

“You could never be a hindrance,” Harry said, taking Hermione’s hand in his. Laughing, he added, “It’ll be all I can do to learn as much this year as you already know. By the time we leave Hogwarts, I reckon I’ll finally have drawn level with you. For the first time since I’ve known you, we’ll be complete equals.”

“We’ve always been equals where it matters,” Hermione said. She raised the hand clasped in Harry’s and placed it over her heart. “In here,” she said. She removed her hand from her chest and placed it on Harry’s, his own hand following. “And here.”

They leaned forward until their lips touched lightly. They lingered for a moment before drawing back.

“If I don’t stop now,” Harry grinned, “there’s no telling what Ginny will walk in on when she gets back.” As Hermione laughed lightly, Harry now thought to ask, “Where is Ginny? I didn’t pass her on my way up.”

“Oh,” Hermione said. “When Mrs. Weasley came up with the towels, she took Ginny along to help her clean up the bathroom. I’m afraid I left it a bit of a mess,” she added with a guilty smile. “I offered to help, but Mrs. Weasley said something about Ginny earning her pocket money. I think she wants Ginny to learn some household spells like she did. Ginny didn’t look too happy.”

“I don’t wonder,” Harry grinned.

“Mrs. Weasley is trying to turn Ginny into her,” Hermione said without humor. “As you can imagine, Ginny isn’t too keen on that. She may not know exactly what she wants to do when she leaves school, but she knows what she doesn’t want.”

Lowering his voice, Harry said, “How will her mother feel if Ginny goes with us to look for the Horcruxes?”

“I dread the thought,” Hermione said. “I hope Ginny doesn’t go with us.”

“Why?” Harry asked. “You don’t think she’ll be able to carry her weight?”

“Even if she studies every hour of every day,” Hermione said, “she can’t possibly learn enough magic to go up against Voldemort.”

Harry wondered if that was the only reason Hermione didn’t want Ginny to accompany them. But another, grimmer, thought took its place, and it was this to which he gave halting voice.

“Can we? I mean, this is Voldemort we’re talking about here, the most powerful Dark wizard the world has ever seen. I know, I was all keen to go off only a month ago. But I’ve had time to think since then. Will we be ready?”

“Is that what you’re really afraid of?” Hermione asked quietly, her eyes straying toward the door before returning to Harry. “Or are you really asking if Ron will be ready?”

Hermione’s question startled Harry, but only for a moment. If he, like Hermione, feared that Ginny would not be prepared, what of Ron? Truth be told, Ginny was the better student in nearly every area of magic than her older brother. He was still amazed that Ginny had not been chosen as a prefect for her year. She would have made a better job of it than Ron had done (though Harry would never have shared that sentiment with his oldest friend).

“Are you afraid Ron won’t be able to pull his weight?” Harry returned.

Hermione sat in silence for a long time. “I don’t know,” she said at last.

They endured another long silence before Harry spoke again.

“I need you to do something for me this year, Hermione. No, not for me. For us. For all of us.”

“What?” Hermione said, her expression growing urgent.

“I want you to do the same for Ron this year that you did for me during the Triwizard Tournament,” Harry said. “I want you to work with him. I want you to prepare him for what we’re going to face. I want you to be relentless. A chain is only as strong as its weakest link. Ron’s my best mate – he’s like a brother to me – but I can’t escape the reality that he might not be able to carry on when things reach the boiling point. He wants desperately to be as good as Bill, as successful as Fred and George. But I’m afraid that he isn’t ever going to be quite as good as he wants to be. So I’m counting on you to pull him through. I know I’m asking a lot. There can’t be anything harder than learning to be a Healer – I remember all the Auror qualifications Professor McGonagall showed me when I had my career chat with her – and I remember when you showed Ron the list of qualifications to become a Healer – I should’ve seen then that you were leaning that way – with all that on your plate, I don’t know where you can find the time, short of getting your hands on another Time-Turner...”

Harry had run out of words as well as breath. But no more words were needed.

“Of course I’ll help Ron,” Hermione said. “In fact, I was thinking along the same lines myself. I’ve been drawing up different schedules to see if I can budget my study time so I’m free to help Ron when he’s between classes. Ron’s schedule isn’t nearly as heavy as ours (another polite reference to Ron’s ‘different path,’ Harry noted), so I’ll have plenty of time to work with. Normally a seventh-year student uses that free time to practice for his N.E.W.T.’s. But we have something much more important to prepare for this year. When I’m done with him, Ron won’t recognize himself. And what are you looking at?” For Harry was now looking at Hermione with such intensity that his eyes seemed like two green flames dancing behind the lenses of his glasses.

“Do you know how much I love you?” Harry said quietly.

“How much?” Hermione teased.

“This much.”

Harry drew Hermione into another kiss, gentle but emphatic. His hand caressed her cheek, running along her jaw and down her neck. His fingers slipped under her collar before drawing back quickly. Their lips parted, and Harry smiled.

“It’s amazing,” he breathed. “Technically, we’ve only been a couple for a few months, but I feel as if I’ve loved you forever.”

“I feel the same way,” Hermione said. “It seems to me that all our time together since we first met on the Hogwarts Express has been one long – and at times very odd – courtship dance. What we’re feeling now isn’t anything sudden. This seed was planted a long time ago, and it’s been growing stronger every day since, even if we didn’t see it until now. If we hadn’t both been so blind, we’d have seen the truth ages ago. If anyone looks at us now and thinks this is all too abrupt, it just shows that they’re only seeing what’s on the surface. We know different. We know how strong the foundation is that we’re standing on, because we laid every stone ourselves, day by day for six years. If no one else can see it, that’s their lookout. We know who and what we are, and where we belong. Nothing else matters.”

“I belong with you,” Harry said. “If I’d hung onto the Sorcerer’s Stone when I had it in my pocket that time, and could make us enough Elixir of Life to live as long as Nicholas Flamel, I’d want to spend every minute with you. If that’s nutters, then lock me up in Azkaban and throw away the key.”

“They’ll have to lock me in the same cell,” Hermione laughed softly. “I love you, Harry. Six years or six hundred, it’s all the same. No matter what happens, I’ll always love you.”

They kissed softly again, parting quickly, lest their pent up desires overwhelm them.

“You know,” Harry said cautiously, “if we’re going off to face Voldemort, there’s no guarantee we’re coming back.”

“You don’t believe in the Prophesy?” Hermione said in a gently taunting voice.

“Prophesies are dodgy things,” Harry said through a thin smile. “Trelawney said I had ‘the power to destroy the Dark Lord,’ and maybe that’s true. But even if I do kill Voldemort, how do I know he won’t take me with him? Trelawney’s exact words were, ‘neither can live while the other survives.’ But that’s not the same as saying that one of us will live on after. Maybe – maybe that’s the price I’ll have to pay to rid the world of Voldemort – to trade my life for his.”

“We may all be dead before it’s done,” Hermione said, extending Harry’s thought. “We always thought Hogwarts was the safest place in the world, but last month’s attack put that notion aside forever. There’s no guarantee we’ll even live long enough to sit our N.E.W.T exams at the end of the year.”

“Exactly,” Harry said, the light of anticipation glowing ever brighter in his eyes. “So,” he murmured, his hand creeping along Hermione’s neckline, his finger toying with her topmost button, “don’t you think we should be doing – well – certain things – now, before our time runs out?”

“You make a good argument, Potter,” Hermione said, a gleam surpassing Harry’s appearing in her eyes.

“I do?” Harry said, surprised by Hermione’s reply.

“You do,” Hermione said. “And I think we should do something about it, starting right now.”

Hermione rose from her chair, pulling Harry with her.

“Ginny’s room won’t do,” Hermione mused aloud. “Nor will Ron’s.” Turning to Harry, she asked, “Is there a room in the Burrow that no one’s using?” Harry nodded dumbly.

“More than one,” he said. “Remember, Mrs. Weasley asked us when we arrived if we wanted a private room. I mean,” he amended, “she asked if we each wanted a room of our own.”

“Oh, yes,” Hermione said. “But what we need now,” she purred, “is one room for the two of us.”

Harry swallowed. “Well, uh,” he said, stumbling over his tongue, “there’s the twins’ room. It’s been vacant since they moved into their flat over the joke shop.” He swallowed again, more painfully this time, as he added, “It should have plenty of space, seeing as it was set up for – you know – double occupancy.”

Even as he spoke, Harry feared Hermione might balk at using anything having to do with Fred and George. He was wrong.

“Yes,” Hermione agreed in her most seductive voice. “That should do nicely. Shall we meet there in, say, ten minutes?”

Swallowing so hard that his eyes watered, Harry nodded.

“Should we bring anything, uh, special?” Harry stammered.

Hermione paused thoughtfully, then nodded.

“Yes. Bring your Advanced Defense Against the Dark Arts book.”

Harry’s torpor shattered at once.

“My what?”

“The twins’ room should be the perfect place for us to practice some jinxes and counter-jinxes, maybe even a few hexes,” Hermione said confidently. “With all the dangerous experiments they conducted when they were living here, I’m sure they’ll have erected a load of protective spells to keep the house from suffering too much damage if something went wrong. They might even block the Ministry from detecting if you do magic before you’re allowed, since we know Fred and George did most of their deviltry here when they were underage. And after all the trouble they’ve brewed up over the years,” she said, her eyes narrowed shrewdly, “it’s only fair that something good come out of that sulfur pit for a change.

“Yes,” she concluded brightly, “I can’t think of a better place for us to get in some practice before term starts. After all,” she said, lifting an eyebrow meaningfully, “the better prepared we are when we go up against Voldemort, the likelier we are to survive the encounter. That way we can spend our entire lives together at our leisure, rather than trying to cram an abridged lifetime into a few months. Don’t you agree?”

Not waiting for an answer, Hermione walked Harry to the door. At the same moment that her right hand reached for the handle, her left snaked around to cup Harry’s bum, as she had done earlier on the edge of the Weasleys’ paddock. Harry’s eyes widened even as Hermione’s narrowed.

“One more thing, Harry,” she said in a silky voice. “The next time I put my hand here...”

“Yes?” Harry prompted as he savored the feel of Hermione’s hand on his backside.

“I want to feel your wand in your pocket, ready to be drawn at a moment’s warning.”

Harry nodded blankly. Hermione smiled and placed a brief kiss on his lips. Then she opened the door and pushed him out into the hallway, closing the door behind him.

Harry stood in silence for a moment, then turned and walked up the stairs. He met Mrs. Weasley coming down, a satisfied expression glowing like reflected moonlight on her round face. A second look revealed a bedraggled Ginny following a few paces behind. Harry greeted Mrs. Weasley, who smiled down on him (though she was a head shorter than Harry, the stairs lent her a momentary height advantage).

“And where are you bound, Harry, dear?”

“Going to get a book from my room,” Harry said. “Hermione and I are going to practice some spells before we turn in. Is it okay if we use Fred and George’s room? Only we don’t want to get in the way.”

“That will be fine,” Mrs. Weasley said. “Mind you don't set the house on fire – though goodness knows Fred and George did their best and it’s still standing, praise Merlin.”

“Thanks,” Harry said.

Harry stood aside as Mrs. Weasley passed on by. He was about to say hello to Ginny, but a venomous stare from under her disheveled hair silenced him.

“Not a word,” she grunted in a low, dangerous tone. “Not – one – bloody – word.”

As she passed Harry, Ginny’s footsteps were considerably louder than her mother’s as she stomped around a corner and was gone. Harry bit his tongue to keep from laughing out loud, shaking with silent mirth as he walked up to his and Ron’s room to fetch his Defense Against the Dark Arts book before meeting Hermione.

Harry seems to have forgotten to tell Hermione about the library. Not to worry, I’m sure he’ll get around to it before the next chapter is posted.

As certain readers may have spotted, the flashback sequence is based on a notion borrowed from one of my earlier stories. But while it was only a passing reference then, here it is presented as a detailed scene. How much truth is there to it? Probably less than I hope, but maybe – just maybe – enough to turn the hippogriff’s head in the direction we all want.

But why didn’t Harry say anything to Ginny about her hair in the real scene in HBP? Is he that thick – or is J.K. that clever, not having Harry ask a question whose answer would have spoilt her carefully-planned diversion? Harry assumes a lot, doesn’t he? And as he assumes, so do we. There’s an old saying that goes, “When you ‘assume,’ you make an ‘ass’ out of ‘u’ and ‘me’.” Food for thought.

More to come. Thanks for reading.

Time for another flashback. The scene in question was actually written long ago, just after HBP came out. One of the scenes in the book so irked me that I wasted no time in reshaping it into something that seemed more appropriate. When I got the idea for this story with its reworked romance, I realized that this scene would fit perfectly into my scenario. It needed only a tiny bit of cosmetic surgery to slide right into place.

There are a few other things in the chapter, too. But you’ll see for yourself.

Harry was not surprised when Hermione knew exactly where the library was located in Ottery St. Catchpole.

“You remember I was here a day ahead of you the year we went to the Quidditch World Cup,” she said. “Quick as my parents dropped me off, Fred and George came down and said they were heading off to the paddock to get in some practice for the upcoming Quidditch season. I came along with Ron and Ginny, but all I did was watch. Ron was flying his old Shooting Star, and Ginny was on Charlie’s old broom. Ron would fly about, playing Chaser, and Ginny would try to knock him down with an old football that Ron said he found in the woods one day – it had been punctured, but his father fixed it up. The twins would knock the ball away as if it were a Bludger, using a couple of old cricket bats. Well, after a bit I got a stiff neck from looking up and decided to go for a walk. I came into the village, and I thought I’d see if they had a library, and when I found it, I went in and read for a bit. They were all still flying about when I got back. I don’t think they even missed me,” she laughed. “I didn’t have time to look over everything before I left, but I think we’ll find something that will suit our purposes.”

Though the outer edge of the village was only a short walk away, the nearest cottage was hidden behind the hill whereon the Weasleys' paddock lay. The few wizarding families living on the periphery of the village had chosen this location in part because the inhabitants were not prone to inquisitiveness. They were friendly, as evidenced when Harry and Hermione passed a woman who was out walking her dog. She greeted the newcomers readily, her smile bearing no falseness. But she did not ask their names, nor where they were bound. Their business was just that, and none of hers. Harry was hard-pressed not to laugh out loud at the thought of Aunt Petunia living in such a village. With no one disposed to share even the most innocuous gossip, she would shrivel up and die in a week.

Harry and Hermione had necessarily foregone the transition from Muggle attire to wizards’ robes for their sojourn into the village. Harry felt a bit uncomfortable wearing the same clothes as he had done yesterday (though Hermione had freshened them up for him with a handy Charm Mrs. Weasley had taught her). However, he was grateful to be able to appreciate Hermione’s soft “Muggle curves” one more time before they vanished for the next ten months or more under loose, billowing robes. That would not prevent him from envisioning what lay beneath those robes during that time, of course. Today, however, he had a bit more than imagination to go on as he admired Hermione’s tight jeans, and the way her backside moved when she walked. Hermione caught him looking at her, and she smiled as if to say, “Enjoy the menu, Harry, but don’t expect dinner for a bit.”

There were more people on the streets when they reached the center of town. All were as the first they had met, polite and friendly, but evidencing no slightest curiosity toward the newcomers. None would have thought to ask Harry what he was carrying in the pouch slung over his shoulder. Had any been disposed to ask, the answer would have sent them off shaking their heads.

When the sparse crowd had thinned to almost nothing, Harry ducked behind a thick shrubbery and reached into his pouch. His silvery Invisibility Cloak appeared, gleaming with a watery iridescence as he shook it out and flung it over his head. He followed Hermione into the library, waiting in a corner as she scanned the signs marking the bookshelves in search of the section they sought. It wouldn’t do to ask for the book they needed outright, of course. If its absence should be noted before they could return it, someone would be bound to remember a girl with bushy brown hair who had asked for that very book just before it vanished. Instead, Hermione located the appropriate aisle by sight and strolled along its length, her eyes dancing lightly along the rows of books. One by one she would pull out a book and flip through its pages so that Harry could judge if it held the information he sought. When at last Harry saw the instructions that would serve Mr. Weasley’s purpose, he tapped Hermione lightly on the arm. She returned the book to its place and walked away, carefully allowing the librarian to see that her hands were empty. When she left the library a minute later, Harry was close on her heels, the book tucked safely in his bag.

“This is marvelous, Harry!” Mr. Weasley exclaimed as he leafed through the book while sitting at the kitchen table, a bowl of half-finished porridge forgotten at his side. “My word, these Muggles are clever, aren’t they? And you’re right, we can follow these plans step by step, substituting magic for those – what do you call them – bails?”

“Nails,” Harry said.

“Oh, yes,” Mr. Weasley nodded.

“Before nails were invented,” Hermione said knowledgably as she stood looking over Harry’s shoulder, “they used wooden pegs. Some of the structures built that way have lasted for centuries.”

“Marvelous,” Mr. Weasley said again, shaking his head in wonder.

At that moment, Ron walked through the kitchen door. It banged shut behind him loudly, startling his father so that his bowl of porridge crashed to the floor.

“Ron!” Mr. Weasley said indignantly. “Would it have put you out to have caught the door before it slammed shut?”

“Sorry,” Ron said. “Here, let me get that." He drew his wand and pointed it at the shattered bowl. “Reparo!” The pieces of the bowl leaped together and fused into an unbroken unit. Smiling, Ron waved his wand again. “Evanesco!” The spilled porridge vanished.

“Sorry, Molly,” Mr. Weasley said, looking embarrassed. “I knew I should have used a Sticking Charm on that bowl. Only I was so caught up in this marvelous book.”

Averting his eyes from his mother’s frown, Ron retrieved the repaired bowl and set it in the sink. For a moment, Harry thought he was going to wash it out, but he turned his back on it at once and walked back to the table to study the page his father was once more examining avidly. Hermione had retrieved the forgotten spoon, which had slid across the floor in front of her, and she frowned slightly, looking very much like Mrs. Weasley, as she washed both implements and dried them with a towel before returning them to the cupboard.

“The Drying Charm leaves streaks,” she answered Harry’s unspoken question when their eyes met. “There are still times when Muggle ways work best.”

Lifting his eyes from the book with a decisive nod, Ron turned to his father and said, “Right, then. The wood’s out back, and the space is cleared.”

“Good,” Mr. Weasley said, rising from his chair. “Shall we have a bash, then, Harry?”

The plans in the book proved easy to follow, being numbered so that each step was done in proper order. In no time at all, the bower was in place, its latticework unmarred by nail or screw. Applying Sticking Charms to each tiny spot had been tedious work, but the results more than compensated for their labors.

“All we need now is the flowers,” Ron said proudly.

“What about the groom?” said a new voice from the direction of the house. “You’ll need him, too, won’t you?”

Everyone turned to see a tall, red-haired wizard striding through the kitchen door. Bill Weasley’s once-handsome face was marred now by a row of thin scars, the marks of werewolf teeth. When he had been bitten by Fenrir Greyback during the Battle of Hogwarts (as the Daily Prophet headline proclaimed it), none knew whether Bill would become a true werewolf, like Remus Lupin. Those fears had proved groundless so far, but time had yet to reveal the full extent of his contamination.

“BILL!” Mr. Weasley shouted as his oldest son walked into the back garden. As the two men embraced unashamedly, it appeared to Harry that Ron was doing his best not to cry. When father and son separated, Bill held out his hand to Ron, who took it at once, his face going rigid.

“How’ve you been, Ron?” Bill asked.

“I’m – okay,” Ron said. “How about you?”

“Me?” Bill beamed. “I’m getting married next week! I’m on top of the world!”

Bill turned toward Harry and Hermione, and his smile widened as much as his scars would permit.

“And how are you two holding up?” Bill asked.

“Okay,” Harry said as he shook Bill’s hand. Hermione stood on her toes to kiss Bill’s cheek, carefully avoiding his scars.

“Glad to hear it.” Turning to face Hermione, he said, “Mum tells me you’ve declared as a Healer. Hard road, that. Wouldn’t touch it myself. Too much work.”

“I’ll manage,” Hermione said with a small smile.

“I have no doubt of that,” Bill said. “I have it from a reliable source that you got eleven O.W.L.’s last year.”

Hermione swiveled her eyes toward Ron, who quickly looked away with a guilty grin, before turning her attention back to Bill and reminding him, “I understand you got twelve O.W.L.’s – and so did Percy, come to that. I only manage a third place finish in that contest.”

“Ah,” Bill returned, “but if I’m not mistaken, ten of yours were Outstanding. Percy and I only got nine out of twelve. And you only tested in eleven subjects, so that puts your percentage above ours. By my reckoning, that gets you the gold twice, leaving Percy and me to share the bronze.”

Her cheeks beginning to match Ron’s, Hermione said quickly, “From what Ron told me about the ceremony, I wasn’t expecting you to arrive so soon. Are you staying the week, then?”

“No, just the weekend,” he said, addressing his reply to everyone. “It was all I could do to manage a week off after the ceremony to have a proper honeymoon. If I’d asked for a fortnight, my supervisor would have baby dragons right in the Gringotts lobby. As it is, I’ve promised to do extra work to make up for time lost. I’ve brought it with me, in fact.”

“Why aren’t you doing it at your flat?” Ron asked. “Not that we aren’t glad to see you, of course,” he added quickly.

“I’ve given up my flat in London,” Bill said. “It was much too small, not to mention expensive. I’ve already found larger accommodations at a better price – the rates are more affordable outside the city – but it won’t be available until the first of the month. Charlie’s having it furnished for us as his wedding present. He promises it’ll be ready when Fleur and I get back from our honeymoon. Until then, I’m doubling with a mate from Gringotts, another Curse-Breaker, like I used to be. And before you ask,” he said, raising an eyebrow as he favored Ron with a penetrating look, “I can’t work at his flat because he’s always got a bird staying over, and the noise they make when they carry on – ”

Bill caught himself suddenly, realizing that he might have said too much in front of Hermione, not to mention that Ginny was just beyond the kitchen door and could have heard everything he’d just said.

“Anyway,” he concluded, “I figure the more work I do before I head off, the less I’ll have waiting for me after.”

“Makes sense,” Ron said. “I mean, if I had someone like Fleur to come home to every night, I wouldn’t want to bring back extra work when I could be getting a bit – ”

“Ron,” Mr. Weasley said sharply, “let’s show Bill how we’ve progressed on the wedding preparations, shall we?”

“Uh – right,” Ron coughed. “Have a look, then,” he said to Bill, sweeping his arm in the direction of the newly-constructed bower. “What do you think?”

Bill walked over to the bower and gave it an appraising look. “Smashing job,” he said approvingly. “Fleur will love it.”

“All down to Harry and Hermione,” Mr. Weasley said, his manner once more relaxed. “They found just the book for the job.”

“It was at the library in the village,” Hermione said.

“A Muggle book?” Bill said, eyeing his father with amusement. “Why am I not surprised?”

“And now that we’ve finished with it,” Hermione shifted her gaze toward Mr. Weasley, who smiled and nodded, “we’d best be getting it back before it’s missed.” Turning around, she asked, “Do you have it, Harry?”

“Quick as we were done, I took it up to my room so I wouldn’t lose it,” Harry said, Mrs. Weasley’s warning still echoing in the back of his head. “I’ll go get it.”

“And don’t forget your cloak,” Hermione called after him.

Harry found the book lying on his bed where he’d left it. After fetching his dad’s cloak from his trunk and shoving it into his book bag, he tucked the book under his arm and hurried down the stairs, not wanting to keep Hermione waiting. When he entered the kitchen, he was surprised to see Bill sitting at the table, a cup of tea before him and a dreamy look on his face. Bill seemed to be in another world, one Harry felt he should not intrude upon. But though he moved as quietly as he could, Bill heard his footfalls and turned toward him with an abashed smile.

“Sorry, I didn’t see you, Harry,” he said. “I was just, well, remembering.”

“Remembering?” Harry repeated blankly.

“Remembering how it used to be,” Bill said. “You know, how it felt when I got my Hogwarts letter, passing through the barrier at King’s Cross and seeing the Hogwarts Express for the first time, sitting on the stool in the Great Hall with the Sorting Hat on my head and praying it would put me in Gryffindor as Mum and Dad hoped. A lot’s happened since then.”

Harry didn’t know what to say. He wanted to leave, knowing that Hermione was waiting for him, but something about Bill’s manner prompted him to remain. It was as if Bill wanted, or needed, someone to talk to, and Harry’s sudden appearance had elected him to that position.

Seeing the bemused expression on Harry’s face, Bill laughed gently.

“Sorry, Harry. I must sound a bit daft.”

“No,” Harry said at once.

“I heard about how you were going off straightaway to sort out You-Know-Who,” Bill said unexpectedly. “I’m glad you decided to wait. I know you’ll have to go off eventually. It’s all in the Prophesy, isn’t it?” When Harry looked startled, Bill laughed again. “I know all about it, Harry – well, not all, exactly. I mean, no one really knows what the Prophesy says, do they? But when Dumbledore set members of the Order to guarding it immediately after You-Know-Who’s return, it wasn’t hard to figure out. The Order was created to fight He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named,” Bill said dramatically, his eyes smiling as he stressed each word with comically overstated precision, “and it follows that anything having to do with him automatically has something to do with you. It’s no secret how your parents died, and anyone who knows you has figured out by now that you’re not going to rest until you’ve avenged their deaths. Add a mysterious Prophesy into the mix, and there you are.”

“So you think I’m doing the right thing by coming back for my last year?” Harry asked. There weren’t many people Harry knew whose opinion on such matters he would value, but Bill, he realized, was one of them.

“Definitely,” Bill said. “You’ll learn a lot of things this year that you’ll need to know. I didn’t take precisely the same classes you’ll have, but I don’t expect there’ll be that much difference. I opted for a career as a Curse-Breaker, so I naturally took Advanced Defense Against the Dark Arts. I didn’t learn a lot of the spells I imagine you will. My studies were all about combating Dark magic, not using it myself. All the same, I’ve seen and done things that would give most wizards nightmares for the rest of their lives. It takes stern stuff to follow the path you’ve chosen. But Mum and Dad think you’ve got it, and I agree.”

“Thanks,” Harry said.

He was on the verge of excusing himself so he could join Hermione, but he hesitated as a question that had been burning inside him unexpectedly tumbled out of his mouth.

“Do you think Hogwarts will be safe this year?”

Bill gave Harry an appraising look. “That’s a fair question, Harry. I don’t know.”

“Do you think – ” Harry began, his voice faltering.

“Do I think what, Harry?”

Plunging ahead, Harry said, “Do you think we can trust everyone like we did before?” Bill stared at Harry as he pondered the question, and Harry went on, “There were people at Hogwarts who we thought were on our side, but who were actually working for Voldemort.” Bill lifted an eyebrow at mention of Voldemort’s name, but gave no other sign of alarm, as Ron, or even Mr. Weasley, would have done. “Do you think – I mean, there’ll have to be two new teachers at Hogwarts this year. How will we know that we can trust them, after – ”

“You’re thinking of Snape,” Bill said. Harry nodded. Bill seemed to hesitate for a moment, as if he wanted to say something, but was unsure if he should. The moment passed, and he said, “There are safeguards that can be taken to ensure one’s loyalty. Certain spells that, once engaged, are absolute proof against betrayal. We all submitted ourselves in that manner when we were accepted into the Order. It was imperative that Dumbledore be able to trust us, no matter what. I’d already done the same thing at Gringotts – Curse-Breakers bring back loads of treasure from lost tombs, and the goblins don’t want any of that gold to ‘accidentally’ end up in someone’s pocket before it reaches the bank,” he smiled. “I understand that the Unspeakables undergo a similar ritual before the Ministry will certify them – though no one knows for sure, of course, since they can’t speak about it.” His smile widened, straining against his scarred cheeks.

A deep furrow had appeared along the line of Harry’s bangs, crinkling his lightning scar.

“What is it, Harry?” Bill asked perceptively.

“Snape was a member of the Order,” Harry said in a pained voice. “It didn’t work so well with him, did it?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss other members of the Order,” Bill said, his manner suddenly brusque. It reminded Harry of a similar response he’d received whenever the same subject had been broached in the past, abruptly spurring his anger in much the same manner as it had done on those occasions.

“Dumbledore told me that he trusted Snape,” Harry said harshly. “I told him over and over that Snape couldn’t be trusted, but he wouldn’t listen. And now he’s dead.”

Bill sat perfectly still, his hand wrapped around his teacup. His silence was unnerving. If he’d tried to defend Snape’s position as a member of the Order, Harry was prepared to launch a volley from the depths of his anger that would shatter the most reasoned argument to bits. Seconds dragged on until a full minute passed, and still Bill said nothing, but merely fixed Harry with a calm, unblinking stare. For want of an outlet to fan his inner fire, Harry felt his rage begin to ebb, and he looked more closely at Bill, searching the wizard’s placid countenance for long moments. And as reason slowly supplanted the anger inside him, Harry had the distinct impression that Bill was trying to communicate something to him with his eyes, something that he could not – seemed unable to – put into words.

And all at once, something clicked inside Harry’s mind. He looked at Bill again, and it seemed that the red-haired wizard was hiding a smile behind the delicate latticework of his scarred features. Bill rose smoothly from his chair, standing slightly above Harry’s height.

“Mum’s making up my old room for me for the weekend,” he said. “I think I’ll go see how she’s coming along. Good talking with you, Harry.”

Bill left the kitchen. Harry stood for a moment, an odd look on his face. He never knew how long he remained thus, but finally he shook his head, feeling as if he were dispelling a fog around his thoughts.

Harry left the kitchen with a neutral look on his face. When he entered the back garden, he saw Hermione looking his way, wearing an expression that might have been appropriated from Professor McGonagall. Except that Professor McGonagall would not have put her hands on her hips as Hermione did, nor would she have managed anything resembling the smile that spread across Hermione’s face as Harry approached, a look of contrition struggling against the slowly upturning corners of his mouth.

“Sorry,” Harry said, his smile causing Hermione’s to grow proportionately. “I was having a chat with Bill.”

“Punctuality is the mark of a successful wizard, you know,” Hermione said in a mildly reproving tone.

“We were talking about the witches in our lives,” Harry said. “I was telling him how wonderful you are, and,” he spread his hands helplessly, “once I got started, I didn’t know where to stop.”

Everyone laughed, including Hermione. Harry slung the bag containing his Invisibility Cloak over his shoulder, and he and Hermione set off, retracing their path from earlier that morning. It proved to be child’s play for Harry to again follow Hermione through the door, whereupon he quickly returned the book to its place while the librarian was distracted by a question from his “partner in crime,” as Fred and George might have said. Thinking about the twins reminded Harry of the cold reception Hermione had given them yesterday in Diagon Alley, and this, in turn, conjured images of a very different reception scheduled for Sunday next.

Fred and George had been invited to the wedding, of course, as had every member of the Weasley family. Both had accepted (of all the family, only Percy had declined) and they would almost certainly be staying for the reception. How would Hermione react when, as Harry was sure they would, the twins made yet another peace overture to her? She would have to feign politeness in the company of the wedding party, but when Bill and Fleur departed and the guests likewise said their goodbyes, would the twins continue to press the matter between them? If they did – and it seemed likely – an explosion might result that would make the fireworks display at Hogwarts during the tenure of Dolores Umbridge pale by comparison.

Harry kept these concerns to himself as they walked back to the Burrow. There was nothing to be gained by further discourse on the subject. Hermione had made her position quite clear in the joke shop. All he could do was prepare himself for the storm, and stand by Hermione until its passing.

Harry was taking a more direct route back to the Burrow, bypassing the winding roads and going across the rolling woodland surrounding the village, and, not incidentally, separating the Burrow from the village proper. As they mounted the hill leading to the Weasleys’ paddock, the location stirred a memory in the back of Harry’s brain.

“I forgot to tell you,” he said as he helped Hermione over the crest of the hill (which was steeper on this side than on the one facing the Burrow), “I invited a guest to the wedding last night.”

“You did?” Hermione said in surprise. “I thought everyone either of us would have invited was already on the guest list.”

“It was a spur of the moment thing,” Harry said as he took Hermione’s hand in his and took a marginal lead down the hillside debouching onto the paddock, prepared to block Hermione’s descent should she lose her balance. “Luna turned up while I was practicing Quidditch.”

“You invited Luna?” Hermione said, and Harry spotted that there was only a hint of surprise in her voice.

“She said her dad was going to interview some members of the wedding party by fire after the excitement died down,” Harry explained. “I told her she could get a better story by attending in person. She can take notes, or try to remember what she sees, and maybe her dad will let her write the story herself. I’m not sure what Luna has in mind for when she leaves school, but if she plans on carrying on with the family business, this should be a step in the right direction.”

“I think it’s a smashing idea,” Hermione said, and Harry noted that a curious smile had appeared on Hermione’s face. He was sure he knew what she was thinking, since he had himself had been spurred by the same notion. Rather than stating the obvious, Harry chose instead to substitute a question.

“Should we tell Ron? He’s bound to think I invited Luna for his sake as much as hers.”

“I don’t think Ron has a dickie bird that Luna fancies him,” Hermione replied.

“So what should I do?” Harry said. “Should I tell him?”

“Yes,” Hermione said without hesitation. “Tell him exactly what you told me – about her writing up the ceremony for The Quibbler, I mean. Anyway, it’s not as if she’s a stranger, is it? She risked her life with all of us at the Ministry a year ago. It’s odd that we don’t talk about that night. It’s almost as if we’re all pretending it never happened.”

Harry’s answering silence was more vocal than words, and Hermione squeezed his hand.

“I know you don’t want to remember that night,” she said understandingly. “Neither do I, come to that. I came a bit too close to dying myself than I ever expected. I know that’s a bit of an idiotic thing to say – I mean, we were going off to confront a horde of Death Eaters, for Merlin’s sake. It’s not as if we expected them to be waiting for us with tea and biscuits. It’s more like we didn’t think anything at all. If we had thought on it a bit, I don’t know if we’d have been so keen to go.”

“I was the one who wanted to go,” Harry said softly, his eyes downcast. “I was going to go alone. You lot all came along to keep me from making a total arse of myself. Only it didn’t quite come off that way, did it? I couldn’t have mucked things up more if I’d had a set of numbered instructions with step-by-step photos like in the book we just took back.”

“Please don’t, Harry,” Hermione said, giving his hand another squeeze. “We need to look ahead, not back. Now more than ever. We have a big job ahead of us, you, me and Ron. We can’t hobble ourselves with such recriminations. Voldemort won’t allow us the slightest margin for error. He might even be counting on it as part of his plan, expecting us to handicap ourselves by carrying that night into battle with us. We can’t allow that to happen. We have to be on our game, as you Quidditch blokes say.” She squeezed his hand emphatically, and Harry lifted his head with a strained smile.

“I wish I knew the proper words to tell you how much I love you.”

“We don’t need words," Hermione said, returning Harry’s smile. “We never have. How many times do I have to tell you before it gets through that thick scar-head of yours?”

“As many times as it takes,” Harry said earnestly. “For the rest of our lives, if need be.”

As they came within sight of the Burrow, Harry stopped abruptly and stared at the tall, crooked house, the peaked roof of which was just visible over the edge of the line of trees which concealed the Weasley’s paddock. Verdure surrounded them on all sides. The July sun was warm on their faces, tempered by a breeze that rustled the leaves with an almost soporific effect. Harry heaved a deep sigh. Without a word, he sat down on the hillside, Hermione following his example. All sight of the Burrow vanished. It was as if he and Hermione were the only two people in the world. Turning, he saw that Hermione was waiting patiently for an explanation for his actions. It was a skill she had cultivated over time to a fine art, given Harry’s penchant for keeping things bottled up inside.

“I almost don’t want to go back,” he said achingly. “Sitting here, it’s like you and I are all alone. There’s no one in the whole bloody world but the two of us. I wish we could stay here forever.”

Hermione snuggled close to Harry, slipping her arm around his waist. He shrugged off his book bag, freeing both arms to pull her against him. Her head fell onto his chest, and he inhaled the perfume of her hair, still fresh from last night’s washing. Wordlessly, Harry placed a finger under Hermione’s chin and lifted her head. Bending, he enveloped her lips with his. The kiss deepened until it was if their souls reached out and embraced on a spiritual level. Silence enveloped them, enhanced rather than disturbed by the whispering leaves, and the distant music of birdsong. Unbidden, the birds’ voices permeated Harry’s mind, creeping into the dark corridors of his memory, hurling his thoughts back to another time, another place...

The party celebrating Gryffindor’s Quidditch victory over Hufflepuff was well under way when Harry pushed open the portrait of the Fat Lady and entered the common room. Renewed cheers and clapping greeted his appearance, and he was soon surrounded by a mob of people congratulating him. What with trying to shake off the Creevey brothers, who wanted a blow-by-blow match analysis, and a large group of girls who encircled him, laughing at his least amusing comments and batting their eyelids, it was some time before he could try to find Ron. At last he extricated himself from Romilda Vane, who was hinting heavily that she would like to go to Slughorn’s Christmas party with him. As he was ducking toward the drinks table, he walked straight into Ginny, Arnold the Pygmy Puff riding on her shoulder and Crookshanks mewing hopefully at her heels.

“Looking for Ron?” she asked, smirking. “He’s over there, the filthy hypocrite.”

Harry looked into the corner she was indicating. There, in full view of the whole room, stood Ron wrapped so closely around Lavender Brown it was hard to tell whose hands were whose.

“It looks like he’s eating her face, doesn’t it?” Ginny said dispassionately. “But I suppose he’s got to refine his technique somehow. Good game, Harry.”

She patted him on the arm, then walked off to help herself to more butterbeer. Crookshanks trotted after her, his yellow eyes fixed upon Arnold.

Harry turned away from Ron, who did not look like he would be surfacing soon, just as the portrait hole was closing. With a sinking feeling, he thought he saw a mane of bushy brown hair whipping out of sight.

He darted forward, sidestepped Romilda Vane again, and pushed open the portrait of the Fat Lady. The corridor outside seemed to be deserted.

“Hermione?”

He found her in the first unlocked classroom he tried. She was sitting on the teacher’s desk, alone except for a small ring of twittering yellow birds circling her head, which she had clearly just conjured out of midair. Harry could not help admiring her spell-work at a time like this.

“Oh, hello, Harry,” she said in a brittle voice. “I was just practicing.”

“Yeah...they’re – er – really good...” Harry said.

He had no idea what to say to her. He was just wondering whether there was any chance that she had not noticed Ron, that she had merely left the room because the party was a little too rowdy, when she said, in an unnaturally high-pitched voice, “Ron seems to be enjoying the celebrations.”

“Er...does he?” Harry said.

“Don’t pretend you didn't see him,” Hermione said. “He wasn’t exactly hiding it, was he?”

There being no good reply to this, Harry said nothing. He stood in silence for a moment, then walked over and sat beside Hermione.

“Why are you so upset?” Harry asked her gently. “I mean, it’s not as if you – ”

Harry paused. Hermione had tensed up subtly, the change coming with such abruptness that Harry almost thought to hear a Locking Charm engage inside her, replete with clicking tumblers. Clearly she was hiding something, something she did not want Harry to see. But he thought he already knew, and the knowledge made his insides clench up the way they had just before today’s Quidditch match. The words came out of his mouth before he realized his lips were moving.

“Hermione?” Harry asked quietly. “Do you...er...do you...fancy Ron?”

“Me?” Hermione squeaked shrilly. “Fancy that – that – ”

The door behind them burst open. To Harry’s horror, Ron came in, laughing, pulling Lavender by the hand.

“Oh,” he said, drawing up short at the sight of Harry and Hermione.

“Oops!” Lavender said, and she backed out of the room, giggling. The door swung shut behind her.

There was a horrible, swelling, billowing silence. Hermione was staring at Ron, who refused to look at her, but said with an odd mixture of bravado and awkwardness, “Hi, Harry! Wondered where you’d got to!”

“I – ” Harry began, feeling that some explanation was necessary lest Ron assume the worst. “That is, we – ”

Suddenly, before Harry could say another word, Hermione threw her arms around him and kissed him fiercely. It was so unexpected that at first he could not think how to respond. But the warmth of her lips on his, the ferocity with which she ran her fingers through his already windswept hair, sent a signal to his brain like the ringing of a bell. Heedless of Ron standing in stunned silence in the doorway, Harry slipped his arms around Hermione and began to kiss her back.

The feel of Hermione in his arms made Harry’s senses sing like a chorus of wood nymphs. Or maybe that was the sound of the birds darting around their heads. He had never imagined that kissing a girl could be so – so intoxicating. This was nothing like his awkward kiss with Cho under the mistletoe had been. His head was swimming as if he had just drunk a dozen bottles of butterbeer. He moved his hands across Hermione’s soft shoulders, catching up handfuls of her bushy hair as he drew her face even closer to his. The flowery scent of her hair filled his senses (along with another, subtler fragrance he couldn’t identify). Lost in the moment, Harry would not have noticed if the castle suddenly crumbled around them.

Very slowly, Hermione’s lips relaxed against Harry’s. Her arms slipped from around his neck, her hands lingering on his shoulders for a moment before falling away. Harry’s hands slid down her back, her thick hair threading supplely through his fingers. She withdrew, face slightly flushed, softly gasping for breath. For his part, Harry was too stunned even to attempt to breathe. He felt as if ripples of electricity were surging through him, making his skin tingle. It was as if music were humming through him, not unlike Phoenix song. He stared dumbly as Hermione calmly adjusted her robes, which were slightly rumpled from the action of Harry’s hands.

“Congratulations, Harry,” she said, her voice no longer brittle, but firm and resolute. Straightening her shoulders with an air of unflappable deportment, she cast a triumphant glance in Ron’s direction, then turned away dismissively without a word.

Harry had no idea what had just happened. Neither, it seemed, did Ron. Hermione slid off the desk. The little flock of golden birds continued to twitter in circles around her head so that she looked like a strange, feathery model of the solar system.

“You shouldn’t leave Lavender waiting outside,” she said quietly to Ron as she passed him without looking at him. “She’ll wonder where you’ve gone.”

She walked very slowly and erectly toward the door. When it closed behind her, the soft click of the latch echoed unnaturally in the enveloping silence. Harry glanced at Ron, who was looking dumbfounded. Harry knew exactly how he felt.

“What just happened?” Ron asked. “What was that all about?”

Harry had no answer. Emulating Hermione, he slid off the desk without a word and walked past Ron, his thoughts swirling like the misty contents of a Pensieve.

What had just happened?

Hermione had kissed him, that was what had happened. That she meant it as some kind of revenge on Ron was all too apparent. But something else was just as apparent to Harry. Kissing Hermione had been the most thrilling experience of his life. His insides felt exactly as they did when he zoomed up into the sky on his Firebolt, giving him a wonderful feeling of freedom and exhilaration.

No, he amended. It was better. It was the best feeling he had ever experienced. And with that realization came another, so powerful that the knowledge gripped him like Devil’s Snare.

He wanted it to happen again.

Harry’s lips parted from Hermione’s, hovering just close enough to feel the warmth of their presence. His eyes were closed, and it seemed that his entire world was composed of the soft touch of Hermione’s lips, and the sound of the birds twittering overhead. He opened his eyes slowly. Hermione’s large brown eyes gazed back at him. The lips brushing his were curled into a smile.

“I told you we didn’t need words, didn’t I?” she said, the corners of her mouth twitching.

“All the same,” Harry said, “you don’t mind if I keep telling you how much I love you every chance I get?”

“If you insist,” Hermione replied in a weary, bored voice, restraining a smile with questionable success.

Shouldering his bag once more, Harry rose to his feet, pulling Hermione up after. They made their way down the slope until they came to the back hedge beyond which lay the Weasleys’ vegetable garden. Harry helped Hermione over the lowest point, which he suspected had been worn down over the years by a generation of Weasley children journeying to the paddock to practice Quidditch (excluding Percy, who, Harry reflected, probably couldn’t have told a Quaffle from a pumpkin). As they stepped down, they saw a small, brown shape scurry away as fast as its tiny legs could carry it. Its potato-sized head was scarcely taller than the overgrown tufts of grass into which it dived, vanishing from sight with a sound as of high-pitched giggling.

“They’re a persistent lot, I’ll give them that,” Harry chuckled. “What would you give to have no more worries than a garden gnome?” he asked almost longingly. “No Dark wizards plotting to do you in. You pop out of your hole once in a while, nick an armload of pea pods and a tomato or two, and its back home again, the conquering hero. That’s the life.”

“Be nice, wouldn’t it?” Hermione murmured, her eyes straying to the tiny shape just in time to see its horny little feet vanish down some unseen hole.

As they rounded the frog pond and approached the Burrow, Harry asked, “Are you up for another go in the twins’ room?”

Their first session last night had proven both stimulating and productive. They had practiced some tricky wand movements designed to work in concert with non-verbal spells. The runes they carved into the air were extremely complex. Sparing Harry the need to do magic in defiance of the age restriction, Hermione had performed a spell that turned their wands into magical “quills” so that whatever they described in the air remained behind, floating before them in shimmering, golden script, allowing them to see how closely they’d matched the pictures in the textbook. Harry recognized the spell as the same one Tom Riddle had used in the Chamber of Secrets when he’d spelled out his name for Harry – Tom Marvolo Riddle – before rearranging the letters to declare to the world: I am Lord Voldemort.

Hermione’s experience in her Ancient Runes classes had proved invaluable. Harry could not remember learning more in so little time in any Defense lesson. He was keen to have another go today – and when they were done, he might be able to steal a few minutes of “down time” with Hermione on the twins’ beds. Pushed together, Harry reasoned, the two narrow beds would be as good as a single wide one, augmented by a temporary Sticking Charm. He knew Hermione would only permit them to go so far, but Harry would gladly take what he could get. Unfortunately, his suggestion met with less success than their previous training session had enjoyed.

“I’d love to,” Hermione said with an apologetic smile. “But I have loads to do this morning.”

Harry sighed inwardly. “I suppose you’re helping Ginny again? Something else for the wedding?”

“I’ve promised to help her with a few last-minute things later,” Hermione said, her expression relaxing. “For now, I'm going to make a start on some of my new school books." ”

“I wish we could study together like we’ve always done,” Harry said. “It won’t be the same, not sharing classes. I know there were exceptions, like my Divination class, and your Arithmancy and Ancient Runes. But this year, the exception has become the rule.”

“We won’t share classes like we used to,” Hermione acknowledged, “but that’s not to say we won’t study together. We’re each going to be learning things the other isn’t allowed, strictly speaking. My ordinary Defense classes won’t be a patch on yours. You’ll have to bring me up to scratch on everything you learn so we can go off prepared against Voldemort. I expect we can use the Room of Requirement as we did before. It’ll be a bit like having the D.A. back in form, but with a smaller membership.”

“And you can pass along to Ron what I teach you,” Harry said.

“You won’t be able at all?” Hermione replied with a touch of regret.

“No time,” Harry sighed. “I know we haven’t got our actual schedules yet, but based on the classes we know we’ll be taking, it looks like they’ll be a coordinated nightmare, designed to keep us from seeing each other more than an hour a day. When our classes and study periods don’t clash, I’ll have Head Boy duties while Ron’s conducting Quidditch practices. He’ll have a lot of responsibility as team captain – that’ll eat up a bit of his free time when he’s not in class, or working with you. I remember what it was like for me last year when I was captain. Either of us might have managed it this year with only prefect duties – I mean, Cedric seemed to be able to handle it okay – but Head Boy is – well, it’s like being captain of the whole school. That’s why I knew all along I couldn’t carry on as Quidditch captain. I’ll have a job of it as it is, what with all the extra classes I’ll need to prepare for...”

“Ron will understand,” Hermione said reassuringly. “He’s done a bit of growing up since last June." Her voice fell to a whisper as she added, “We all have.”

“You’ll be a good teacher,” Harry said. “Bit of a shame you never put in for it as a career. I could see you running the school as well as Dumbledore ever did – and a damn sight better than Phineas Nigellus ever managed!”

“I considered it,” Hermione said. “It was one of the possibilities Professor McGonagall broached in my career chat – she reckoned that as often as I’d helped you and Ron pass your exams, I must be a pretty good teacher already,” she smiled. “But even though I opted to declare as a Healer, a teaching position still wouldn’t be out of the question. Most of the courses I’m taking are so strenuous, they’d automatically qualify me for a teacher once I’m properly trained. A Healer has to master so many aspects of magic, I imagine I could teach most of them if the need arose, just as Madam Pomfrey could.”

“I never thought of Madam Pomfrey as a teacher,” Harry said. “But with all she does as the school nurse, using spells and potions – blimey, if only Dumbledore had hired her to teach Potions all those years ago instead of Snape!"

“It was a matter of qualification versus need," Hermione said. “She could have done it easily, as you said. But who would they have got to take her place as school nurse? A Healer is a lot harder to replace than a Potions Master.”

“Or a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher,” Harry said. “And that reminds me, have you heard anything about who the new teachers will be?”

“No,” Hermione said. “You’ll have noted that there was nothing about the teaching staff in our letters.”

“It was bad enough finding someone to fill the Defense post every year,” Harry said. “Now we need a new Transfiguration teacher as well. Who’s qualified to do either? And more to the point, who’s got the bollocks to take the job after what happened last month?”

“Maybe no one wanted the jobs,” Hermione reasoned. “I suppose some of the teachers could do double duty. We’ve already established that someone can be qualified to teach in more than one area. But we already learnt that last year, didn’t we, when Snape – ”

“Maybe there won’t be enough students this year to fill out a single class,” Harry cut across Hermione, his eyes flashing at the mere mention of Snape. “I mean, look how many friends we lost last term when their parents took them off. I don’t reckon they’ll be returning, and Merlin only knows how many more won’t be back this term. If the classes are that depleted, they might even go so far as to mix different years to keep the classrooms filled...”

Harry’s voice trailed off suddenly as a thought jumped forward from the back of his brain. Ginny had already as much as said that the school was planning to do just that. She’d informed him during their long wait in the queue at the Leaky Cauldron that the two of them would likely be sharing an Advanced Transfiguration class, as well as Advanced Charms. If Hogwarts was combining advanced classes, there was no reason to think that they would not do the same for the everyday curriculum. He should have remembered that. But all at once he realized why the thought hadn’t occurred to him just now. He’d promised Ginny to say nothing about the classes the two of them expected to share. Funny how he’d forgotten that. Perhaps the awkward situation he and Ginny had fallen into upon their return to the Burrow had driven the events from his brain. Or maybe his forgetting had been a defense mechanism. He didn’t like keeping secrets from Hermione, no matter their triviality, and locking the secret away would have removed the burden of guilt from him. He wished he knew how to perform a selective Memory Charm on himself. That was just the sort of spell that might turn up this year in Advanced Charms. Not that that would do him any good now, of course.

“Doubled classes would reduce the need for a full teaching staff,” Hermione reflected, apparently taking no note of the momentary glaze that passed over Harry's eyes during his brief reverie. “There are many small schools in remote corners of Europe that combine classes to save space and time. I read it in – ”

“Hogwarts: A History,” Harry said. Hermione slapped him playfully on the side of the head.

“And it’s not like Hogwarts hasn’t combined classes before now,” Hermione reminded Harry. “We always shared Potions and Care of Magical Creatures with the Slytherins, and Herbology with Hufflepuff. This year we might well see all four Houses mixed into a single class in some subjects, in addition to the different years you just mentioned, and even then the classrooms still won’t be overcrowded."

“That’s a cheerful thought,” Harry muttered, his thoughts once more grounded in the here and now. “Sharing every class with the stinking Slytherins.”

“I doubt you’ll have to suffer with the rest of us,” Hermione observed. “How many students qualify in any year for Auror classes?”

“I was thinking about you,” Harry said. “The whole of Slytherin House is likely to hold a grudge against us, and if I’m not there, they’ll take it all out on you.”

“I’m not worried,” Hermione said. “Every family that supported Voldemort has probably taken their children out of Hogwarts.”

"Every family we know of," Harry amended. "How many were secret supporters? They’re not likely to show their colors until it’s too late. And who’s to say they’ll all be in Slytherin? I don’t suppose we’ve much to worry about with Hufflepuff, at least the ones we’ve worked with seem alright. And there are too many Muggle-borns in Gryffindor for a sympathizer to keep his true feelings hidden very long. But I wouldn’t put it past some Ravenclaw to be spying for Voldemort. Look at Marietta Edgecombe. I should have realized that ages ago. The Sorting Hat selects the cleverest for that House, and that’s one of the attributes Voldemort values most in his servants.”

“What will happen, will happen,” Hermione said wisely, giving Harry’s hand another squeeze. “And when it does, we’ll be ready.”

“Yes,” Harry nodded, giving Hermione’s hand an answering squeeze. “We will.”

As they turned their eyes away from each other and toward the Burrow, they saw a tall figure striding toward them, his hand waving a greeting.

“Any problems with the Muggles?” Ron asked, his trademark smile glowing in the morning sun.

“What could go wrong?” Harry replied. “It's not like we were breaking into Gringotts to steal the Sorcerer’s Stone.”

“You lot ready for lunch?” Ron said, jerking his head toward the house. “Mum said if I saw you to tell you it’ll be on the table in – ” Ron checked his watch. “Ten minutes.”

“Let’s go, then,” Hermione said, her eyes reflecting the hunger gnawing at her midsection.

As they approached the picnic table where the Weasleys often took their meals in the warm season, Harry counted the place settings and concluded, “Someone's missing.”

“Bill,” Ron said, inclining his head toward an upper window of the house.

“Making a start on the work he brought along from the bank, is he?” Harry commented. But Ron shook his head.

“Rehearsing for the wedding. He said he wanted everything to go just right next Sunday, and if something did go wrong, it would bloody well not be on his head.”

“There’s something – I dunno – off-center about having to rehearse for a wedding,” Harry said as he dropped his bag onto the grass and seated Hermione on the bench before sliding in beside her. “Not very romantic, you ask me.”

“What would you have Bill and Fleur do?” Hermione asked, her eyes narrowed shrewdly. “Just pop in, say, ‘I love you,’ and pop straight off for the honeymoon?”

“Sounds good to me,” Ron said.

“You men are all alike,” Hermione sniffed through a smirk as Harry and Ron exchanged a grin.

Mrs. Weasley appeared, balancing three covered platters, one atop another, with her wand. At her direction, the platters separated and settled gently onto the table. Ron immediately uncovered the platter nearest at hand and grinned broadly.

“Bangers!”

Mrs. Weasley uncovered a second platter to reveal a tureen of peas, culled, Harry did not doubt, from the garden they had all de-gnomed yesterday. The third platter revealed a mound of rolls that were still steaming, along with a butter boat across which a blunt knife lay.

“Tuck in, everyone,” Mrs. Weasley said. “I’ll bring the drinks along.”

Harry helped himself to everything, spreading butter on his peas before applying the knife to a roll. Iced pumpkin juice completed the meal, which everyone ate in a contented silence. Only when the platters were empty did anyone speak.

“That was excellent, Mrs. Weasley,” Hermione said.

“Thank you, dear,” Mrs. Weasley said with a polite (if not overly friendly) smile.

“Smashing, Mrs. Weasley,” Harry agreed.

Mrs. Weasley smiled much more warmly at Harry than she had done at Hermione.

“When will Dad be home?” Ron asked.

“Shortly, I hope,” Mrs. Weasley said. “Arthur is at the Ministry,” she informed Harry, unaware that Ron had already explained his father’s absence that morning. Harry had taken Mr. Weasley’s absence into account when counting the place settings. “He was going to take some of his holiday time this week to prepare for the wedding, but they can’t get along without him for more than a couple of days, even on a weekend.”

There was unmistakable pride in Mrs. Weasley’s voice as she spoke of her husband. Harry knew that Mr. Weasley had been promoted out of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts office not long ago. That meant a few extra Galleons in his pay packet, not to mention a measure of recognition he had long since earned but seldom received. Harry was not overly fond of Rufus Scrimgeour, but the new Minister of Magic was a vast improvement over his predecessor, Cornelius Fudge. Whatever Harry’s personal feelings, he could not deny that Scrimgeour was taking the threat of Voldemort seriously, which was more than could be said of Fudge. The new Minister’s recognition of Mr. Weasley’s true worth went far to ameliorating the friction Harry’s two encounters with him had produced. As long as Scrimgeour stayed out of his way, Harry would keep his thoughts on the Minister to himself.

“I hope they have enough sense not to call Dad next Sunday,” Ginny put in.

“Don’t give it a thought,” Mrs. Weasley told her daughter. “This wedding is going to come off smoothly. Nothing is going to stop my son from marrying the woman he loves.”

Harry was mildly surprised to hear this sentiment from Mrs. Weasley, but pleasantly so. Any friction that existed between Harry and Rufus Scrimgeour had been insignificant compared to that between Mrs. Weasley and Fleur Delacour. That had changed dramatically when Bill was injured in the battle against the Death Eaters at Hogwarts. Fleur had stood by her tragically disfigured fiancée, demonstrating a fiery defiance Mrs. Weasley could not but respect, for that it was a virtual mirror image of her own incendiary nature. Different in so many ways, Fleur and Mrs. Weasley were united in their unwavering love for the men they had chosen to be their life partners.

Mrs. Weasley busied herself clearing the table, sending everyone away with a wave of her hand.

“Go and do something for yourselves,” she told her children and their two housemates. “Summer holidays don’t last forever. If something comes up, I’ll call you. Just now, I have to go keep Arthur’s lunch warm until he returns. Off you get!”

“So, what do you reckon, Harry?” Ron said. “Fancy a bit of dueling practice? Gotta get in form if we’re to go after You-Know-Who's lot next year.”

Casting a sidewise glance at Hermione, Harry said, “Bit of trouble with that, mate. I’m not of age yet. If I do magic, you might see a Ministry owl winging over the trees with an expulsion notice in his beak. Funny,” he said with a crooked smile, “a month ago I was all keen to leave, and now I’m worried about being chucked out.” Ron sagged slightly. “Anyway,” Harry said, “Hermione’s having a go at her new books, and I thought I’d help her get started.”

“Tell you what,” Hermione told Ron, her own quick glance at Harry revealing a devilish twinkle in her mahogany eyes. “Why don’t you get in some Quidditch practice? I’m sure Harry will let you use his Firebolt.”

“It’s in my trunk,” Harry said at once. “It’s unlocked – well, I mean, there’s no one here to keep it locked against, is there? Hang on, you can take this up for me while you’re at it.” He caught up his bag and tossed it at Ron so suddenly that Hermione gasped in surprise. In a blur of motion, Ron snared it one-handed, and Harry laughed, “Nice save! Ever think of trying out for Keeper? I can fix it for you if you like. The team captain’s a mate of mine, and I think he can use a bloke like you this year.” Harry laughed again, Hermione joining him. Even Ginny laughed softly.

“Thanks, mate,” Ron grinned happily. Turning to Ginny, he said, “You want to come along? You can use my Cleansweep 11. It’s loads better than Charlie’s old broom. You said yourself, we both have to get in form for Quidditch season.”

Ginny looked as if she were about to say yes, but at the last moment she caught sight of Hermione, who was shaking her head unobtrusively. Facing Ron, Ginny said in her most contrite voice, “I’d love to, but I have something to do. Girl stuff,” she added when Ron opened his mouth to question what could possibly be more important than Quidditch. He closed his mouth sullenly, and Ginny said, “I’ll try to be along directly, okay?”

“Fine,” Ron shrugged as he turned to go, Harry’s bag dragging beside him. “But it’s not the same, practicing alone.”

When Ron was safely inside the house, Hermione answered Ginny’s unspoken question. “Maybe he won’t have to practice alone.”

“When I went up to the paddock to do some flying last night,” Harry explained with a conspiratorial smile, “Luna turned up. She chucked some stones in the air for me so I could practice catching the Snitch.”

“And you think she’ll turn up again today?” Ginny said with suppressed excitement.

“You never know,” Harry replied.

“Harry,” Hermione said suddenly, “does Luna own a broomstick?”

“I don’t think so,” Harry said blankly. “What – ”

“OI, RON!” Ginny shouted up toward Ron’s window. Ron’s head appeared a moment later, a puzzled look evident on his face even at the distance separating him from the ground far below. “Take your broom along for me when you go!” Ginny called. “That way I won’t forget to bring it later.”

“Right!” Ron said. His head vanished.

“You’re quick on the uptake,” Hermione said approvingly as she and Ginny exchanged a triumphant smile.

"What was that about?" Harry asked. Ginny rolled her eyes at Hermione, as if to ask, Is he always this thick?

“If Luna does turn up,” Hermione whispered, fearful that Ron might return at any moment, “they’ll get on much better if they’re both flying than if one of them has to stand on the ground looking up.”

At that moment, Ron pushed open the door and bolted into the back garden, a broomstick in each hand. The screen door banged shut resoundingly behind him.

“RONALD BILIUS WEASLEY!” Mrs. Weasley shouted from somewhere inside the house. “DON’T – SLAM – THAT – BLOODY – DOOR!”

“Sorry!” Ron called out. Turning about, he said with annoyance, “How was I supposed to catch the door with a broom in each hand?”

“Have a good practice,” Harry said.

“Right,” Ron said, his expression clearing at once. “Come along as soon as you can,” he told Ginny, and then he was off.

“I promise,” Ginny called after her brother.

“You don’t really mean to catch him up later?” Hermione said in surprise.

“Of course,” Ginny grinned. “How else am I going to spy on him?”

And before either Harry or Hermione could utter a word, Ginny was off after Ron, whose fiery head was just vanishing over the back hedge. Harry turned to find Hermione wearing a very self-satisfied smile.

“There are aspects of your nature I’m only just learning to appreciate, Miss Granger,” he said.

“Thank you, Mr. Potter,” Hermione said with a small bow.

They entered the kitchen (careful not to let the door slam shut behind them) and mounted the stairs to the second floor. When Harry made to follow Hermione into Ginny’s room, her eyebrows rose.

“I thought you were just saying you were going help me study so you could get Ron together with Luna.”

“Ron had nothing to do with it,” Harry said. “But it’s a good job Ginny went off after him. Less chance of our being interrupted. Given the choice of which couple I want Ginny to spy on...”

With a small chuckle, Hermione opened her trunk and rummaged through her books until she found the ones she wanted. She spread them out on the desk and seated herself in the chair. Harry sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes looking over Hermione’s left hand. Harry read the titles of the books lying before him: Basic Healing Potions, Theory of Healing Magic, and The Beginner’s Guide to Healing. Hermione surveyed the trio for a moment before selecting the book of potions. She opened it to the index and ran her finger down the chapter titles slowly. Ultimately she gave the page a decisive tap, thereafter flipping pages rapidly until she came to the chapter she sought. The turned a few more pages, then nodded, leaving the book to lie open on the desk as she began to read.

“What does that potion do?” Harry asked.

“It heals burns,” Hermione answered without looking up. “A very useful potion." Turning, she said, “It’s the same one Madam Pomfrey used on Cedric when he got burned during the first task of the Triwizard Tournament.”

“What, that orange paste he was wearing?”

“It’s a very basic formula,” Hermione said, “but like all complex potions, it has to be done precisely in every detail or it’s useless. Even a gram too much or too little of any ingredient and it could have horrible consequences.”

“What, like eating your face?” Harry said jokingly, unconsciously remembering Ron and Lavender from his recent musings.

“Yes.”

Harry’s smile melted away. He bent over and scanned the ingredients. “Do you have all this stuff?” he asked. “I don’t remember seeing half of this in the students’ cupboard at Hogwarts.”

“It isn’t,” Hermione said. “Most of these ingredients are far too dangerous to trust to untrained hands. But they are standard in the Trainee Healer’s Starter Kit I bought in Diagon Alley. Professor McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey had to sign the consent form before I was allowed to buy them. It was in my Hogwarts envelope, along with my book list.”

“But you’re of age,” Harry protested. “You should be able to buy anything you want.”

“Certain potion ingredients are classed as controlled substances,” Hermione said. “Someone not trained to use them properly could do serious harm with them. Only wizards who have passed their qualifying exams are allowed to buy them outright. The one exception is for students who have declared for a career requiring advanced potion brewing, and that only with a consent form. Surely you must know that, Harry? You’ll be brewing a lot of potions in your Auror class that even I won’t be allowed. I hardly need say that they’ll have nothing whatsoever to do with healing.”

“I guess I never thought about it,” Harry said. “When we did Advanced Potions last year, everything we needed was in the cupboard.”

“You just said it was the Advanced class,” Hermione pointed out. "Do you think the ingredients Professor Slughorn used to brew that batch of Polyjuice were to be found in the standard cupboard? If they had been, would we have needed to nick them from Snape’s private stores?”

Harry shook his head. Bending again, he asked, “Are you going to brew that here in Ginny’s room? Sounds dodgy to me, and you said yourself that even the slightest error could be disastrous.”

“Good point,” Hermione nodded. "I suppose the best place to go is back to the twins’ room. I expect you’ll want to do the same – you’ll want to get a jump on things and have a bash at some of your own potions before start of term, and I expect they’ll be a lot dodgier than mine. If there isn’t enough room for both of our cauldrons,” she reflected, “we’ll just stand the beds up against the wall. It’s not as if anyone’s using them.”

Harry had very definite thoughts on the use to which Fred’s and George’s beds might be put, but he wisely kept these musings to himself. Aloud, he said, “I’ll get your cauldron and you can put all the ingredients inside. I’ll carry that up while you take the book and your measuring scales.”

Shortly after, Hermione’s cauldron was standing in the middle of the twins’ room, hanging from an iron tripod over a cluster of bluebell flames. The magical heat was directed straight up, leaving the floorboards under the hovering flames cool to the touch. Hermione added each ingredient carefully. Her hands were steady as she measured and cut and chopped and poured. She followed the directions in the book to the letter. Harry grew more impressed the longer he watched. Finally Hermione stood back, surveying her work approvingly.

“Is that it?” Harry asked.

“Oh, no,” Hermione said. “This is only the first phase. I have to let it simmer for a bit before I add the next ingredient. I expect I’ll be here for a while, most of it spent waiting. Good thing I have plenty to read.”

Harry smiled, but all at once his expression changed. He snapped his fingers, which sound, soft though it was, caught Hermione’s ear as she stood peering into her quietly bubbling cauldron. She turned to Harry with a quizzical look.

“You just reminded me,” he said. “I bought you a book in Diagon Alley – an early birthday present, kind of. I was going to wait to give it to you, but I’ve changed my mind. I can’t think of a better time than now.”

Harry rose and left the room. He returned shortly with his book bag slung over his shoulder. It was clearly carrying more weight now than it had done when it had concealed the Invisibility Cloak earlier that day. As Hermione watched, Harry set the bag on Ginny’s bed and, throwing back the flap, extracted a very old book which he held before him with both hands.

“I bought it for you last year, in a little second-hand shop in Hogsmeade,” Harry said, carefully blocking the book’s title from Hermione’s inquisitive eyes. “I was going to give it to you on the Hogwarts Express, but the attack on the castle kind of pushed it aside. I found it again when I was packing my trunk at the Dursleys.”

Harry handed the book to Hermione, and she read the title with curiosity.

“Advanced Potion-Brewing by Libatius Borage,” Hermione read aloud. Looking up, she said with a small smile, “It’s very nice, Harry. But we already have a copy of this book.”

“Not a first edition, you don’t,” Harry said. Hermione’s eyes widened with new interest.

“A first edition?” She opened the crumbling cover and found the publishing information on the second page. “It is!” she exclaimed happily. “Oh, Harry! It’s absolutely splendid! But it must have cost you a small fortune.”

“No,” Harry shook his head. “Bloke didn’t know what he had. To him it was an outdated textbook that was no good to anyone. He practically gave it away.”

Hermione began to flip through the pages with as much haste as she dared, careful not to tear the brittle pages.

“I reckon that book could come in handy this year,” Harry remarked. “You could use it in place of last year’s book.”

“You’re joking!” Hermione giggled. “Harry, the data in this book must be a hundred years out of date.”

“So?” Harry said innocently.

“So?” Hermione replied in disbelief. “I can’t prepare myself for a career using obsolete data. Any wizard who wants to be on his game needs the most up-to-date information he can get. Otherwise, he’ll be left behind while others learn newer and better ways to accomplish their goals. Really, Harry, I’d think you would know that.”

“So you’re saying,” Harry spoke slowly and with utmost care, “that a wizard can’t be satisfied with anything less than the most efficient means to achieve his ends, right?”

“Of course.”

“So,” Harry continued in the same academic manner, “the book we used in Slughorn’s class last year supercedes this one because its information produces better results.”

“Obviously,” Hermione said.

“So what you’re saying,” Harry said yet again, “is that if someone comes up with a better way to do something, the old ways have to be chucked out because they don’t measure up to the new method. Is that right?”

“Are you feeling alright, Harry?” Hermione asked cautiously.

Wearing a triumphant smile that would have done justice to Aidan Lynch at the Quidditch World Cup, Harry reached into his bag and pulled out another book. Like the first, it bore the legend, Advanced Potion-Brewing by Libatius Borage. Hermione’s eyes narrowed at once.

“Harry, what – oh, no! No, you’re not going on about that again!”

“Snape was a right bastard,” Harry said, his eyes hardening, “but between him and his mum, the notes in this book produce the most efficient results yet seen in potion brewing. They definitely impressed Professor Slughorn, who ought to – ”

“Scribbled notes in the margins of a textbook do not constitute an accepted advance in potion brewing,” Hermione said firmly.

“Why not?” Harry returned without malice. “I remember you said in our first class with Slughorn that the results I got from this book weren’t, to use your exact words, ‘my own work.’ Does that mean if I’d got the idea on my own to make the changes I found in Snape’s handwriting, I would have been within my prerogative to alter the textbook specifications to produce the improved results? Or should I have ignored my ‘inspiration’ and used the same formula as everyone else – the same one you did.”

For one of the rare times in their acquaintance, Harry saw indecision on Hermione’s face.

“I suppose it would be different if the changes had been your own idea,” she said meekly.

“Why?” Harry countered mildly. “What difference if it was my ideas I used or Snape’s? I’d still be working apart from the standard text, wouldn’t I?” Harry paused, then asked, “What’s the purpose of the classes we take?”

Hermione hesitated. “What do you mean?” she said cautiously.

“You said something before about following different roads,” Harry said. “If that applies to our goals, shouldn’t it also apply to the methods we use to achieve those goals? I mean, what difference does it make how we reach our destination as long as we get there?”

“Hogwarts has a Ministry-approved curriculum,” Hermione said, speaking now in the calm, reasoning voice that was as great a weapon as any in her arsenal, often surpassing even the knowledge it imparted. “Our textbooks are designed to teach us to become complete practitioners of magic. By following procedure, we improve step by step until we’ve learnt what we need to know to excel in our chosen fields of endeavor.”

“And who determines what we need to know?” Harry asked.

“I just told you,” Hermione said. “The Ministry.”

“The same Ministry that steadfastly refused to believe that Voldemort was back?” Harry said, his voice as calm and assured as Hermione’s. “The same Ministry that assigned Dolores Umbridge to teach us Defense Against the Dark Arts theory, but wouldn’t let us do the actual spells? That Ministry?”

“Umbridge was following Fudge’s orders, as you well know,” Hermione said, not giving an inch. “She was the exception to the rule. The rule itself is still sound.” h

“The rule is sound,” Harry agreed. “But the means by which it’s applied is flexible. If it isn’t, there can’t be any progress, and without progress, there can’t be any advances in magic. If that were the case, we’d all be using the same spells that Merlin used over a thousand years ago.

“I may not have read Hogwarts: A History like you’re always going on for me to do,” Harry said quietly, “but if it tells the thousand-year history of an institution of learning, there must be something there about advances in magic. I don’t have to have a copy of the curriculum the four founders followed when they first built Hogwarts to know that they never heard of half of the spells you and I use every day. Are we going to stop using them just because they weren’t approved by Godric Gryffindor, or Helga Hufflepuff?”

“The spells we learnt over the past six years were approved by a certified board of review,” Hermione said. “They were tested thoroughly before being cleared to be taught at Hogwarts.”

“Yes,” Harry agreed. “But were they any better after being cleared than they were before?”

“Some spells are modified by the board before being approved,” Hermione said.

“Some?” Harry returned.

“Not all new spells need adjustment,” Hermione conceded reluctantly. “When they’re tested, they’re found to be acceptable as they are.”

“Meaning,” Harry expounded, “that they were always sound, long before the board declared them so. Long before they were included in the latest updated editions of the Hogwarts textbooks. And what applies to spells,” Harry said, brandishing the book in his hand meaningfully, “would also apply to potions.”

Harry sat down on the bed, placing the Half-Blood Prince textbook aside.

“You just said that we need to work with the most up-to-date information if we’re to do our best,” Harry said. “This book may be newer than the one I just gave you, but if it’s the same edition that Snape used when he was at Hogwarts, it could hardly be considered up-to-date. Snape looked at the formulae in this book and realized that they could be improved upon. However long it took him to find more efficient brewing methods, in the end, he did find them. And when he did, he wrote them in the margins of his book so he could use them to excel in class, to rise above everyone else and become the best student in the school. It isn’t easy for me to say that, but denying it won’t change the facts. In his twisted way, Snape was brilliant. He still is, in fact, judging from the ease with which he sorted me out last month on the Hogwarts grounds.

“But right now,” Harry said emphatically, “all that matter is this.” He placed his hand on the book, Hermione’s eyes following his action before returning to fuse once more with Harry’s. “The improvements written in the margins of this book work, Hermione. We saw the results all last year in Slughorn’s class. I don’t reckon he’s seen anything like it since Snape left school. It wouldn’t surprise me if Slughorn personally recommended Snape as his replacement when he went into ‘retirement.’ He must have seen the results of Snape’s final exams – and if the greasy git didn’t get the highest Potions mark in over a century on his N.E.W.T., I’ll eat this ruddy book, covers and all.”

Harry underscored his statement by again placing a hand almost reverently upon the book at his side. Again Hermione’s eyes moved instinctively toward the book. When she lifted her head, Harry’s eyes lanced hers like pinpoints of green fire.

“Do you imagine that Dumbledore didn’t know everything I’ve just told you?” Harry concluded. “I’m not saying that he always knew everything that was going on at school – he never did learn that there were three unregistered Animagi at Hogwarts until Remus told him years later. But he could hardly have missed the way Snape excelled beyond the parameters binding the other students. That may be what made him hire Snape, whether Slughorn recommended him or not. We know Snape wanted to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts. We always thought Dumbledore was afraid of the temptation all that Dark magic would place on him, so he gave him the Potions job instead. But what if the real reason is in this book?”

Harry touched the book again, his hand resting upon it as if to declare that his argument was concluded. Perhaps sensing this, Hermione did not follow the movement of his hand as she had done before.

“If those improvements are as good as you say,” Hermione said calmly, her eyes locked firmly onto Harry’s, “why didn’t Snape take them to the Ministry to have them certified, like any other wizard would have done? He could have been hailed as the greatest innovator in a century in his field.”

“You just said it,” Harry replied. “Snape wasn’t any wizard. He was a Death Eater. Even before Voldemort branded the Dark Mark on his arm, he represented everything Voldemort stood for. He didn’t want fame or recognition. He wanted to prove that he was better than everyone.”

“Couldn’t he have done that by sharing his inspirations with the wizarding world?” Hermione countered.

“Haven’t you been around Snape long enough to know that he doesn’t care a rat’s arse for the wizarding world?” Harry said with a stony laugh. “It was enough that he knew how clever he was. He wasn’t about to share the product of his superior mind with wizards who he thought weren’t fit to kiss his robes. They could all as far as he was concerned. What did he care if one of his potions could have made life better for hundreds or thousands of wizards? Can you imagine if he’d been the one to invent the Wolfsbane Potion? Do you think he’d have let on what he’d done? He’d have kept the knowledge to himself, preening about how much cleverer he was than everyone else, and all the while Remus would still be locked away every month, ripping his own body to shreds as a mindless animal, like he did during his school days.

Harry took up the book at his side and turned it over. He opened the back cover, and his finger stabbed at the bottom edge as he looked into Hermione’s eyes.

“You see what it says there? ‘This Book is the Property of the Half-Blood Prince.’ That’s how he thought of himself, someone apart from everyone else, on a higher level. Remus told us there were no wizard princes, but Snape ruddy well thought he was one.”

“You know that was only a reference to his mother’s name,” Hermione said quietly.

“Right,” Harry said. “His pureblood mother. He must have hated wearing his Muggle father’s name. I bet he would have taken his mum’s name if he could have done. It’s no wonder Voldemort recruited him. They were cut from the same rotten cloth – half-bloods who hated what they were, all the while fancying themselves better than everyone – worshipping the pureblood race of wizards while hiding the fact that they were less than they pretended to be. But they were doing more than lying to everyone else, they were lying to themselves. And what better way for Snape to maintain the lie that he was better than everyone else than by keeping his secrets to himself?

“I dunno,” Harry mused, his eyes falling once more onto the book, “maybe he toyed with the notion of giving Malfoy his old book in his seventh year so he could dazzle the N.E.W.T. examiners like he’d done himself. I reckon that would’ve made Lucius happy, even in Azkaban – Sirius always said Snape was Lucius Malfoy’s lapdog. That may be why he favored the Malfoys, because they were everything he wanted to be, pureblood wizards with a name going back to the time of Merlin. We’ll never know now, will we?” Harry shrugged. “But I don’t think he would have done. I think he would’ve kept the knowledge for himself. In the end, it was all he had.”

Harry closed the book and placed it carefully across his knees.

“But there’s more than potions in this book. There are spells, too.” Hermione’s expression sharpened, her eyes widening slightly. “Snape came up with something he called the Sectumsempra,” Harry said. “I used it on Malfoy last year in Moaning Myrtle’s loo, before I knew what it did.” There was no triumph in his voice as he said, “It nearly sliced him in two like an invisible razor.”

Hermione gasped, and Harry’s expression hardened.

“That’s when Snape realized I had his old book, which he must have left behind without thinking when he took on the Defense Against the Dark Arts job – we’ve already established that he didn’t want anyone else to see all the stuff he’d written down, though Dumbledore might’ve had a good idea what was in here, even if he never said anything. That's one of the things that separates people like Snape from decent wizards like Dumbledore. He never kept his original creations a secret.”

“What creations?” Hermione asked in a mildly surprised voice.

“Don’t you remember what we read on Dumbledore’s Chocolate Frog card?” Harry smiled. “When we were looking for information on Nicholas Flamel in our first year? It said that Dumbledore discovered the twelve uses for dragon’s blood. He didn’t keep that to himself, did he?”

“I’d forgotten about that,” Hermione said.

“And that doesn’t include the spells he invented,” Harry said.

“What spells?” Hermione said with genuine interest.

“I dunno what they were,” Harry said. “But do you remember when the examiners came to set us our O.W.L. exams? What Professor Marchbanks told Umbridge when they were discussing Dumbledore?” Hermione shook her head. Harry said, “I heard her tell Umbridge that she tested Dumbledore herself in Charms and Transfiguration and that, in her words, he ‘did things with a wand I’d never seen before,’” Harry imitated the ancient witch’s high-pitched treble, briefly lightening the oppressive atmosphere pervading the room. “I thought she was speaking figuratively, until I was browsing through my Advanced Charms textbook last night. Have you had a look at yours?”

“I glanced through the first few chapters,” Hermione said. “I wanted to devote my time at first to my Healing books.”

“Have a look at the title of Chapter 21, near the back of the book,” Harry instructed.

Setting aside her potion ingredients, Hermione opened her trunk and found her Advanced Charms book. She turned to Chapter 21, gasping softly when she saw the chapter title.

“Experimental Charms,” she read aloud.

“Learning spells that others have created is only the beginning,” Harry said. “According to the chapter introduction, the real test is creating new spells that have a practical use in wizarding life. As you already said, the ones with potential are tested by the Ministry, and if they pass the test, they’re approved for general use, and ultimately included in the textbooks here at Hogwarts. That's one of the functions of the N.E.W.T.'s. The Ministry wants us to do more than master existing spells. They want us to think for ourselves, to see if we can make things better. That way we don’t just help ourselves, we help the whole wizarding world. I imagine that some of the spells we’ve learnt over the years are ones invented by Dumbledore, added to the updated textbooks after the review board approved them. That’s not to say that you or I will invent a spell this year that will end up in the next edition of Advanced Charms. Most experimental spells turn out to be dead ends – some literally. Did you know that Luna’s mum died when an experimental spell she was working on went wrong?”

“No,” Hermione said, her face going pale.

“She told me when we were all packing up to leave school a year ago,” Harry said. “That’s the risk anyone takes when they ‘think outside the box,’ as I’ve heard you say. I don’t wonder that Snape never demonstrated the Sectumsempra for the examiners when he tested for his N.E.W.T. in Charms. They might have awarded him an Outstanding mark for brilliance, then called in the Aurors to chuck him straight into Azkaban for creating such a dangerous spell at all. They might even have brought in an Obliviator to make him forget he’d ever created it – and he probably knew that, which is why he kept the spell to himself. Whatever else he may be, Snape was never stupid.

“There’s always danger in even the simplest magic,” Harry said emphatically. “The flames burning under your cauldron right now are from a spell you mastered in our first year. In the wrong hands, that simple spell could burn this house to the ground, and kill everyone in it. It’s not the spell that’s dangerous so much as the person who uses it. I’m not saying that Snape’s Sectumsempra should be approved as part of the general Hogwarts curriculum,” he said quickly. “But it might be a handy spell for an Auror to know when he’s up to his knickers in flesh-eating slugs. More than that, it might be a good spell for an arrogant young wizard to learn to master before he goes off to try to sort out He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.”

“I know what you’re saying, Harry,” Hermione said as her eyes slipped from Harry’s and fell onto the book lying open on her lap. She closed the book and set it on the desk next to her Potions book. When she turned back, her head remained lowered, her eyes turned downward. Leaning forward, Harry reached out and cupped Hermione’s face with his right hand (the other remaining behind to steady the book lying across his knees). Gently slipping a finger under her chin, he lifted Hermione’s head until their eyes met once more.

“We’re not playing games any more,” he said, his eyes hard as the stones for whose color they were named. “This isn’t about grades or N.E.W.T. scores, or adding another handful of rubies to Gryffindor’s hourglass in the Great Hall. It’s about what you’ve been saying all along. It’s about being prepared. If we’re going off to face Voldemort, we’ll need every advantage we can get, and we can’t count on Hogwarts to give us what we need. Voldemort didn’t stop learning after he left school. He’s studied Dark magicks for years, longer than we’ve been alive. He’s traveled all over, plundered forgotten tombs, read ancient scrolls, learned spells that none of us can even imagine. But with all that, there’s one book of spells he hasn’t read. This one!”

Harry lifted Snape’s book and held it up between himself and Hermione.

“Even if Snape’s been working for Voldemort all along,” Harry said, and Hermione was startled to note, for the first time she could remember, the merest trace of doubt in Harry’s otherwise unswerving voice, “I’m betting that he’s still arrogant enough to think that the secrets in this book are too good to share with anyone, even his lord and master. That means there are spells in this book that even Voldemort doesn’t know! And if he doesn't know the spells, he can’t know how to counter them! I can learn things from this book that might save my life, or yours, or Ron’s. But more than that, I might learn something that will finally sort out Voldemort for good!

“When we decided to use this room, you said it was time something good came out of a place where so much deviltry was spawned. I intend to do the same thing here. I’m using this book, Hermione,” Harry said flatly, his voice even, his face set. “I’m going to read every margin. I’m going to memorize everything I can, and practice whatever spell I think might give me an edge when I finally meet Voldemort. When we were setting off to use this room for the first time last night, you said the better prepared we are when we go off to face Voldemort, the more likely we’ll be to survive to have the life we want together.

“I’m going to do this, Hermione. I’m going to do it whether you agree with me or not. I’d rather have you on my side. But if you can’t be, I’ll understand. You’ve always stood up for what you believe is right, no matter what anyone else thought. That’s one of the things I love about you. When you thought my Firebolt was jinxed, you had Professor McGonagall take it away. You knew it would hurt me to lose it, but you did it anyway, because it was what you believed was right. Now I have to stand up for what I believe is right. And I believe with all my mind that this is right for me. All I need to know now is, where do you stand?”

Hermione stared deeply into Harry’s eyes.

“With you, Harry. I can’t ever stand anywhere else but with you.”

Harry squeezed Hermione’s hand with a mixture of love and gratitude. As if sharing a single thought, they leaned forward and kissed. Drawing back, Harry slipped the Half-Blood Prince textbook back into his bag.

“We both have a lot of studying to do tonight,” Harry said. “I’ll check tomorrow to see how your burn paste turns out.”

“I want you to promise me something, Harry,” Hermione said.

“What’s that?”

“If you find anything really good in Snape’s book, I want you to practice it until you have it down. And then I want you to teach it to me. After that, I can teach it to Ron during our practice sessions. That way, we’ll all be as prepared as we can be when we go up against Voldemort.”

“I promise,” Harry said. He nodded at Hermione’s open Potions book and added, “Good luck.”

“You, too,” Hermione said, her eyes falling meaningfully on Harry’s book bag.

Harry bent low and kissed Hermione again. They parted without a word, Harry closing the door softly behind him. Hermione’s smile was enigmatic as she stared at the door for a moment before turning back to her Potions book, her hand reaching absently for her brass scales as she traced a finger down the list of ingredients on the open page.

As with the previous flashback, here we have a situation where Harry should have acted, but instead did nothing. Harry, Ron and Hermione have shared adventures and experiences that should have bonded them to the depths of their souls. After all this time, there should be nothing between them that cannot be said, no wall of doubt separating them from helping each other through the roughest emotional mine fields. Why, then, did Harry never ask Hermione, “Do you fancy Ron?”, or ask Ron, “Do you fancy Hermione?” How many times in HBP could Harry have offered his help to one or both of his friends? It might have made an interesting back story, Harry helping each without the other knowing. Isn’t that what friends do for each other? If Hermione could lend her support (so we’re told) to Ginny in terms of romance, why didn’t Harry do the same? Does his best friends’ happiness mean nothing to him? Is Harry that self-involved that he can do nothing more than stand by and say, “er...I... ” instead of giving some real support to the two most important people in his life?

Something doesn’t add up. Is J.K. really that thick when it comes to friendship and romance? Or is the truth more subtle? All I know is, any second-rate fanfic romance – even one involving a R/Hr ship – makes more sense than what we’ve seen in the books. And speaking for myself, I like the fanfic universe better. Even if DH ends the “right way,” that’s not likely to change.

But my fanfic universe will carry on directly as I continue to tear down J.K.’s world and rebuild it into one that suits me better. The AU romance heats up, leading to the Answer. See you then.

In response to the question of why I don’t post chapters as soon as they’re written, the answer is twofold. First, as I’m writing for fun in my spare time, the first draft of whatever comes out of my head is never as good as it needs to be to be posted. I make lots of mistakes that have to be corrected. Also, the first draft is written with an eye toward events, with little care being given to how those events are presented. Subsequent drafts serve to flesh out the bones of the story, putting a more human face on the characters and, I hope, allowing the story to unfold as naturally as I can manage.

The second reason is, in the course of writing the story, I’ll come up with something in a later chapter that makes the story better, but which goes against what has already been written. I then have to go back to the early chapters and change the original text, either adding or subtracting, so that everything meshes. I only hope I don’t think of something later that clashes with these already posted chapters. But that’s the chance I’m taking in order to get this up before HBP comes out.

Another reviewer commented on Hermione’s behavior in the classroom flashback. While I changed the scene (obviously), one thing remained as in the book – Hermione is definitely not acting normally. That’s what this posting is all about, to explain her actions in a way that also works in the books. Certain clues have already been planted, all taken straight from canon, and given my own personal touch in accordance with my hopes and beliefs. The answer is coming. Stay tuned for developments.

This is the longest chapter yet, and again, it’s late. My work schedule was changed unexpectedly over the holiday, and I lost two days that would otherwise have been spent writing. As always, if I missed something in my haste, I hope it won’t be so glaring as to impede the story. I’m watching the calendar with one eye while the other remains fixed on my computer screen. Time is against me, but I’m determined to get the last few key chapters up in the next ten days.

There’s a lot happening in this installment. Time to get things started.

Sunday morning found the Burrow’s inhabitants relaxing from their labors. The wedding was now exactly one week away, and the pressure was building to a peak that threatened to blow the roof off the house like the summit of a volcano. Everyone was using the day to recharge before resuming their respective tasks on Monday morning.

Bill was up in his room (the room that had been his before he left Hogwarts, whereupon it had been appropriated by Percy), catching up on the work he’d brought with him. The scratching sound of quill on parchment was reminiscent of the holiday three years ago when Percy was sequestered in that chamber, laboring over his cauldron bottom report for Mr. Crouch. That was a memory none wished to resurrect, for many reasons. Chief among them was that a rift still existed between Percy and the rest of the family. Percy’s zeal to further his career had driven a wedge between him and his parents, especially his father, whom he regarded as an underachiever. Percy had chosen the wrong side when he stood with Cornelius Fudge against those who maintained that Lord Voldemort had returned to the world of the living. When their folly was exposed, Fudge paid for his stubborn blindness by being sacked. Percy survived the purge, but where everyone expected him to demonstrate a due measure of contrition, he responded instead with an even sterner defiance. None knew when, or if, the chasm separating Percy from his family would narrow to the point where it could be leapt and some semblance of normalcy restored to the family. One thing was certain, however. Percy would not be attending his brother’s wedding a week from today.

The remaining members of the Weasley family were determined to carry on as best they could under the circumstances. Certain members had taken the upcoming nuptuals as a signal that, though their lives had never been at greater peril in the shadow of the Dark Lord, to give in to despair was to be defeated before the battle was engaged. None embraced this more than Arthur and Molly, who seemed to have rediscovered aspects of their relationship that had been slumbering so long that neither could be condemned for thinking them past resurrecting. But as if to counterpoint the darkness in their lives signified by the rebirth of Voldemort, Arthur and Molly found a new light within themselves to balance that darkness and push it aside. Or it might be more accurate to say that they had found an old light that was not yet extinguished and kindled it to new life.

This morning found the elder Weasleys exploring that new/old territory by the simple act of taking a walk through the countryside. The light of love glowing in their eldest son's eyes had found its reflection in treasured memories of their own early struggles on the matrimonial road. Not wanting to be seen engaging in such behavior in front of their impressionable daughter, they had excused themselves after breakfast and gone off hand-in-hand, looking to Harry much as they must have done when first they had fallen in love at Hogwarts. Harry found it comforting to know that love could endure beyond its simple beginnings in such a manner. He had similar hopes for his and Hermione’s union, begun, like the Weasleys’, at Hogwarts.

In furtherance of those thoughts, Harry hoped to spend some private time with Hermione today. But Ron and Ginny were having none of it. Ron was determined to get Harry into a game of one-on-one Quidditch in preparation for their upcoming school matches, while Ginny dragged Hermione away to discuss matters which she pointedly told Harry and Ron were “none of your concern.”

With Hermione effectively Ginny’s captive, Harry reluctantly gave in to Ron’s pleading. The two of them made their way up the hill to the paddock, brooms slung over their shoulders. The wind caught at the hem of Harry’s robes, which he was wearing for the first time. He’d purposely chosen the rattiest set he owned, to make a better impression on Ron. Upon seeing Harry clad in wizard-fashion, Ron had nodded his approval, saying, “Now you look like a proper wizard, Harry.”

At last they stood on the crest of the hill, looking down on the tree-enclosed paddock. As Harry gripped his broom in anticipation, he suddenly remembered his previous visit, and the unexpected visitor who had turned up that evening. This in turn recalled Ron’s visit yesterday without Harry, and Ginny’s contrived absence. Harry hadn’t had the opportunity to ask Ginny if her scheme had born fruit. With Ginny tied up with Hermione, there was only one way to find out.

Clearing his throat as casually as he could, he asked, “So, how’d it go the last time? Sorry I couldn’t make it. Did Ginny turn up as she promised?”

Harry was only a little surprised when Ron’s ears turned pink.

“No,” he said. “Dunno why.”

“So you had to practice alone?” Harry prompted. To Harry’s growing amusement, Ron’s ears turned redder still.

“No,” he said again. “Someone turned up unexpectedly.”

“Who?” Harry asked innocently, knowing the answer before the question passed his lips.

It was now Ron’s turn to sound as casual as he could as he said, “Luna.”

“Did she?” Harry replied. “Was she any good? At Quidditch, I mean,” Harry said quickly as Ron favored Harry with a curious look. “You said Ginny never turned up, so I only reckoned you let Luna, you know, fly your broom rather than just let it sit there unused. So, er, how was she?”

Ron regarded Harry suspiciously for a moment before shrugging.

“She was okay. I got in a bit of practice, you know, getting my rhythm back, tried a few one-handed blocks, that sort of thing.”

“What did you use for a Quaffle?” Harry asked. Hermione had told him that the football Fred and George had once used as a makeshift Bludger was gone, battered beyond repair in their practice sessions. To his surprise, Ron laughed.

“Can you believe it? Luna scooped up some leaves and grass and stuffed them into her book bag. Once she knotted the shoulder straps around it, it made a pretty fair Quaffle.”

“Luna had a book bag with her?” Harry wondered aloud.

“I asked her about that,” Ron said. “She said she comes up here to read sometimes. She likes the quiet.”

“She and Hermione should get on,” Harry said.

Ron again reacted by visiting a slightly suspicious look on Harry.

“Is Luna a good flyer?” Harry asked before the suspicion in Ron’s eyes could gain a hold on his thoughts.

“Not as good as Ginny,” Ron said. “But better than Hermione.” Laughing softly, he said, “You remember last year, all those times when you and Hermione teamed up against me and Ginny? Blimey, if there was ever a girl who was meant to keep both feet on the ground, it’s Hermione.”

Harry's chest spasmed slightly, and Ron looked at him as if something he had eaten at breakfast must have disagreed with him.

“I don’t have to ask if you blocked everything Luna threw at you, do I?” Harry said confidently, again diverting Ron’s suspicions before they could take root.

“As I said,” Ron replied, “she’s not that good. But she was flying at such odd angles, I think I must have blocked a shot from a hundred different directions. You know,” he said thoughtfully, “some of her moves were so bloody unusual, I reckon someone who’s never seen them might be completely flummoxed by them. It made me glad when she said she decided not to try out for Chaser this year. She might’ve been Ravenclaw’s secret weapon. If she’d tried those maneuvers in a match...”

“You think they might be useful for Gryffindor this year?” Harry asked with genuine interest.

“I may not have read the school charter from back to front like Hermione,” Ron laughed, “but I’m pretty sure it’s against the rules for Gryffindor to field a player who’s in another House.”

“I didn’t mean that exactly,” Harry laughed in turn. “But what if we train our Chasers to fly like Luna did? I mean, you and I and Ginny are the only good players we have right now, and we don’t know what kind of talent pool we’ll find when we go back. It’s almost certain we won’t be able to replace Fred and George, so it all might come down to our Chasers. If we can’t find two players as good as Ginny, it might be the edge Gryffindor needs to take the Cup.”

Ron looked as if he had not given this notion serious consideration before now.

“I reckon that might be worth a go,” he said at last. In a more determined voice, he said, “Quick as we can pull a team together, first meeting I call this year, I’ll take the Chasers aside and see what they think.”

“You could ask Ginny straightaway," Harry said. “As the only returning Chaser, it’ll be down to her to break in the new members.” Ron nodded his agreement. “And it might do to have Luna fly some practices with the Chasers so they can see the moves in action. That’ll be easier to follow than those bloody diagrams Wood was always using.”

“There’s one problem with that, mate,” Ron laughed shortly. “It’s one thing to use Luna’s ideas, but I don’t think the captain of the Ravenclaw team will be too keen on someone from his own House coming straight out and helping the enemy right under his nose.”

“I dunno about that,” Harry returned with a sly smile. “I mean, consider the source. This is ‘Loony Lovegood’ we’re talking about, the bird with radishes hanging from her ears. How seriously do you think they’d take anything that came from her? Oh, they might have asked her to try out right enough, but what does that prove? A team with holes to fill isn’t always choosy – look at some of the berks we tested before we found who we were looking for.”

A quick glance communicated that neither had forgotten the chaos attendant to Gryffindor’s Quidditch tryouts a year ago.

“And suppose the Ravenclaw captain does see her flying about during a Gryffindor practice?” Harry continued. “He’ll probably laugh his ruddy head off. He’d reckon that we’d have to be mental to take Luna’s mad flying seriously.”

“That might be okay for practice,” Ron said. “But what happens if we decide to use Luna’s tactics during the season? What’ll he think then?”

“He’ll think it’s a grand joke,” Harry said. “He’ll reckon that any team that takes its strategy from Loony Lovegood will be easy pickings. But when the Gryffindor goals start flying past the Ravenclaw Keeper, the joke will be on him, won’t it?”

“But what if he files a complaint with Madam Hooch?” Ron said doubtfully.

“And accuse us of what?” Harry returned. “Didn’t the Sorting Hat tell us after Voldemort’s return (Ron flinched only slightly this time) that the four Houses needed to work together? The rules may prevent students from playing for another House, but there’s nothing stopping them from working with them. In fact, from what I’ve seen, they encourage that sort of thing. Remember in our O.W.L. year, we all formed study groups with students from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff. We helped each other to do better. Hermione couldn’t take their exams for them, but by working with them and showing them how to study properly, she probably helped them to increase their test scores. But Professor McGonagall never accused us of being traitors to Gryffindor because we were helping the other Houses add points to their hourglasses, did she? Just the opposite, she probably thought the better of us because we were working together to help each other.”

“Yeah,” Ron said, still not entirely convinced, “but that was exams. This is Quidditch.”

“But it’s all the same,” Harry said. “What’s the difference if it’s an O.W.L. exam or a Quidditch match? Like the Sorting Hat said, it’s all about us working together for the greater good. After what happened last year, McGonagall might even give us an award, for ‘Special Service’ to the school – you know, uniting in the face of adversity, and all that. Years from now, whoever manages to take over where Fred and George left off will be polishing it as part of his detention, along with all the other rubbish in the trophy room. After all the work you put in for Filch in our second year, be only fair that someone else polish something with your name on it, won’t it?”

Ron’s face was now glowing with excitement.

“Blimey, Harry, I think it might just work! Quick as we get back to the house, I’ll talk to Ginny and see if she can arrange for Luna to turn up for a few early practices this year.”

“Why not ask her yourself?” Harry said. Ron’s ears began to turn pink again.

“Well,” he said, “I thought Ginny might have a better chance of persuading her, you know, them being mates and all.”

“I dunno if that’s a good idea,” Harry said. “That might give Ginny the notion that she has as much authority on the team as you. If she thinks it was her doing that Luna was helping the team, she might start telling you how to run things during practice, and from there it’s only a short walk to trying to direct the games from the field. And from one Quidditch captain to another, I don’t have to tell you how that worked out last year, do I?”

A tiny electric spark jumped between them as they recalled Cormac McLaggen, whose blatant usurpation of Harry’s authority in last year’s match against Hufflepuff had resulted in a loss for Gryffindor, and a cracked skull for Harry.

“And if we go on to win the championship,” Harry concluded, “Ginny might even want to carry the Cup around the pitch on the victory lap.”

From the way Ron’s eyes suddenly hardened, Harry knew he had just put the Quaffle through the hoop for the winning goal.

“You’re right, Harry,” Ron said firmly. “It was my idea to use Luna’s flying patterns – well, yours and mine – if Ginny thinks we couldn’t have brought it off without her persuading Luna for us, she’ll never respect me as team captain. Right,” he nodded. “The next time I see Luna, I’ll ask her if she’ll come fly some practices with us this year. If she agrees, I’ll start mapping out a playbook based on how she flew against me yesterday. When Luna demonstrates the moves at Hogwarts in a proper practice, I’ll turn the book over to Ginny so she can bring the new Chasers up to scratch – under my direction, of course.”

“Now you’re thinking like a Quidditch captain,” Harry said. Ron beamed.

Harry and Ron practiced loops and dives for an hour before their enthusiasm began to wane and they decided to pack it in for the day. Playing Quidditch one to a side, Ron observed wryly, was about as satisfying as holding hands with yourself was romantic.

“Funny thing,” Ron said when he and Harry touched down for the last time. “After flying with Luna, ordinary Quidditch moves seem almost – I dunno – boring.”

“That’s one word I’ve never associated with Luna,” Harry agreed.

“She’s a strange bird,” Ron went on as he shouldered his Cleansweep 11 and led the way back to the Burrow. “But she’s okay, you know?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, carefully hiding his triumphant smile. “I know.” Suddenly remembering his promise to Hermione, Harry said as casually as he could, “Er – do you think Luna would like to come to the wedding?”

“Hmm?” Ron said distractedly, sweeping away the images of the stadium crowd cheering him as he carried the Quidditch Cup on the victory lap and turning toward Harry.

“I think we should invite Luna to the wedding,” Harry said. “We are all friends, aren’t we? I mean, she risked her life with us at the Ministry, so I suppose that makes us friends, in an odd sort of way.”

“Yeah,” Ron agreed. “She was spot-on right enough, doing her part with the rest of us. Showed a lot of pluck that time, she did. And look at how you and I became friends with Hermione,” he added, recalling the twelve-foot mountain troll he and Harry had fought in the girls’ loo in their first year. “I guess danger does bring people together, doesn’t it?”

“It seems only right, then,” Harry reasoned, “that we invite her. You know, share the good times with the bad and all that.”

“Makes sense,” Ron nodded. “Do you think she’ll come? For all we know, she and her dad will be off chasing a herd of Blibbering Humdingers that day, or a flock, or whatever the buggers hang about in.”

“Tell you what,” Harry said. “I’m entitled to ask a guest, right? If Luna turns up to do another bit of outdoor reading, I’ll ask her to be my personal guest on Sunday.”

“Okay,” Ron said. Suddenly he snapped his fingers. “Hang on! My mentioning Luna’s dad just now made me remember something my dad said.”

“About what?” Harry asked, suspecting what Ron’s answer would be.

“Dad said there’d be a write-up on the wedding in all the wizarding publications. It’s all because of who Bill’s marrying – I mean, it’s not like our family’s anything special, is it? The Department of International Magical Cooperation had to arrange for Fleur and her family to come over, the same as when everyone came for the Quidditch World Cup. People on the continent are keen to read about a wedding like this, hands across the water, you know. But obviously we can’t invite any reporters to the wedding. Be a security nightmare, wouldn’t it, checking all those witches and wizards to see if any of them were being controlled by You-Know-Who, if not working for him outright. So the Ministry’s set aside an hour on the following Monday for Dad to hold a press conference and tell everyone how the wedding went. I think Mum’s having tea in Diagon Alley with the editor of Witch Weekly to tell what kind of dress robes everyone was wearing, what food was served, how smashing the bride looked – you know, all that female rubbish that no wizard gives a rat’s arse about.”

“That all makes sense,” Harry agreed, sensing what Ron was about to say as if he were a Legilimens on the order of Dumbledore.

“Right,” Ron said brightly. “But what if someone were able to write a first-hand account of the wedding? Someone we wouldn’t have to check out, because she’s already on the list?”

“Of course,” Harry said, hoping he sounded surprised at hearing his own idea coming from Ron as if it was something new. “If Luna comes to the wedding, she can write up everything she sees and have her dad publish it in The Quibbler.”

“You don’t think she’d mind?” Ron said uncertainly. Harry laughed.

“Are you serious? That would give her dad an exclusive that he could sell to every other wizarding publication from here to the Americas. It’ll be like when I gave Rita Skeeter the exclusive about how I saw Voldemort return, and Luna’s dad turned around and sold it to the Daily Prophet for a nice profit.”

The slight wince with which Ron reacted again to the sound of Voldemort’s name passed as quickly as it had come. “You think she’ll do it, then?” he said.

“I can practically guarantee it,” Harry said.

“Right,” Ron said.

Harry wasn’t sure, but he thought he detected a distinct note of pleasure in Ron’s manner at the inclusion of Luna in the wedding party. Perhaps he was being overly optimistic. Ron might simply be riding the crest of his anticipation of the upcoming Quidditch season. He might also be enjoying the satisfaction of having done something to further the success of the wedding, in which his part had so far been minor. It was a far cry from being starry-eyed, but it was enough to be getting on with for now, Harry decided. Playing matchmaker was a dodgier business than facing a Blast-Ended Skrewt wandless. Best to let things unfold naturally. He’d had enough personal experience with the other side of the coin to know that it led only to disaster. If something was kindled between Ron and Luna on Sunday, or if nothing at all happened, either way was fine with Harry. He hoped for the former, but his hopes notwithstanding, the future, as it ever did, would take care of itself.

The back garden was deserted when Harry and Ron returned. They went up to Ron’s room and stowed their brooms before going down to the kitchen for a cold drink. Ron opened the ice box and took out a pitcher of pumpkin juice, only to frown when he peered over the rim.

“There’s not enough here for half a glass,” he bemoaned. His shoulders sagged. “And I can’t blame anyone else but me. I came down for a glass last night, and I didn’t pay attention to how near empty the pitcher was when I put it back.”

“Hang on,” Harry said. “I think I saw your mum put a fresh jug in the cupboard the day I arrived.” Harry threw open a cupboard door and smiled. “Told you!” he said as he eased the gallon jug down and onto the counter. But Ron was still not smiling.

“What bloody good is a warm drink on a hot day?” he grumbled.

“You don’t know the Chilling Charm?” Harry said in surprise. It was a standard household Charm, the very spell Mrs. Weasley cast regularly on the ice box to keep its contents cold in the hottest weather.

“Household spells are for girls,” Ron scoffed half-heartedly, still regarding the jug of warm pumpkin juice with frustrated longing.

“And what are you going to do when you get your own flat?” Harry retorted. “Eat cold beans out of a tin three meals a day, and drink water from your wand?”

“I never thought of it that way,” Ron said. “I reckon I should have listened when Mum was showing some spells to Ginny a bit ago.”

“Can I borrow your wand?” Harry asked unexpectedly. Shrugging, Ron drew his wand and handed it to Harry. “Hermione taught me the spell late last term,” Harry said as he opened the jug and carefully poured its contents into the pitcher. Setting the empty jug aside, he pointed his borrowed wand at the brimming pitcher. A jet of frosty white light leaped forth and enveloped the pitcher. Smiling approvingly, Harry handed Ron’s wand back to him and poured two goblets full. Ron sighed happily as the cold liquid ran down his throat.

“Good job, Harry,” Ron said as he refilled his goblet. “But there’s one thing I don’t reckon. Why did you use my wand instead of yours?”

“Because I’m still not allowed to use magic,” Harry said, his ever-present frustration modified considerably by his recent accomplishment. “But now, if someone from the Ministry uses the Priori Incantatum on our wands, it’ll show that yours was the one that cast the spell in question. And if it’s your wand, who’s to say that it wasn’t you who cast the spell? Only that’s what they reckoned when Crouch used my wand to conjure the Dark Mark during the Quidditch World Cup, wasn’t it?” he added with a twisted smile.

“Brilliant,” Ron said as he took a long pull on his refilled goblet. “Head Boy thinking, I might go so far as to say.”

Suddenly serious, Harry asked, “Do you mind that you’re not – I mean, you were prefect instead of me...”

“I’m not an idiot, Harry,” Ron said with equal seriousness. “No matter what Ginny says. I know you were Dumbledore’s first choice to get the badge. Even if I put it out of my mind, I never really thought otherwise. You saw how I was when I was prefect. I didn’t exactly distinguish the position, did I?” Harry shrugged uncomfortably, and Ron laughed. “Don’t give it a thought, Harry. All water down the plug hole, innit?" His levity dimmed as he added, “Besides, we’ve got bigger things to think about this year than badges, don’t we?”

“You’re still coming with me, then?” Harry said. “After we’ve both been trained up a bit, of course.”

“Bloody well right I am!” Ron said.

“You know what Hogwarts’ motto is,” Harry said. “‘Never tickle a sleeping dragon.’ Well, I’m about to do more than tickle the bugger. I’m setting to give it a kick in its bloody arse. You come along, you might be throwing yourself straight down the dragon’s throat.”

“If You-Know-Who wins,” Ron said calmly, “where can any of us hide that he won’t find us? As Mum keeps going on, nearly the whole family’s in the Order of the Phoenix. Even if I’m not yet, I’m still a Weasley. That name may not mean much now, but it’s going to. Some day, people are going to speak that name with respect. And I’m damned if I’m going to be the one to dishonor it.”

“You could never,” Harry said.

Harry extended his goblet. The two friends touched rims and drank.

“There you are!” came a voice from the corridor.

Harry turned to see Hermione entering the kitchen, her bushy hair framing a face aglow with life, and with the pure joy of living. Like Harry, she was wearing wizarding attire for the first time. Her hand-sewn robes were pale blue, and though he still preferred to see her arrayed in Muggle clothing, there was no denying that she looked positively smashing. She threw her arms around Harry and kissed him. Ron was just able to snatch the goblet from Harry’s hand before its contents would have erupted all over the kitchen floor.

“What was that for?” Harry asked when Hermione drew back at last. “Not that I’m complaining, mind.”

“No reason,” Hermione said, her dark eyes twinkling.

“Where’s Ginny?” Ron said as he set his and Harry’s goblets (the former now empty) on the counter. “Only I want to ask her something – no, actually, I want to tell her something,” he amended, glancing decisively at Harry.

“She had to use the loo,” Hermione said. “She’ll be down directly.”

Ron hurried off, leaving Harry to put the pitcher of pumpkin juice back in the ice box. After draining the contents from his goblet, he set it in the sink, along with Ron’s. This done, he turned to Hermione and asked, “How did your morning go?”

“Are you asking me what Ginny and I talked about that she wouldn’t tell you when you asked earlier?” Hermione smiled slyly.

“No,” Harry answered honestly, having forgotten Ginny’s secrecy in this regard. “But as you’ve brought it up, what did you talk about?”

“Girl stuff,” Hermione said evasively.

“Did Luna’s name come up?” Harry asked.

Looking surprised, Hermione said, “I think you’re developing a real skill at Legilimency.”

“More like I’ve already got Luna on my mind,” Harry said.

“You’d better have a good explanation for that,” Hermione grinned. “A girl with a suspicious nature could take something like that the wrong way.”

Leading Hermione out into the deserted back garden, Harry related his conversation with Ron on the subject of Quidditch and Luna Lovegood. When he was done, Hermione nodded.

“I think you may have something there. That could be just the thing to shake up the Quidditch season at a time when the school might need it more than ever. And that’s not even considering the edge it could give Gryffindor. Goodness knows we won’t have a team of the same caliber as when you first joined. Ron’s doing better at filling Oliver’s place at Keeper, but we need two new Chasers to add to Ginny, and Merlin knows where we’ll find another pair of Beaters to equal Fred and George – ”

Hermione’s voice cut off at mention of the twins, and Harry quickly steered the topic back onto safer ground.

“With so many students not returning,” he said, “I don’t think any team will be as good as it would like to be. At least it’ll be a balanced field. Everyone will be terrible in one way or another. But if we can apply Luna’s unusual tactics properly and shape them into a real strategy, I think Gryffindor can dominate the field all the way.”

“Just so you remember not to take matters too seriously,” Hermione said. “Quidditch is supposed to be a diversion from our worries, not another one to add to the mix.”

“Tell Ron,” Harry said with a short laugh. “This will be his first and only year as Quidditch captain, and he’s determined to leave his mark. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already owled Charlie in Romania to tell him. Charlie helped Gryffindor win a few Cups in his day, and he was Quidditch captain himself. It wouldn’t surprise me if Charlie turned up for the last game of the season, just to see Ron hold the Cup over his head when he flies his victory lap.”

“I’d be barmy to take that bet,” Hermione giggled. “I saw Ron send Pigwidgeon off the day we arrived, and he’s not back yet. That argues that it must have been a long journey Ron sent him on.”

“Blimey,” Harry sighed, “this could have been a smashing year if it wasn’t for Voldemort mucking things up.”

“It can still be a smashing year,” Hermione said. “For all that’s happened to us, we’re still lucky in many ways.”

“When I look into your eyes,” Harry said, “I feel like the luckiest bloke who ever lived.”

Their lips met gently, the kiss lasting only a moment. Harry drew back and stared into Hermione’s soft brown eyes.

“I love you,” he said softly. “I love you for everything you are, and for everything you’re not. Does that make sense?”

“Perfect sense,” Hermione said.

“What do you want to do with the rest of the day?” Harry asked.

“I know we should take the time to work,” Hermione said. “But I don’t feel like it right now. I’d rather we just spend some time together, doing nothing. Someone once said, ‘We never have enough time to do all the nothing we want to do.’ Today is going to be our day to do nothing.”

Harry wrapped his hand around Hermione’s, and together they wandered the Weasleys’ back garden, taking in simple details they had seen so often but never really noticed. They lingered at the edge of the pond, watching the frogs sit patiently until a fly came within striking distance of their long, darting tongues. Hermione laughed out loud when a frog stabbed a fly with a speed that reminded her of Harry making a spectacular catch of the Golden Snitch. Harry’s answering laugh was born of the sheer delight of seeing Hermione’s normally complex mind at ease for a rare moment. It was a moment, alas, to be repeated too few times between now and the end of the school year – and one which he feared would become altogether extinct shortly thereafter. This realization made him all the more determined to savor such interludes now, that he might relive them as fond memories in the dark days ahead.

The Burrow grew smaller as they approached the end of the Weasleys’ property. They sat on the back hedge, watching an occasional gnome emerge on a foraging expedition. The tiny, potato-headed creatures would eye the two humans warily before scurrying away, leaving the vegetable patch unmolested.

At length Harry swung Hermione’s legs over the hedge, and they sat with their backs to the Burrow, their eyes sweeping the open country lying peacefully around them. The tranquility of their surroundings was disturbed unexpectedly when Harry began to laugh quietly, which vibrations were conveyed to Hermione as she sat pressed against him. Hermione lifted her head from Harry’s shoulder, where she had been resting comfortably, her thoughts wandering through Elysian fields, and looked up questioningly. Seeing Hermione’s inquiring expression, Harry laughed again.

“I was looking at the spot where Ron and I were playing Quidditch this morning,” he said.

“I don’t remember anything particularly funny in what you told me earlier,” Hermione said. “Or did you leave something out and only just remembered it now?”

In fact, Harry had omitted a small detail in relating his and Ron’s time in the paddock, though he hadn’t meant to. At least, it had not been a conscious omission. If he had unconsciously left this small item out, that was not surprising as he reflected on it now. Seeing as Hermione had asked him directly, he realized that the time for full disclosure had come.

“I asked Ron how Luna was as a flier,” Harry said.

“And what did he say?” Hermione asked, noting Harry’s pause.

“He said she wasn’t as good as Ginny...” Harry said, his voice trailing off.

“And?” Hermione prompted.

“He said she wasn’t as good as Ginny,” Harry said hesitantly, “but she was loads better than you.”

“Better than me?” Hermione echoed.

“He remembered last year, when you and I teamed up against him and Ginny all those times. He said it was obvious from the way you flew that if anyone was born to keep both feet on the ground, it was you.”

Hermione’s smile, which had been in slow retreat, was now completely gone. She was not exactly frowning, but her expression was as serious as Harry had seen it since their meeting at the Dursleys two days ago.

“Ron didn’t know what he was saying,” Harry said soothingly.

“Of course he didn’t,” Hermione agreed, her smile returning as a pale shadow of its former glory. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” Harry said. “It’s a very big something. It’s something you keep pretending isn’t there, and the more you pretend, the bigger it gets. If you don’t face it, it’ll keep on growing until it eats you up inside.”

“I know you mean well, Harry,” Hermione said. “But I already told you, it hurts too much to think about it.”

“Will putting it off make the pain any less?” Harry countered. “It’ll only keep getting worse, and you know it. You have to talk to them, Hermione.”

“I can’t,” Hermione said. “Not yet.”

“When?” Harry asked, hoping that he sensed a glimmer of hope in Hermione’s concession.

“I don’t know.”

“Then I’ll have to keep at you until you do know,” Harry said. “I can’t do anything else. It’s like all the times when you got on my wick for something I did, or something I didn’t do that I should have done. You were doing it out of love. I have to do the same thing now. You understand that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Hermione said. “I understand.”

“Then I won’t say any more now,” Harry said. Immediately he felt Hermione’s tense form relax against him. “But I won’t give up.”

A genuine smile spreading across her face, Hermione said, “You wouldn’t be Harry Potter if you did. That’s one of the things I love about you.”

They sat in silence for a time, then Harry said unexpectedly, “So, what time’s the party on Thursday?”

Hermione jumped as if stung by a bee. Rounding on Harry, she stammered, “How do you know – ”

Hermione’s words choked off, her startled expression morphing into one of self-rebuke, mixed with a grudging appreciation.

“You tricked me!”

“Do you still love me?” Harry asked, his green eyes twinkling behind his glasses.

“Not as much as I did a moment ago,” Hermione returned, her reproving eyes undone by her smile. “You caught me off my guard. I’m more angry at myself than I am at you. A fine help I’ll be on the Horcrux quest if I can be trapped that easily. I might as well carry a flask of Veritaserum in my pocket and swig it every hour the way Crouch did Polyjuice when he was impersonating Moody.”

“I’m sorry, honestly,” Harry said, and his eyes were sincere, their former twinkle gone. “I’d been wondering what you and Ginny could have been talking about that you wanted to keep from me. I knew the whole conversation couldn’t have been about Luna, especially after Ginny told me it was ‘none of my concern’ when I asked. With my seventeenth birthday only four days away, a party seemed the best answer.” A warm smile replaced his contrite expression as he confessed, “I’ve never had a proper party. The Dursleys always pretended I’d never been born, but just dropped out of thin air like a Biblical plague. Even after I started at Hogwarts, I never managed to leave Privet Drive until my birthday had passed. The closest I ever came to a celebration was the time you and Ron and Hagrid and Sirius all sent me birthday cakes. That was the best birthday I ever had. I might have been alone, but I knew you were all with me in spirit. That meant a lot.”

“We’ll be with you in more than spirit this year,” Hermione promised. Her voice fell as she said, “I only wish Sirius was here. Nothing would have made him prouder than to see you turn seventeen.”

“I miss him more every day,” Harry said. “More than I imagined I could. I knew him for such a short time, but I feel like he was always a part of my life, even if most of that time he was locked up in Azkaban. Now he’s really gone, and it's like I’ve lost someone I’ve known forever, but who I never really knew, you know? But I know that wherever he is, he’s with me in spirit. I can feel him sometimes, like he’s so close I can almost touch him.”

Hermione looked at Harry with renewed interest. “Harry? Do you mean that literally, or are you just saying that because you miss him so much?”

“Honestly? I dunno. I used to reckon it was all in my head. Remus is sure that Sirius died when he fell through the archway in the Department of Mysteries. Dumbledore pretty much said the same thing, even if he didn’t use the same words. But really, does anyone know what’s really behind that veil? I mean, if no one who’s gone through it has ever come back, how do they know that there isn’t something on the other side? And it seems to me that anyplace someone can go, they can come back from. Just because they haven’t done yet, that doesn't mean they won’t someday.”

“I agree,” Hermione said, surprising Harry. “In the absence of cold, hard facts, it seems a bit unscientific to declare something so when no one really knows for certain.”

“I thought science and magic didn't mix,” Harry said, suddenly enjoying playing devil’s advocate, even if his heart was allied with her reasoning.

“On a certain level, magic is science, and vice-versa,” Hermione said. “They’re both mechanics of the universe, each working in its own way to keep the cosmic wheel turning. The universe operates according to its own set of rules. We don’t have to understand them to acknowledge that they exist. Do you know that, for all that Muggle science has accomplished, all the secrets it’s uncovered, we still don’t know precisely what fire is? Oh, we know how to kindle it and how to use it, but the fact remains that we simply don’t know what it is. Does that ignorance keep us from using it to cook our food and warm our homes? Does our lack of understanding make that fire any less hot if we stick our hand into it?

“But that still doesn’t answer the question. Scientists can give conclusive proof that there’s no such thing as magic. By contrast, superstitious Muggles will say that anything that can’t be explained away must be magic. If the laws of science can’t explain fire, does that automatically mean that fire is magic?”

Hermione looked up into the sky, nodding toward a bird soaring gracefully on a thermal.

“For the longest time, people looked at birds and wondered how they were able to fly. Today we have the laws of aerodynamics all set down, but the birds didn’t need our understanding in order to fly. They carried on for millions of years, not caring what we knew or didn’t know. There are still things we don’t understand about the world around us. Until the day when we find the answers, all we can do is accept the evidence of our eyes and supply the missing pieces as best we can. And until we have the last piece to complete the puzzle, who’s to say what the finished picture really looks like?”

“Are you saying that you think Sirius could be alive?” Harry said.

“Not exactly,” Hermione answered carefully. “I’m saying that we don’t know one way or the other, therefore I’m not prepared to say that he’s either dead or alive.”

“He has to be one or the other,” Harry said reasonably.

“Does he?” Hermione countered. “Do we really understand what life and death are that we can make such a statement?”

“It seems simple enough to me,” Harry shrugged. “If you’re breathing, you’re alive. If you’re not, you’re dead.”

“Do you remember Gollum’s riddle?” Hermione asked unexpectedly.

“What?” Harry said, caught off his guard in much the same manner as Hermione had been at his birthday question.

“In The Hobbit,” Hermione said, “Gollum asked Bilbo to solve certain riddles. One of them went, ‘Alive without breath, as cold as death.’ Do you remember what the answer to that riddle was?”

Harry thought for a moment, remembering when he’d read the Lord of the Rings books in the library (he couldn’t check them out because the Dursleys had never signed the form to allow Harry to have a library card).

“A fish,” Harry said. Hermione nodded.

“Is a fish alive?” she asked.

“Until it’s caught and popped in the oven, I reckon it is,” Harry smiled.

“Do fish breathe?”

“Well,” Harry answered, “they breathe water. I should know, I breathed it myself when I was in the lake during the Triwizard Tournament.”

“But during that time,” Hermione said, “you weren’t using your lungs, were you? Until the Gillyweed wore off, you were filtering water through a set of gills.”

“Right,” Harry said. “And bloody cold water it was, too – well, you should know, you were there.”

“Then you were like Gollum’s riddle,” Hermione said. “Alive without breath, as cold as death.”

“There’s more to life than breathing,” Harry said. “My heart was still beating. It was never beating faster than when Krum nearly bit you in two with that ruddy shark’s head of his,” he recalled, a momentary chill playing along his spine.

“There are millions of microscopic creatures that live perfectly well without a heart,” Hermione said unflappably.

“I should know better than to get into this kind of debate with you,” Harry grinned. “I can’t win and I know it.”

“This isn't a debate,” Hermione said. “It’s not about who’s right or wrong. Just the opposite, it’s about there being no right and wrong to begin with.”

“I wouldn’t use that logic on the N.E.W.T. examiners next June,” Harry grinned more broadly.

“So, you’ll admit that we’ve settled nothing as a result of this discourse?” Hermione asked.

“That sounds about right,” Harry said.

“Then I’ve made my point,” Hermione smiled. “There are some things that can’t be settled by logic and reason. They have to be sorted out in the human heart. Do you feel in your heart that Sirius isn’t really dead?”

“I’m not sure,” Harry said truthfully.

“That uncertainty itself is enough to be getting on with,” Hermione said. “Until we know one way or another, then either way might be true. Sirius might be gone forever. Or he might be standing next to us right now, unseen and unheard, but no less real for that.”

“A bloke’s brain can overheat thinking too much,” Harry said.

“That sounds like something Ron would say,” Hermione smiled.

“Has said,” Harry confirmed. “On more than one occasion.”

“Then let’s give our brains a rest, shall we?” Hermione suggested.

“How?” Harry asked, eyeing Hermione with an anticipatory gleam in his eye.

“By doing something that doesn’t require thinking, only feeling.”

“I can think of one thing straight off that fits that category,” Harry said.

“Care to demonstrate, then?” Hermione said.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

Harry pulled Hermione to him and kissed her. They melted into each other, their hearts beating ever faster as their brains turned light from lack of oxygen. When they parted, Harry’s eyes were slightly out of focus. His glasses had been knocked askew, but readjusting them to their proper place did little to alleviate the problem. Sighting through his lenses, Harry saw that Hermione’s eyes were as vague and dreamy as his felt.

“I think the experiment was a success,” Harry said. “I can’t even remember my own name just now.”

“I think it’s Howard something,” Hermione said distantly. “Or Herman.”

“Close enough,” Harry said, leaning close to send his few remaining brain cells spinning into oblivion to join their brothers.

A sound in the distance brought them out of their romantic stupor. They looked as one in the direction of the Weasleys’ paddock.

“Is Ron practicing Quidditch this morning?” Harry asked no one in particular.

“No,” Hermione answered. “He was in the house when we left, remember, looking for Ginny. Even distracted as we were just, I don’t think he could have got by us unnoticed. Besides,” she added as she continued to concentrate on the sounds that had interrupted her and Harry’s ‘scientific pursuits,’ “those noises are like nothing I’ve ever heard on a Quidditch pitch.”

“I’ve heard sounds like that on a Quidditch pitch,” Harry said. “But it wasn’t during practice.” Hermione looked at Harry curiously, and he elaborated, “It was when Oliver Wood was seeing this girl from Hufflepuff. I saw the two of them sneaking off one day after practice, and I followed out of curiosity.” When Hermione responded with a slightly disapproving look, Harry said, “I was only eleven. I didn’t know what I was hearing. But I found out in a hurry.”

“Now who could be – ” Hermione began, and suddenly her eyes went round. “No, it couldn’t possibly! Could it?”

“What are you – ” Harry’s voice cut off as abruptly as Hermione’s had. “No! Blimey! That’s – that’s – ”

“It’s none of our concern is what it is,” Hermione said primly. “I think we’d best be getting back to the house.”

“I think you’re right,” Harry said as he swung Hermione over the hedge and set her on her feet. As they set off for the Burrow, Harry asked in a conspiratorial whisper, “Should we tell Ron?”

“Merlin’s beard, no!” Hermione replied in a low hiss. “What would we tell him, anyway? ‘We heard odd sounds coming from the paddock, Ron, but it’s nothing to get fussed about, we just think it was your parents, having a quick shag.’ He’d ruddy well keel over on the spot, and then who’d captain the Quidditch team this year?”

“Blimey,” Harry said, shaking his head. “I never imagined...”

“What,” Hermione replied, “you never imagined married couples carrying on like that? I suppose you think Dudley just turned up on the Dursleys’ doorstep in a basket, the way you did?”

“You know what I mean,” Harry said.

“Just because a couple has been married for a long time,” Hermione said, “that doesn’t mean the romance has gone out of their life. If love is strong and true, it increases with time.

Harry shook his head again. He’d had no trouble imagining Bill and Fleur sharing a bed after their ceremony, shagging each other until they passed out from exhaustion (a scene he’d imagined a bit too often of late, what with Hermione gently but firmly rebuffing his every advance in no uncertain terms). But Mr. and Mrs. Weasley?

“Harry?”

Harry blinked. He recognized the tone of Hermione’s address. He’d heard it before. It was the voice she used when she’d already called his name and received no response.

“Yeah?” Harry said, trying to sound as though nothing was amiss.

“Is there something on your mind?” Hermione asked. “Something you want to tell me?”

Harry thought quickly. “Uh, yeah. Since I know about the party, do you think you could brew up a Forgetfulness Potion so I won’t spoil things? It’s better if the subject of a surprise party is genuinely surprised, don’t you think? And it’s probably safer to use a more controlled method like a potion than attempt a Memory Charm.”

“I suppose I could do that,” Hermione agreed. “And you’re right that it would be a safer road than trying to modify your memory with an Obliviate spell. But I think it would be better if you tried a simpler method first. I remember you once told me that you asked Hagrid why wizards kept their presence a secret from Muggles. He said it’s because they’d be wanting magical solutions to every little problem. I think we should take a leaf from Hagrid’s book here and try another way. A non-magical way.”

“What way?” Harry asked.

“Just don’t think about it,” Hermione smiled.

“That’s your answer?” Harry replied with a short laugh. "Don’t think about it? All I’ve done for the last two months is think about turning seventeen so I can do magic. How can I suddenly not think about it?”

“But you’ve just said it,” Hermione said. “Just keep thinking about the deeper aspects of your birthday and you’ll have no time to dwell on something as trivial as a party. It’s not like there’s nothing else to do that day. Or have you forgotten already?”

“Of course not,” Harry said. “I intend to be first in line at the Apparation Test Center on Thursday morning.”

“There you are!” Hermione said triumphantly. “We still have loads to do between now and then, including a few Apparation practice sessions. We want you up to scratch the first time, don’t we?”

In a quieter voice, Harry asked, “How did Ron do on his test?”

Harry knew that, while he was languishing for three long weeks at Number four Privet Drive, Ron and Hermione had gone off to London together to get their Apparation licenses the day after their return from Hogwarts. Ron and Harry had originally agreed to take their tests together, but upon returning to the Burrow, Ron had opted to qualify as soon as possible.

“I know we were going to get our licenses together,” he’d written in a letter delivered shortly after by Pigwidgeon. “But after what happened at Hogwarts, I reckoned I’d better get my license as soon as I could, so I’d be better prepared in case You-Know-Who attacked again. I hope you don’t mind.”

In fact, Harry understood completely, and told Ron so in his reply, which he sent that night via Hedwig.

Hermione’s visit had been a mere legal formality. She’d already passed her practical test in Hogsmeade, but she had to present her examiner’s certification at the Ministry (and pay the required fee) before the Department of Magical Transportation could issue her an official license. Hermione’s parents had driven all the way to the Burrow to pick up Ron and take both of them to London. Hermione’s letter (sent courtesy of Pigwidgeon) had gone on about how Mr. Weasley had examined every inch of the Grangers’ motor car (all the while Mrs. Weasley kept an equally intent eye on her husband, who had not given up on the prospect of replacing his lamented Ford Anglia with another Muggle vehicle) before Ron was able to duck into the back seat and make his escape.

After securing their licenses, they had Apparated back to the Burrow for a short visit (Ron accepting his parents’ congratulations with pink-eared delight) before Hermione popped back to London to ride home with her parents. It would be her last opportunity to spend time with them before (so she then believed) she went off with her two friends to find and destroy Voldemort’s Horcruxes. Her parents knew nothing about this, of course. Did they suspect that their daughter’s visit might be the last time they would see her alive? If they were as smart as Harry suspected (Hermione’s brains and cleverness must surely be inherited), they must have picked up some signal that this might be their final goodbye. That was why Harry had not begrudged Hermione this time with them, though it meant he must remain with the Dursleys longer than he would have liked.

Hermione answered Harry’s question much as he expected. “He was a bit nervous,” she said, speaking guardedly, as if Ron could hear her all the way across the span between the vegetable garden and the back door. “He only just missed passing, though maybe he didn’t do quite as well as during the test we both took in Hogsmeade, you know, when I got my certification. He was so desperate to pass, I think he tried a bit too hard, actually. The examiner was about to send him off and have bash the next day, but Ron asked for another go, and I suppose she couldn’t resist those big, pleading eyes. You know the look I’m talking about,” she said with a soft laugh.

“The one he always uses on his mum when he knows she’s about to go off on him?” Harry grinned. Hermione nodded. “So, he did okay on his second try, then?”

“Yes,” Hermione said. “It was only nerves, as I thought. I calmed him down with a bit of encouraging talk. That and a neck rub.”

“Neck rub?” Harry said, eyeing Hermione shrewdly. “I dunno if I like you putting your hands on another bloke like that, even if he is my best mate.”

Hermione was surprised for a moment before seeing the twinkle in Harry’s eyes.

“From now on,” she said, “the only body parts I massage will be yours. Besides,” she laughed, “you know Ron and I always rub each other the wrong way.”

Speaking more seriously, Harry said, “You know Ron fancied you for a long time. And I know there’s a part of you that fancied him back.”

“That’s all past,” Hermione said, squeezing Harry’s hand reassuringly.

“I know that,” Harry said, “and so do you. But what about Ron? I mean, some flames never really die. They just simmer for a bit, waiting to flare up again.”

“Ron knows you and I are together now,” Hermione said. “He knows that we share more than just a fancy. We’re all still friends, the three of us. More than friends, come to that, given all we’ve shared. He’d never do anything to jeopardize that.”

Harry nodded, but almost at once his head jerked back over his shoulder in the direction of the wooded countryside behind them.

“What Ron needs is his own full-time neck-rubber. Someone who’ll rub him the right way for a change.”

“Do you think Luna is that someone?” Hermione asked, her eyes flickering back over the hedge for a moment before returning to Harry.

“It’s hard to tell with Luna,” Harry said. “And even harder to tell with Ron, come to that. They both have odd ways of showing their feelings, don’t they? I suppose that’s something they have in common. But blimey, it sure makes for a bumpy road, doesn’t it?”

“What’s meant to be, will be,” Hermione said. “You and I are living proof of that.”

“There were a few bumps on that road, too, as I recall,” Harry said.

“There always are,” Hermione said. “The road to love is never smooth. If it was an easy journey, it wouldn’t be worth the bother. The greatest treasures are the ones we fight hardest to win.”

“I’d fight an army of Death Eaters riding Hungarian Horntails to keep you,” Harry said. “I never imagined I could treasure anyone as much as I do you.”

“I feel the same way,” Hermione said. “Nothing and no one can ever keep us apart. Not even Voldemort himself.”

Harry and Hermione had just rounded the frog pond when they heard a loud banging sound. They looked in the direction from which the sound had come, and they saw Ginny racing toward them, her red hair flying behind her like the tail of a roan filly at full gallop. She had bolted through the kitchen door in such haste that it had slammed shut behind her with a report like a wizard cracker going off.

“Harry!” Ginny gasped as she drew nearer. “Hermione! You’ve got to stop him!”

“Stop who?” Harry said in alarm. Had the impossible happened and Voldemort discovered the location of the Burrow? But Ginny’s answer was not so dire, though the alarm in her eyes was no less genuine for that.

“Ron,” she panted, breathing heavily as she reached Harry and Hermione. She was doubled up now, clutching a stitch in her side.

“What’s he done?” Harry said.

Struggling to breathe more slowly, Ginny said, “He’s up in the twins’ room, where you and Hermione have been practicing, you know. He’s been going through some of your spellbooks, Harry – the ones you’re using in your Auror training.”

“What’s he doing with those?” Harry said, his alarm rising to meet Ginny’s on the same level of intensity. “He’s not allowed!”

“I told him that,” Ginny said. “I told him that only someone who’s declared as an Auror was allowed to read those books, just as we’re none of us allowed to learn from Hermione’s books on Healing. But he wouldn’t listen. He says if he’s to be prepared to face You-Know-You, he needs to learn the spells that will let him give the best account of himself.”

Harry recalled his talk with Hermione on the subject of Ron’s qualifications to accompany them on the Horcrux Quest. Indeed, Ron had expressed his own doubts more than once as to whether he would be up to scratch. Harry suddenly remembered the new confidence he’d seen shining in his friend’s eyes after their talk this morning, Ron’s declaration that the Weasley name would some day command respect, and his vow that he would not be the one to dishonor it. Mixing everything together, it appeared that Ron was taking matters into his own hands, trying to improve his skills in preparation for the dark mission awaiting him. But the spells in Harry’s books were far in advance of anything either of them had encountered in their ordinary Defense Against the Dark Arts classes. Even Harry could not practice them until he’d completed his preliminary classes on theory and mental discipline. If Ron made the slightest mistake with even the most basic spells in the early chapters –

“He’ll blow up the house!” Harry said in horror. “We’ve got to stop him!”

They bolted toward the house, Ginny falling behind as renewed pain lanced through her ribs.

“Is it really as bad as all that, Harry?” Hermione gasped between panting breaths.

“You’ve seen some of the spells we learnt from our Theory of Dark Magic book in Defense Against the Dark Arts last year,” Harry said. “Snape wouldn’t let us practice them, remember? He said we needed to master the pronunciations and the wand movements to the finest degree, and learn to focus our minds properly. The slightest variation can turn everything arse over kettle. He said we’d need all year to get those points down before we actually start using the spells this year.”

“Ron could’ve learnt them last year, couldn’t he?” Hermione asked in a hopeful voice.

“There’s a reason Ron didn’t qualify for the Auror classes I’m taking,” Harry said, stating what they both already knew. “His exam marks showed that he didn’t have the full mastery he needed to do the spells. If he tries them now, without having learnt the fundamentals – ”

They reached the back door and jerked it open. Hermione looked back to see where Ginny had gone. To her surprise, Ginny was nowhere in sight.

“Where’s Ginny got to?” she said bewilderedly.

“We don’t need her,” Harry said. “We know where Ron is.”

They ran through the kitchen and mounted the stairs, taking them three at a jump. When they reached the door to the room formerly occupied by Fred and George, Harry tried the door handle, receiving the results he expected.

“Locked,” he grunted. “No surprise there. Can you Apparate inside?”

Hermione closed her eyes for a moment, concentrating.

“No,” she said. “I can’t see a thing past the walls. The personal wards Fred and George erected when this was their room are still too strong.”

“Can you open the lock, then?” Harry asked desperately, every passing second feeling like an hour. Hermione nodded confidently.

“Whatever locking spell Ron’s used,” she said, drawing her wand, “I can counter it. I worked over the holiday on mastering the kind of spells Bill uses when he breaks into old tombs protected by magic. I figured they’d come in handy against the sort of places where Voldemort’s likely to have hidden his Horcruxes.”

“It’s all yours,” Harry said, stepping aside. Hermione pointed her wand at the lock, but before she could utter the first syllable of her incantation, an excited voice cried out from behind her.

“Stop!”

Harry and Hermione spun about to see Ginny zooming up the stairs toward them on a broomstick! She navigated the narrow stairwell with a skill that Harry admired even under such dire circumstances; she twisted about and landed in front of them.

“I had to catch you,” she said. “I couldn’t run another step, so I ducked into the broom shed. Good job I did, too.”

“Why?” Harry asked, one eye on Ginny, the other on Hermione’s wand that was still pointed at the lock.

“Fred and George placed security spells on their room,” Ginny explained. “They added them just after Mum got on them about starting Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes and began confiscating everything she could find.”

“I didn’t notice anything unusual when Hermione and I were in here earlier,” Harry said.

“You wouldn’t,” Ginny said. “The door locks automatically to keep anyone from coming in, but it doesn’t stop anyone inside from walking out. If anyone tries to force the door from outside...”

“What would have happened if I’d used the unlocking spell just now?” Hermione asked with a touch of dread. She wondered if she’d have ended up doing more damage than they were trying to prevent Ron from doing.

“I dunno exactly,” Ginny said. “But Fred told me in confidence that anyone trying to open that door without the exact counter-spell would be for it. I didn’t ask him what would happen, but the way he talked, I could tell it wouldn’t be pleasant.”

“Then how are we going to get in?” Harry said helplessly. “Even Apparating, there’s no time for us to go fetch them from Diagon Alley to perform the counter-spell.”

“We don’t need to,” Ginny said, a hard smile forming on her flushed face. “I already know the counter-spell.”

“How?” Harry could not help himself asking.

“I used a set of Extendable Ears that Mum had binned,” Ginny said. “She was so busy yelling at Fred and George, she never spotted that there was one less set when she vanished them later. As for them,” she nodded meaningfully toward the twins’ door, “they never reckoned that someone might use their own invention against them, so they never safeguarded their room with an Imperturbable Charm until it was too late.”

Harry was now more certain than ever that Fred and George had met their match in their sister. But Ginny’s answer brought a question to his mind, which he now voiced.

“If you know the counter-spell, why did you have to run and get us?”

“Because I’m not allowed to do magic,” Ginny said in the same irritated tone Harry had used so often of late. “I went to get Bill, but he’s gone and put an Imperturbable Charm on his bloody room so no one can disturb him while he’s working. My hands didn’t even make a sound when I pounded on his door, same as when I tried Ron’s. It was like punching air. The whole ruddy house could fall down and he wouldn’t know it until the ghoul fell down through the ceiling and landed in his lap. And that might happen unless we get inside here straightaway!”

“Tell me the incantation,” Hermione said. Ginny repeated the complex words three times until Hermione was certain she'd fixed them exactly in her mind. Ginny warned that any variation would result in a backfire. There was also a tricky wand movement involved, which turned out to be an elaborate F and G inscribed in the air in time to the words. When Hermione executed the spell, no one was surprised when the door opened at once.

They discovered that they had arrived just in time. Ron had his wand out, transcribing a pattern in the air while he looked over his shoulder, reading from one of Harry’s books, his lips moving silently and his brow furrowed under his shock of red hair. Wasting no time on a verbal warning, Harry lunged and snatched Ron’s wand from his hand. Ron’s head jerked up in surprise.

“Harry! What the bloody hell? How did you get past – ”

Tossing Ron’s wand aside unceremoniously, Harry caught up his book from the table and peered at the page Ron had been reading. It was a chapter near the back of the book. Hermione saw Harry’s lightning scar crinkle, and she edged over and peered at the page over his shoulder.

“I’ve never seen that spell,” she said.

“I reckon not,” Harry replied tersely. “It’s not one we’d have had in Defense Against the Dark Arts, even back when Crouch was teaching us all those sixth-year spells while he was disguised as Moody. It’s one of the Dark Curses I was telling you about. It didn’t even turn up in Snape’s class last year.”

“What does it do?” Hermione whispered.

“When it’s done properly,” Harry said, lightly stressing the last word, “it turns human bones into something like pudding.”

“Too right,” Ron said, eyeing Harry somewhat defensively. “Just the spell to use on a Death Eater looking to do me in.”

“Except that you didn’t have the wand movements right,” Harry said in an ominously quiet voice.

“I didn’t?” Ron said somewhat guiltily. Then he shrugged. “Well, what could have happened?”

“What could have happened,” Harry said, his jaw muscles tightening, “is the spell wouldn’t have been focused into a narrow beam like it’s supposed to. The magical energy would have been released in a broad wave, like water pouring through a dam that’s split open.”

“What would that have done?” Hermione asked, though from the apprehension in her eyes, she must have had a good notion.

“It would have liquefied the house from top to bottom,” Harry said. “The entire Burrow would have collapsed like a tower of Exploding Snap cards, except without the explosion. It just would have quietly slipped away into a giant puddle, smothering everything and everyone inside it.”

Ron’s blue eyes were now perfectly round. “I – I didn’t – ”

“Bloody right you didn’t!” Harry snapped, angrily slamming the book on the table with a thunderous report that brought a startled gasp from Hermione. “What in the bleedin’ hell were you playing at? Don’t you understand how dangerous these spells are?”

“I’m sorry,” Ron said contritely. “I thought I could learn something that would help me to help you when we go off next year.”

“We had an agreement,” Harry said, controlling his voice by pure force of will. “I learn the spells properly, at Hogwarts, from teachers who’ve used them before. Later, I’ll decide which ones I can safely teach Hermione, who’ll then teach them to you while I’m off learning some new ones. It’s not that hard to understand, is it? I reckoned even a first-year couldn’t muck up something that simple.”

Ron’s face was growing red, signaling that his Weasley anger was quickly rising to the surface.

“Don’t talk to me like that! I’m not an idiot, you know!”

“You were doing a pretty fair imitation when I came in!” Harry said grindingly. “There’s a reason you didn’t get a set of these books yourself this year, you know.”

“So I’m too stupid to learn spells this advanced, is that it?”

“I never said that," Harry replied in a more subdued voice. “But the fact is – ”

“The fact is, I didn’t get the grades I needed to qualify as an Auror, right? Just say it, Harry. I’m not good enough. Go ahead, say it!”

Hermione stepped between Harry and Ron, her eyes pleading. “Ron, Harry never said that. No one ever said you’re not good enough.”

“Bill was,” Ron said, jerking his head in the general direction of the room where his oldest brother was working. “Bill was always good enough. He was Head Boy, wasn’t he? First child off to Hogwarts, and what does he do? Gets twelve ruddy O.W.L.’s, setting the standard the rest of us were expected to match. Mum and Dad always held him up like a beacon for all of us to follow. Only I never quite measured up, did I?”

“You were a prefect,” Hermione argued. But Ron shook his head.

“You know as well as I do that Dumbledore only gave me the badge because Harry had too much on his plate. Every moment I wore it, I always knew it was Harry’s by rights. I was only borrowing it. I dunno why they let me keep it at all after that first year. I don't have to tell you what a joke I was then, do I? And I wasn’t much better last year.”

“You got the badge because you deserved it,” Harry said, his anger now evaporated. He hesitated before adding, “I was jealous of you all that first year, you know. I thought I wasn’t as good as you because you’d got the badge and I hadn’t.”

Harry carefully avoided saying that he’d thought all along that the badge should have been his. He knew Hermione had felt the same way. He remembered how thrilled she’d been when she came in and saw the badge in his hand, and her shock and disbelief when Harry promptly handed the badge to Ron.

Ron was hanging his head now, his hands tucked into his pockets.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” he said, and Harry knew he meant it now. “For everything. I know I’m not good enough to be an Auror – no, it’s okay,” he added quickly, his smile slowly returning, though it bore very little humor. “Like I said before, I’m not stupid. I know not everyone can do that sort of thing. Even Bill never managed, and he’s the best in the family at everything. And it’s not like I really want that sort of life, you know? I mean, look at Moody. How many blokes have tried to do him in? And how close have they come to succeeding, what will all the pieces he’s missing. Who needs that rubbish?”

Both Harry and Hermione knew that Ron was not being entirely truthful. They’d seen the hurt look on his face three years ago when the false Moody had told his two closest friends that they had the makings of an Auror, seen the desperate longing in his eyes to hear that he was likewise good enough to become one of that elite fraternity along with Harry and Hermione.

Hermione placed her hands on Ron’s arms and looked up into his eyes.

“If I thought for a moment that you’d be an albatross around our necks on this mission,” she said bluntly, “I’d pull my wand out right now and place a Memory Charm on you, making you forget everything about the Horcruxes. You’d think this was just another school year, and when it was done, Harry and I would just vanish with no one the wiser, including you. Keep that in mind this year when I’m working you to within an inch of your sanity, teaching you all those spells I’ll be learning from Harry. If I thought you’d do something stupid that would get any of us killed, I’d send you packing straightaway. Because I have no intention of risking my life or Harry’s on a bloke who’ll do a runner when we’re up against it, or freeze up and use the wrong spell in a critical moment – ”

Hermione went silent, and Harry saw a ghostly shadow behind her eyes that lasted only a moment before it vanished. He didn't think Ron noticed, for the tall redhead was standing with his head bowed, his eyes staring down between his oversized feet. When he lifted his head just enough to fix Hermione’s eyes with his, Harry was surprised to hear a soft chuckle catch in the back of his throat.

“You could still do that, you know,” Ron grinned thinly. “I mean, that’s the beauty of Memory Charms, innit? You tell a bloke you’re going to modify his memory, and quick as you do it, he won’t know you did it, so he can’t say anything about it after. That’s what Lockhart was going to do to Harry and me in the Chamber of Secrets, you know. He told us straight out what he intended, knowing that once the spell was engaged, we wouldn’t remember he’d even said it, much less done it. If he hadn’t been using my old wand...” Ron shook his head, and his smile widened. “What did you ever see in that git, anyway?”

“Well, you know,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes for effect as Harry hid a smile. “He was a bit of a charmer, wasn’t he? That dazzling smile, and all that wavy blond hair – bloody hell, but I just wanted to take off my shoes and run barefoot through that hair!”

Ron laughed out loud, and Hermione slipped her arms around his waist and hugged him.

“We’ve shared a lot, haven’t we?” she said. “All of us.”

“At least you remember what you’ve been through,” said a new voice suddenly.

Everyone turned toward Ginny, whom they had forgotten was in the room with them. She was wearing a razor-line smile, and her brown eyes were clouded, as by dark visions hovering just behind them.

“I don’t remember most of my first year at Hogwarts,” Ginny said. “Still, knowing what I do now, I suppose I’m better off not remembering.”

“I wish I could forget those bloody acromantulas in the Forbidden Forest,” Ron said with a pronounced shudder. “And the basilisk nearly did in both Harry and Hermione. I don’t know what I’d have done if – ”

A ghost of inexpressible anguish flickered behind Ron’s eyes as they dropped meaningfully onto the witch pressing so close to him. Harry remembered how devastated Ron had been upon learning that Hermione was hovering on the edge of death as a result of her encounter with the basilisk. Looking back, he saw clearly that this marked the beginning of Ron’s fancy for Hermione. As if to validate this, Ron unconsciously tightened his arms around Hermione for a heartbeat, his face brushing the top of her bushy head, before releasing her and stepping back, his ears going slightly pink.

“We’ve all been through a lot,” Hermione agreed as she smoothly detached herself from Ron and stood next to Harry, who now slipped his arm around her protectively in much the same manner as Ron had done. “More than we’d all care to remember.”

“I haven’t seen or done as much as you all have,” Ginny said. “All I know is, I’ve experienced more than I wish I had done. No one else in the family has had adventures like ours, have they? You ask Bill or Charlie or Percy about their school days, they’ll just shrug and tell you it wasn’t anything to send an owl off so Mum and Dad could enter it in the family album. Even Fred and George had a pretty normal time of it, or as normal as those two could have managed, being as they’re both borderline mental.”

Everyone laughed, but Ginny only smiled.

“The common denominator seems to be you, Harry. Everyone who falls into your circle of friends seems to become a magnet for odd and dangerous things.”

“That’s what you get when you hang about with a bloke with a scar on his head,” Harry said, “and a Dark wizard trying to do him in fortnightly.”

“I want to go along,” Ginny said abruptly, all levity vanished from her aspect. “I think I’ve earned the right. I mean, it’s like I said before – if I think I can be a real help, and not put everyone’s life at risk by my presence, I think I should be allowed to come with you. Only I have as much reason to hate You-Know-Who as Harry has. Can you two say the same?”

Ron’s face was screwed up now, as if a war were going on inside his head. When his features relaxed a moment later, everyone waited expectantly to learn the outcome of that inner conflict.

“I don’t want you to go,” he said flatly. “I’d feel a lot better if I knew you were back here where it’s safe, finishing your last year of school. But...” Ron let out a deep sigh. “Even if you stay behind, that’s no guarantee you’ll be safe, is it? Hogwarts was attacked less than a month ago by bleedin’ Death Eaters, for Merlin’s sake. And I reckon everyone in You-Know-Who’s circle knows that the Order of the Phoenix is the next ruddy thing to a Weasley family gathering. I dunno if there’s anywhere any of us can be safe, short of renting one of the underground vaults at Gringotts and converting it into a flat.

“And you’re right about something else,” Ron said. “You-Know-Who never tried to do in me or Hermione. We’re going along mostly because Harry’s our mate, and that’s what being a mate is all about. But that’s not to say I don’t have another reason, too. It’s the same as yours. That bloody bastard nearly killed my little sister. I’m not about to stand around and let him put someone else through what I felt when I thought I’d never see you again. And if that gives me the right to go along with Harry, then I don’t see how I can deny you the same thing.”

“Are you saying that you support my decision?” Ginny said unbelievingly.

“Not exactly,” Ron said. “I guess what I’m saying is that it’s not up to me to vote either way. When you come down to it, this is Harry’s mission. He’s the one who has to fulfill Trelawney’s ruddy prophesy. I don’t think he has a choice any more. Maybe he never did.” Ron gave a small, almost helpless shrug. “Hermione and I may have pressured Harry into taking us along, maybe even threatened him a bit, but when it’s all done, it’s his decision, and we respect that, just as he respects our decision not to let him go off on his own. Yeah, I know, it sounds all bollocksed up, but that’s about right for us, innit? I mean, when your best mate is Harry Potter, I suppose you have to expect things to go arse over broomstick now and then. I reckon the time to worry is when things look like they’re going smoothly, because that’s usually a sign that the roof’s about to fall down around our ears.” Ron grinned at his unwitting reference to the disaster his friends’ intervention had only just prevented. “Anyway,” he shrugged again, “like I said, this is Harry’s show. It’s down to him who comes along and who doesn’t. I can have my say, but in the end...”

As Ron’s voice trailed off, he took his eyes from Ginny’s and shifted his gaze toward Harry, which action was more conclusive than any summation he could have uttered. Everyone was now looking expectantly at Harry, but none more keenly than Ginny.

“Harry?” she said.

Harry surprised no one more than himself when he regarded Ginny tranquilly, unconsciously peering at her over the rims of his glasses, as Dumbledore had done to him so many times.

“I haven’t changed my mind about anything,” he said. “I’m going off, and Ron and Hermione are coming along, because I know there’s nothing I can do to stop them short of Petrifying them and chucking them down the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets in Moaning Myrtle’s loo.” Ron and Hermione both smiled. “And if you decide to come along after you’re of age, I reckon you will, and that’s that. But that’s not what you asked, is it?”

“No,” Ginny said. “What I want to know is, do you want me to come along?

“I can’t answer that now,” Harry said. “There are too many other questions wanting answers yet. You’ve said you won’t ask to come unless you feel you’re ready. At this point, I don’t even know if I’ll be ready. But ready or not, I’m going, because I can’t do anything else. We found out last month at Hogwarts that no place is safe from Voldemort. The only place I was really safe was at the Dursleys, but with Dumbledore’s spell set to expire on my birthday, that’s all done. So if I go off now, I’m no worse off than I was before. I’m a bit better, actually, because the more I move about, the harder it’ll be for Voldemort to find me. And if he never suspects that I’m after his Horcruxes, wherever they are will literally be the last place he’d ever think to look for me.

“I still don’t plan on setting off until next year, of course. But when I’ve learnt all I can at Hogwarts, I can’t wait any longer, because the longer I hang about, the more people will suffer and die because of Voldemort. And,” Harry said, his voice catching slightly, “I have to work as hard as I can to make sure that no one else dies because of me. As Ron said, this is my mission, my destiny. Anyone who comes along is going to become a target for Voldemort. It’s like they’ll be wearing signs around their necks that read, ‘I’m Harry Potter’s friend. Kill me and make him suffer.’ If anything happens to them, it’ll be on my head for the rest of my life, which, when you think about it, might not be all that long if Voldemort gets his wish. Ron and Hermione can say all they want, but that’s how I feel.”

“It works both ways, you know,” Ginny said. “If you die while the rest of us live, how do you think we’ll feel? Why do you think Ron and Hermione wouldn’t let you go off alone? Why – why do you think I want to come along? It’s not just to pay back You-Know-Who for trying to kill me. It’s for all the times he’s tried to kill you.”

“I know,” Harry said. “I’ve always known.”

“Then how can you ask me to stay behind?” Ginny pleaded softly.

“I’m not,” Harry said. Ron and Hermione both started slightly. Ginny’s face began to glow.

“Does that mean you’ll let me come with you?”

“I already told you, that isn’t my decision,” Harry said. “It’s yours.”

“But,” Ginny said, “I don’t want to come along unless...”

Harry smiled, and Ginny’s eyes fell away.

“You said from the start that you wouldn’t ask to come along if you didn’t feel you were ready,” Harry said. “I took you at your word then, and I still do. I’m trusting that you’ll make the right decision, not just for yourself, but for all of us.

“When I was set to go off straightaway to find Voldemort’s Horcruxes, I made that decision for all the wrong reasons. Ron and Hermione knew it was wrong, but rather than try to talk me out of it, which they knew they couldn’t have done, they made the only decision they could and told me they were coming along. They must have reckoned if I was stupid enough to go off without proper training and get myself killed, it was their job to keep me alive any way they could – even at the cost of their own lives. A bloke’s lucky to have one friend like that in his life, much less two.”

Ron was too embarrassed to look at Harry, especially after the cataclysm that Harry had only just prevented right where they were standing, but focused once more on a spot on the floor between his feet. Hermione’s eyes never wavered. She smiled warmly at Harry, who returned the gesture before turning back to Ginny.

“Thanks to Dumbledore,” he said, “I changed my earlier decision for a new one, a better one. Dumbledore told me at the start that it’s our choices that determine our lives more than our abilities. Some of the choices I’ve made along the way weren’t the best I could have done. The two smartest choices I ever made are here in this room.” Harry paused, sighing painfully. “Malfoy told me on the Hogwarts Express that I should take care choosing my friends. It’s the only good advice he ever gave me, though I didn’t exactly take it the way he intended.” Harry smiled at Hermione again. Ron looked up, his ears going pink, and grinned. “I’ve made other choices since then,” Harry said, “some good, some horrible. But thanks to Ron and Hermione, the second lot never managed to add up as badly as they might have done.”

Harry walked over to Ginny and peered directly into her eyes. She looked for a moment as if she wanted to turn away, but, perhaps drawing on reserves she hadn’t suspected, she squared her shoulders and held her gaze fast on Harry’s.

“This is going to be a year of decision for all of us,” Harry said. “I made maybe the most important one of my life when I decided to come back for my final year at Hogwarts. You have a similar decision to make. But before you do, you might want to look at my example. Ron and Hermione thought I was an idiot to go off as I planned – they never actually said that, but I know it’s what they were thinking. Dumbledore agreed with them. What do you think? Should I have gone straight off after Bill and Fleur’s wedding, as I intended? Should I go down right now and write a letter to Professor McGonagall, telling her I’ve changed my mind again, that I’m going off straightaway like I planned all along?”

“No,” Ginny said quietly. “You should stay.”

“Why?” Harry asked softly. “Because it’s the best thing for me? Or for you?”

Ginny hesitated for a moment, then looked straight at Harry. “For you,” she said unflinchingly. “Dumbledore’s right, you’ll have a much better chance against You-Know-Who if you finish school before you go off.”

“If that’s true about me,” Harry said, “what about you? Will you be ready to follow the three of us, having stayed at Hogwarts only six years?”

Ginny’s eyes fell away from Harry’s. He took her hands in his, bringing a blush to her freckled cheeks.

“When you turn sixteen next month,” Harry said, “that’ll still leave you a year shy of legal age. You said it yourself, if you go off before you’re of age, your dad will go straight to the head of the Magical Law Enforcement division and have you back here so fast – ” Harry’s eyes flickered toward Hermione for a heartbeat before turning back to Ginny again. “So fast you’ll think your knickers have been turned into a portkey.”

Though Ginny’s head remained downcast, Harry saw her cheeks draw back in a smile.

“We have a whole school year ahead of us,” Harry said. “It seems like a long time, but it’ll be over before we know it. When it’s done and you’ve turned seventeen, you’ll have a decision to make, just like I made mine this year. Between now and then, you’ll have a lot of thinking to do. But it’s not a decision you’ll have to make alone. Merlin knows I couldn’t have managed everything I’ve been through without these two. No matter how bad things got, they were always there for me.”

From the corner of his eye, Harry thought he saw Ron cringe slightly, almost as if at the sound of Voldemort’s name.

“Now,” he said to Ginny, “it’s time for all of us to be here for you. If there’s ever anything you need – if there’s ever a time when you feel the pressure building inside you until you expect your head will explode – don’t hesitate to come straight to one of us. Don’t make the mistake of keeping it bottled up inside until it starts to eat you up, like a certain bloke I could name who’s standing right in front of you.”

Ginny laughed gently, though she still did not look up. Harry squeezed her hands again.

“Hermione once told me that answers aren’t as difficult to find as we think. They’re all around us, just waiting for us to spot them properly. The real trick is to ask the right questions. That’s what you have to do this year. You have to think of the questions that will allow you see the answers that are right in front of you. That’s something no one else can do for you. It takes complete honesty, because the one person none of us can lie to is ourselves. When you can finally do that, you’ll be able to match up the questions with the answers. And when you can see everything properly at last, those questions and answers will lead you to the right decisions, not just for you, but for everyone.”

Lifting her head at last, Ginny looked at Harry and said, “And what happens after I’ve made my decision?”

“We’ll respect it,” Harry said. “Right, Ron?”

Ron nodded, if somewhat reluctantly, and Harry saw Hermione grinning.

“And you’ll take me along a year from now if I ask you?” Ginny said, unable to mask the hope in her voice, nor in her eyes.

“Something else Hermione once told me is that it’s pointless to answer a question until it’s been asked properly,” Harry said. “That question is still a year from the asking. But I promise that, when you do ask it, I’ll give you an answer based on facts alone. Feelings won’t enter into it.” Harry shot Ron another swift look before recapturing Ginny’s eyes. “I hope that’s answer enough for now.”

“It is,” Ginny said. Slipping her hands from his, she hugged him around the middle. She stepped back almost at once, as Ron had done with Hermione, her cheeks as pink as Ron’s ears had been, and nearly bumped into the table. Harry and Hermione laughed, and even Ron smiled.

The tense atmosphere in the room relaxed. Hermione eased over to Harry and leaned close, a secret smile playing over her face.

“‘So fast you’ll think your knickers were turned into a portkey?’” she said, lifting a curved eyebrow. “That sounds strangely familiar.”

“I must have heard it somewhere,” Harry said, keeping a straight face with an effort.

Ginny was slowly drifting around the perimeter of the table she’d nearly collided with, whereon lay the book Ron had been reading. In slamming the book down, Harry had bent the page that had been the object of Ron’s scrutiny, creating a bulge marking its location. Ginny opened the book, and it immediately fell open to the injured page as if guided by an invisible hand. She placed a finger on the surface of the page, pressing it down flat as her manicured nail idly traced the faded words that had nearly spelt the end of the Burrow in horrific fashion. The page sprang up again when she withdrew her hand, as if announcing that it was not to be dismissed so lightly. Ginny turned toward Harry, who was looking at her with an unreadable expression on his face. He answered the question in her eyes before the words reached her lips.

“No, I can’t teach you anything from that book,” he smiled. “It’s strictly forbidden to anyone under seventh year. The rest of us are technically of age to learn those spells – or nearly, in my case – but even then, there are some I won’t be allowed teach Ron and Hermione. Of course, just because I’m forbidden to teach Hermione certain spells,” Harry said with a meaningful glance at Hermione, “that’s not to say she might not learn them on her own just by observing me practicing them. I mean, no one taught her the Protean Charm in our fifth year, did they? Or that hex she put on the D.A. parchment around the same time. And we know Snape never taught her how to brew Polyjuice Potion, which students aren’t supposed to learn until their sixth year. Some people just never manage to grasp the importance of following rules, do they?”

Hermione grinned, her cheeks going Weasley-pink, and Ron and Ginny both laughed.

“And by the same measure,” Harry said, “If Ron hangs about and sees Hermione doing some spells she isn’t supposed to know – spells she picked up from a scar-headed wizard who shall remain nameless (everyone laughed again) – and if he pays close attention and copies her, well, that’s not my lookout, is it?

“But,” Harry said sharply, turning back to Ginny, “if I’d followed my original plan to go after Voldemort straightaway, I’d never have had that book to learn all those spells from, would I? The three of us would have gone off armed with only six years of learning – and even if Hermione had picked up a few things she wasn’t supposed to know until this year, that still wouldn’t make up for what we’ll all be learning by hanging about for our last year. The Auror classes I’m taking might make the difference not just between success and failure, but life and death.

“Just a minute ago,” Harry said, his voice softening as his eyes transfixed Ginny’s, “you said I needed to finish my seventh year if I was to be properly trained. If that’s true for me, it’s just as true for Ron and Hermione – and for you. Even if you get the highest marks in the school this year, that’ll still leave you knowing about as much magic as I know right now. And if you say I’m not ready to go off now, it’ll be the same for you next year, won’t it?”

“You’re using my own words against me,” Ginny protested, her lips pursed petulantly.

“I told you that being honest with yourself was the first step,” Harry reminded Ginny. “I think you just learnt your first lesson this year. Remind me to add ten points to Gryffindor’s hourglass quick as we get back. The Head Boy can do that, so I’ve been told,” he said, winking at Hermione.

Harry walked over to the table and closed the book, which still bulged meaningfully at the point of the bent page, a permanent reminder of all that had happened in this room in the eternity of the preceding minutes – and, more significantly, all that might have happened, but had not. Ginny remained silent, but when Harry smiled at her over his shoulder, she smiled back without reproach.

“Blimey,” Ron said suddenly, looking at his watch, “I had no idea it was this late. We’re due for lunch.” Placing a hand over his stomach, he opined, “Too much excitement makes a bloke come over all peckish.” Turning to Ginny, he asked, “Are Mum and Dad back from their walkabout yet?”

“I haven’t seen them since they left this morning,” Ginny said. “How about you two?” she asked Harry and Hermione. "You were out walking in the country, weren’t you? Did you see any sign of Mum and Dad.”

Trying not to smile at each other, Harry and Hermione shook their heads in reply.

“Didn’t see a thing,” Harry said truthfully, grateful that Ginny had not asked if he and Hermione had heard anything.

“Well,” Ginny shrugged, “we can whip something up ourselves, I suppose. I’m sure I can remember some of the spells Mum’s been showing me over the past few Summers.”

“But you’re not allowed to do food magic,” Ron reminded her.

“No,” Ginny smiled, “but you are.”

“Me?” Ron said. “I’ve never prepared a meal in my life!”

“No worries,” Ginny said. “We’ll just follow Harry’s example.”

“What example?” Harry said.

“Just like what you’re planning with the spells in that book,” Ginny nodded toward the table, “where Hermione watches and learns.”

“Brilliant,” Hermione said delightedly. “You can show Ron how to do everything, the way your mum showed you, and Ron will cast the actual spells.”

”Right,” Ginny said.

“I want to pay close attention myself,” Hermione said. “I’ve neglected household magic shamefully, and now that we’re all only a year away from going off on our own, it’s about time I learnt a few food preparation spells. We can hardly go off and fight Death Eaters if we’re starving, can we?”

“Well, then,” Ron said as they moved toward the door, “if Hermione’s going to do the spells, I don’t – ”

“Have you forgotten what we talked about in the kitchen?” Harry prompted. Ron’s shoulders slumped, and Harry said, “You can’t depend on someone else to keep you fed, mate.”

“Especially the way he eats,” Ginny added with a smile.

They made their way downstairs, Ginny shouldering the broom she had borrowed from the shed. It was the broom Charlie had flown at Hogwarts, Ginny explained (not knowing that Harry had already been told). He had flown it all through his years as Gryffindor’s star Seeker, helping his House to win its last Quidditch Cup before Harry came along to break the intervening string of Slytherin championships. Being so old now (it had been purchased second-hand when Charlie made the team in his third year), it wasn’t as good as the school brooms used by the current Gryffindor team, but it gave Ginny confidence, she said, to fly a broom that had participated in so many triumphs. Harry couldn’t argue. Confidence was not to be dismissed as a tool to achieve victory, and as Gryffindor had won the Cup both years of Ginny’s tenure as starting Chaser (as well as back-up Seeker), Harry was sure that Charlie would be pleased to know that his old broom was still winning championships after a fashion, as it had done in his playing days.

The group had no sooner entered the kitchen when the back door opened and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley walked in. The four young wizards gasped in surprise. Mrs. Weasley’s hair was tossed about, and there were bits of leaves and twigs mixed into its fiery tresses. Mr. Weasley had very little hair to muss, but his robes were in slight disarray, in this fashion differing little from those of his wife.

“Mum?” Ginny said. “Dad?”

“Yes, dear?” Mrs. Weasley replied in a high, slightly flustered voice.

“Where have you two been? You look like you've been dragged behind a charging hippogriff. And what’s happened to your robes?”

It was then that Harry noticed something that Hermione (judging from the amusement shining in her eyes) had apparently spotted straightaway. Mr. Weasley’s robes were more than rumpled; they had been put on back to front. Not wanting the Weasleys to see his growing smile, Harry turned away, only to get a straight-on look at Ron, whose face looked as if he had just drunk a goblet of Polyjuice Potion in one swallow. Ron’s eyes were widening by the moment in what could only be described as a look of rampant horror such as he hadn’t worn since his last trip into the Forbidden Forest. He saw Harry looking his way, and his eyes immediately flashed his mate a silent, desperate entreaty to disabuse him of the notion that was causing his horrified mien. Harry tried to say something, but all he could manage was to smile even more broadly. Ron’s mouth fell open.

“Come on,” Harry whispered to Hermione, taking her by the arm. “If you thought the house nearly fell down before...”

Hermione nodded, allowing Harry to steer her out the door. At the last moment, Harry took the broom from Ginny’s numb fingers. Her hand remained frozen in mid-air, which, paired with her stunned expression that was a mirror image of Ron’s, made her look like she had been Petrified by a basilisk. Harry quickly followed Hermione outside, careful to ease the door closed behind him. When Harry entered the shed to replace Charlie’s broom, Hermione followed him inside and closed the door. They looked at each other for a moment in the dim light, then proceeded to fall into gales of unrestrained laughter, hoping that the shed’s thin walls would somehow manage to keep the sound from reaching the kitchen.

Hermione said it best. The road of love is never smooth. I’m making that road as bumpy as I can, along with adding a few blind curves along the way. By fully acknowledging the emotional ties binding the foursome, I hope to eliminate the easy road of a completely frictionless relationship. The destination is no less certain – H/Hr all the way – but, as Hermione said, if it was easy, it wouldn’t be worth the bother. Never fear. When I’m done, all doubt will have been removed.



Now I have to get to work on the next chapter, which, praise Merlin, is shorter than this one. Let’s see if I can get it up in two days. At least it shouldn’t have as many mistakes to correct. Wish me luck.

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!

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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.

Additional note to teganii. While Harry did indeed Apparate with Dumbledore at the end of HBP, it was his first and only actual Apparation apart from his lessons. Harry’s stated purpose here was to master the skill until it was as easy as walking across a room. My purpose was to write the scene in which Harry Apparated into the frog pond to help Ron. We both achieved our goals.

As previously stated, this chapter contains the last flashback adapted directly from HBP. If only it had gone this way for real.

Tuesday morning found Harry in the “Room of Requirement,” a simmering cauldron on one hand and a table heaped with an odd assortment of bottles, vials and tins on the other. When purchasing his potion ingredients along with his other school supplies, he’d paid scant attention to what items the proprietor was bagging for him. He’d merely handed the wizard the list he’d got in his envelope from Hogwarts and paid the required sum after. Following his talk with Hermione on the subject of healing potions, Harry had sorted through his papers to find his potions list and looked at it properly for the first time. And, true to Hermione’s assertion, his list, like hers, bore two signatures of authorization – in this case, Minerva McGonagall and Horace Slughorn – granting Harry the right to purchase various substances otherwise banned from sale to the general wizarding populace (and especially to students).

Harry could well understand why the ingredients he was combining today were controlled by the Ministry. The potion he was brewing was good for nothing but causing pain and misery. Unfortunately, those elements popped up often – too often, Harry mused – in the course of an Auror’s duties. If Harry completed the steps properly, the potion bubbling in his cauldron would force a prisoner to reveal his deepest secrets to anyone, even his greatest enemy – but at a terrible cost to body and mind.

It was not Veritaserum. That was nothing more than a truth potion, albeit the strongest of its kind, and also controlled, though not so stringently as Harry’s concoction. The substance seething in his cauldron was nothing less than liquid torture. Anyone who swallowed a single mouthful would fall into convulsions as agonizing as those created by the Cruciatus Curse (but without the inherent risk of a life sentence in Azkaban). The spasms lasted for no more than ten seconds, but they were, according to the text in Harry’s book, the equivalent of ten eternities to the drinker. But that was not the true horror of the potion. The spasms recurred every few minutes, each time worse than the one before. None was known to have endured more than an hour of this fiendish torture without dissolving into total, irreversible madness. Few ever suffered that fate, however. Most would pour out their most intimate secrets in exchange for the antidote long before that ultimate phase engaged – but not before they suffered in ways that would haunt their memories, waking and sleeping, for the rest of their lives.

Harry was thoroughly revolted by the very thought of using this potion on a human being, even a Death Eater. He might make an exception for Snape, but that was all the concession he would grant. But if he were to pass his preliminary Auror courses, this was one of the potions he would have to demonstrate his ability to brew to Horace Slughorn’s satisfaction. If he brewed it now, Harry reasoned, he could present it to Slughorn in his first class, receive his passing mark, and quickly forget that it existed.

There were, of course, many other potions, not to mention spells, that he would have to learn in order to receive his certification. He smiled unexpectedly at this thought. Only a short time ago, he’d been keen to go off and put his life in danger to sort out Voldemort, and all other considerations be damned. He still intended to make Voldemort’s destruction his immediate goal upon leaving school. But Hermione had reminded him that the two of them had a long life to share if they came out of their mission with whole skins. She was preparing herself for a career as a Healer. However valiantly she threw herself into Harry’s mission – and he knew she would withhold nothing – still she fully intended to survive, and thereafter to live a full life as a contributing member of wizarding society. And hearing her voice this so calmly yet strenuously, Harry knew that he would settle for nothing less than to stand next to Hermione in this promise, even as she would stand next to him when they set off in search of Voldemort’s Horcruxes.

To this end, he, like Hermione, intended to master his chosen craft not for grades, nor even to accomplish his avowed goal of destroying Voldemort (though, indeed, that purpose was as much a part of him as the scar graven on his head). He had chosen his career path even as Hermione had chosen hers. He was determined to become an Auror, to join the honored ranks peopled by such as Tonks and Moody and Kingsley Shacklebolt, who served the wizarding world by keeping honest witches and wizards safe from the menace of Dark mages like Voldemort. It was a noble profession. Nor was it an easy path to walk. Many who set out on that road stumbled before reaching its end. Harry would not be one of those. He would be an Auror! He would survive his confrontation with Voldemort to live a long, rich life. And Sibyll Trelawney’s prophesy had no part in his decision. He was doing this for himself. And for Hermione.

Checking his book again, Harry saw that he could not add the next ingredient until the potion had simmered for a full day. He checked the bluebell flame under the cauldron. It was burning steadily, maintaining the exact temperature the potion required. Nodding, Harry stepped back and waved his wand over the cauldron. A magical shield appeared around it, guaranteeing that the potion would not be disturbed until his return. The spell had been cast over the cauldron by Hermione shortly after their arrival. She knew that Harry would likely be following her example by brewing a few potions in advance, and as she had already cast the same spell on her own cauldron, she immediately set about to safeguard Harry’s cauldron in like manner. Harry had wanted to cast the spell himself, but Hermione wouldn’t hear of it.

“Remember the Ministry owls,” she’d said moments before enchanting the cauldron with her customary ease. “You can activate and deactivate the barrier yourself with a wave if your wand and a simple mental command. They can’t send you an owl over that.”

“In two more days,” Harry muttered, “the Ministry can ruddy well shove their owls up their collective arse.”

With the protective barrier in place, there was nothing left but for Harry to close the door. The automatic locking spell set by Fred and George would not activate when the room was empty; their mother had allowed them their privacy in terms of actual occupation, but when the room was not in use, she expected to be able to enter at will, as was her parental right. Harry was tempted to use an ordinary Colloportis spell on it – Mrs. Weasley would not have begrudged Harry this, given the use to which she knew he was putting the room – but he decided it wasn’t worth the bother. He and Hermione had already cautioned their hosts about entering the twins’ room. Ron might have been a worry once, but after the near-incident on Sunday, and their follow-up chat, Harry doubted it. Ron was determined to remain worthy of Harry’s trust, and Harry was sure that his mate would be as good as his word.

With Ron on his mind, Harry entered their shared room, finding it empty. He walked to the window and pushed his head through the curtains, which were floating on the warm breeze drifting through the room. Looking down, Harry saw no sign of a tall figure with blazing red hair. But that was not to say that the back garden was empty (nor lacking in red-haired inhabitants). Mrs. Weasley was talking with Hermione. Their wands were out, and Hermione was watching carefully as Mrs. Weasley demonstrated a series of wand movements.

“What’s doing, then?” Harry called down from the high window. Hermione looked up and waved, smiling.

“Hi, Harry! How’s the potion coming?”

“Okay so far,” Harry said. “How about you?”

Hermione looked to be drawing breath to reply, but Harry saw Mrs. Weasley silence her with a look. Casting her eyes up again, Hermione said, “Come on down!”

“Okay!”

Harry hurried down the stairs and into the back garden. Hermione hugged him while Mrs. Weasley looked away politely. As they were pressed together, Hermione spoke softly into Harry’s ear.

“Mrs. Weasley doesn’t think it’s proper to hold a conversation shouting back and forth between the garden and an open window. I expect she’s right.”

Backing away from Hermione, Harry asked in a normal voice, “What are you doing, then?”

“We’re casting spells in preparation for the wedding,” Hermione said.

“What kind of spells?”

“Well,” Hermione began, “we’ll have to set up a load of chairs in neat rows. And it’s going to be hot all week, so there’ll be a great awning to keep the sun off everyone’s heads. Then there’s all the food and drinks to be prepared and served, and tables to put them on. And we won’t want insects buzzing about, annoying everyone. Everything will be organized by a series of spells. By doing the work and planning now, we’ll be able to set everything up on Sunday in a fraction of the time. With the spells in place, it will only take a few simple commands to activate them as needed.”

“Excellent,” Harry said. “Can I help?” Hermione’s bright smile dimmed slightly, and Harry’s followed a moment later, a comprehending (and, by now, weary) look in his eyes. “Oh, right,” he said, forcing his diminished smile to remain in place. “Magic.”

“I’m sorry,” Hermione said. “But there’ll still be loads to do from Thursday on, and you can be a big help. I’m counting on you, in fact.”

“Right,” Harry said, fixing his smile firmly. “I’ll let you carry on, then. If you want me, I expect I’ll be around.”

Harry began to walk without purpose, clearing his thoughts of all care, enjoying the sun on his face, and especially the breeze, which was welcome after more than an hour spent tending a simmering cauldron. He was halfway to the frog pond before he remembered he’d been looking for Ron. He thought about going back and asking Hermione and Mrs. Weasley if either of them knew where Ron had gone, but when he turned around he saw them busily casting spells in every direction, Mrs. Weasley nodding approvingly at Hermione’s spellwork. Not wanting to interrupt their labors for something so trivial, Harry resumed his meandering walk. Feeling somewhat useless surrounded by witches and wizards who could do magic at will, Harry sat down against the hedge behind the vegetable patch and closed his eyes. He never knew how long he dozed. He was just starting a dream where he was standing in front of the Ministry, casting spells in every direction and daring someone to come and throw him in Azkaban, when a large hand on his shoulder shook him awake.

“Harry! Wake up, mate!”

Harry came awake with a start and reached for his wand without thinking. But a moment later he saw a tall figure standing over him, blue eyes shining above a broad smile.

“Nice reflexes, Harry,” Ron said approvingly. “Reckon Hermione’d be pleased.”

Pushing himself up on slightly stiff legs, Harry asked, “Where’ve you been?”

“Practicing, wasn’t I?” Ron answered with a grin, his head tilting indicatively to the side. Harry now saw that Ron had his Cleansweep 11 slung over his left shoulder.

“Practicing alone?” Harry said, hoping he sounded casual.

“Yeah,” Ron said (was it Harry’s imagination, or was there the merest trace of disappointment in Ron’s answer?). “Got a bit peckish, so I came in for a snack. Join me, then?”

Harry followed Ron back to the house. The back garden was deserted now. Harry saw piles of folding chairs, a stack of tables, and a large, rumpled shape that he took to be the canopy Hermione had mentioned. Passing these, Harry and Ron entered the kitchen and found Mrs. Weasley sitting at the table, reading an old number of Witch Weekly. If Ron’s declaration to Harry in their fourth year had been accurate, his mother had no interest in the magazine save for the recipes. Sure enough, when he was close enough to see the page Mrs. Weasley was reading, he saw moving photos of a witch preparing some culinary masterpiece that the accompanying text guaranteed could be created by anyone who followed the simple instructions below.

“Oi, Mum,” Ron called out. “Anything to eat?”

“There’s a bit of beef left in the ice box,” Mrs. Weasley said, not taking her eyes from the magazine. “Left from the meal you helped make.”

“Leftover leftovers,” Ron shrugged, but he took out the platter and used its remaining contents to make three sandwiches, one of which he handed to Harry.

“They’re better cold on a day like today,” Ron said as he returned the bread to its cupboard while Harry placed the now-empty platter in the sink. “No shade in the paddock, you know – not up in the air.”

Harry concurred as he bit into the sandwich, finding the cold beef satisfying against the heat permeating the heavy July air. If things kept on as they had been, it would be a scorcher on Sunday. Harry realized that his school dress robes might be a bit heavy for Summer wear. It might do for him to buy a new, lighter set in Diagon Alley when he was in London on Thursday. He wondered if he ought to go without Ron. It might be bad form for him to make such a purchase, knowing that Ron would have to look on impotently, unable to buy new robes of his own. Ron had a perfectly good set of dress robes, bought for him by Fred and George (using some of the Triwizard gold Harry gave them). Ron’s brothers had surprised Harry by having the foresight to buy enlargeable robes, which Mrs. Weasley lengthened by letting out the hem. By now they had probably been modified as much as they could be, but they should fit Ron well enough this year. They could always be subjected to an Engorgement Charm, of course. But either way, they would still be older, outdated robes against Harry’s new ones. Harry decided he might carry on with his own old bottle-green dress robes after all, allowing Ron the newer by comparison.

Harry hadn’t realized how famished he was. He and Ron both consumed their sandwiches in minutes, chasing them with cold pumpkin juice. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, Ron jerked his head toward the doorway and strode upstairs, attacking his second sandwich as he had the first. Harry followed, and they entered Ron’s room and fell onto their beds without ceremony.

“Blimey, it’s hot,” Ron announced unnecessarily.

Harry had no intention of disagreeing. He’d been glad to abandon his cauldron for the day, though he dreaded resuming his task tomorrow. But tomorrow felt like a long way off as he stretched out on his camp bed, the breeze from the open window cooling his face. The breeze wasn’t cool, exactly, but it was welcome all the same, helping to dry the perspiration pasting his bangs to his forehead. Without meaning to, he drifted off to sleep.

As he had been before, Harry was awakened by as hand on his shoulder. But it wasn’t Ron’s hand this time. It was smaller, its touch gentler.

“Hermione?” Harry said happily as he allowed his eyes to open at their own speed. But the soft eyes that looked down on him were not framed by a cloud of bushy brown hair, but a curtain of silky red.

“Sorry, Harry,” Ginny smiled apologetically. “I didn’t know you were asleep. I thought you were just thinking.”

“Hi, Ginny,” Harry said. When his thoughts cleared a moment later, he thought to ask, “Where’ve you been all morning? I didn’t see you anywhere.”

“I was off visiting Luna,” Ginny said as she sat down on Ron’s bed (which Harry saw was empty, Ron having gone). “I haven’t been to see her since leaving school. I’m a terrible friend, aren’t I?”

“No you’re not,” Harry said at once. “You’ve had a bit on your plate, haven’t you, what with the wedding and all. How’s Luna?”

“Same as ever,” Ginny chuckled.

“Did she tell you I’ve invited her to the wedding as my guest?” Harry asked tentatively.

“As a matter of fact,” Ginny said, “she just told me, right after I asked her.”

“You asked Luna to come to the wedding?” Harry said in surprise.

“Yeah, I know,” Ginny shrugged. “Dunno what got into me.”

“I know exactly what got into you,” Harry said, smiling across the narrow gap separating the two beds.

“What?” Ginny said with overstated indignation. “You think I invited her for Ron? Get on! We’re mates, Luna and I. Why shouldn’t I invite her as my guest?”

“No reason,” Harry said, his smile growing softer.

“But as you’ve brought up Ron,” Ginny said, “he’s why I came in. He wants you to come along with us for another practice. I need to get in form if I’m to help the team this year. I’ll be the only returning Chaser, so I’ve got to be up to the task. Whoever we recruit to fill the other two spots, it’s down to me to show them the ropes, and as Ron keeps going on, I can’t do that if I’m out of condition, can I? He wanted me to come along this morning, and I suppose I should have done, but I hadn’t seen Luna since leaving Hogwarts, and she doesn’t have anyone to talk with when her dad’s at work. So, you want to come along and give me a good workout, then?”

“I’ll be glad to help,” Harry said. “When are we leaving?”

“Quick as I have a bit to eat,” Ginny said. “Not too much, mind, or a few sharp dives will have me heaving all over the paddock. But I set off this morning without breakfast, and I’m going to keel over if I don’t get something inside me. So, let’s say ten minutes, shall we?”

“Right,” Harry said. “See you then.”

Ginny vanished through the door, her long, red hair trailing after her like a streak of fire. Harry got up and opened his trunk. He took out his Firebolt, examining it appreciatively. His heart always twinged slightly every time he set eyes on his broom. It had been a present from Sirius, to, in the old Marauder’s words, “make up for thirteen birthdays and Christmases missed.” Holding it now, Harry would have drawn his wand and reduced it to ashes to have Sirius walk through the door right this minute. But his was not the power to change what was, however much he wished otherwise. This broomstick was a sort of legacy, a tiny piece of his godfather that Harry could cherish in place of the real thing. He had never failed to keep it in top form. To do otherwise, he believed, would dishonor Sirius’ memory. It was in splendid form now, balancing perfectly in his hand, its handle gleaming, its tail twigs straight and uniform. It was, as its manufacturer boasted, a championship broom. And Harry would use it to win another championship – his last – for Gryffindor.

Harry carried his broom reverently as he left Ron’s room and walked downstairs. He had just set foot on the second floor landing when he noticed that Hermione’s door was ajar. He took a step forward, but came up short when he heard voices coming from inside, engaged in a conversation. But it was not Ginny’s voice he heard, alternating with Hermione’s. It was Ron’s. Harry knew he should keep moving down the stairs, but some power beyond his ken rooted his feet to the floor. He knew it was impolite to listen to a conversation without its participants’ knowledge. All the same, he stood in silence as Ron’s and Hermione’s voices carried clearly into the hallway.

“How will you know when it’s done?” Ron said, and Harry was certain he must be talking about the potion Hermione was brewing in Ginny’s room. There was a hint of noxious vapors drifting into the hallway, a smell like a squashed toad that had been in the sun too long.

“When it starts to turn yellow,” Hermione said, “Until then, I’m stirring it every ten minutes, three turns to the right, one turn to the left.”

There was a pause, followed by a rustling of what Harry was sure were the pages of a book.

“It says here,” Ron said, “to stir it three times to the right. Where do you get the extra turn to the left?”

A short silence ensued, followed by a sharp laugh from Ron.

“You got it from Harry’s book, didn’t you?” A pause followed in which Harry could almost see the blush on Hermione’s cheeks through the wooden door separating them. “What changed your mind?” Ron asked. “About the book, I mean. You were dead set against it last year.”

“Harry changed my mind,” Hermione said. “He convinced me that we need all the advantages we can get when we go up against Voldemort.” Harry heard a muffled squeak, as if a chair (presumably the one in which Ron was sitting) had just jerked sharply on the wooden floor. “Ron,” Hermione said in mild reproval, “when are you going to stop reacting to the sound of Voldemort’s name? (Ron’s chair made only a small noise this time.) I’m not asking you to say the name if you don’t want to, but the least you can do is stop looking so horrified when others say it. If we’re to go off together on the Horcrux quest, you’re going to hear Harry and me say Voldemort’s name hundreds of times. Are you going to jump like you've just sat on a knarl every time? It’ll be hard to get much accomplished if that’s how it’s going to be.”

“Sorry,” Ron said. “I’m getting better.”

A tense silence followed, and Harry could imagine the small frown on Hermione’s face as if she were standing right in front of him.

“Dumbledore told Harry that fear of a name increases fear of the thing,” Hermione said. “Goodness knows that there’s enough to fear about Voldemort already. But there’s a difference between reasoned fear and fear without reason. We all have good reason to fear Voldemort. He’s the most terrible Dark wizard who ever lived, and with Dumbledore gone, there’s no one left who can match him in terms of sheer power. If we’re to defeat him, it’ll have to be with more than power. We’ll have to use our brains and our wits. Our reasoned fear strengthens us, because it reminds us how difficult our task will be, and how diligently we’ll have to work to bring it about. But if we fear even the sound of his name, that fear is a weakness, not a strength. It robs us of our clarity of thought, and without that, we’re lost before we begin. That kind of fear becomes a weapon for Voldemort to use against us. Merlin knows he has enough of an advantage already without our giving him even more.

“So I want you to promise me, Ron. Promise me you’ll conquer your fear of Voldemort’s name. You can start by just thinking his name to yourself. Whenever your thoughts turn to our mission, when you think about who we’re going up against, I want you to see him in your mind and call him by name. When you can do that without thinking, it will be only a short step to saying his name out loud. Can you manage that?”

Another silence followed, in which Harry imagined Ron’s rueful nod.

“Good!” Hermione said, confirming Harry’s mental image. “Now, would you hand me that jar of eel’s eyes, please?”

Harry, already feeling guilty at having listened for so long, took a step toward the stairs. But he stopped again when Ron spoke in a very different voice than Harry had heard earlier.

“You’re really good at this,” Ron said, sounding genuinely impressed. “You have a real knack for potions. Of course, if your O.W.L. list is any indication, there isn’t anything you’re not good at.”

Again Harry imagined Hermione’s cheeks going pink at Ron’s compliment.

“Since Snape’s old book’s already come up,” Ron said, “I should tell you that Harry’s letting me copy some of the notes from the margins – not the Dark spells,” Ron said quickly, and Harry could almost see the momentary alarm in Hermione’s eyes, “just the ones having to do with potions.”

“Well,” Hermione said, sounding relieved, “I think that’s good. As I said, we all need to learn as much as we can before we go off. Snape and his mum came up with a lot of innovations that raise the level of potion brewing to new heights. If Harry’s right and Snape never shared his improvements with anyone else, we’ll have a very big advantage that might make a difference when we’re up against it. Something we learn this year could very probably save our lives.”

“Well,” Ron said, his tone conveying to Harry the abashed look that must be spreading across his face, “that’s not the only reason I want to learn how to brew those special potions.”

“Oh?” Hermione said. “Why, then?”

“I – ” Ron said haltingly, as if wishing he hadn’t begun, but knowing it was too late to turn back. “I want to join the Slug Club.”

“Oh,” Hermione said quietly.

“Yeah,” Ron said with a bit more confidence now. “I told Harry there’ll be loads of important people at those parties Slughorn’s always having. I want to become part of that crowd. I think it’ll help me, you know, after we get back and start living normally again.”

“You may be right,” Hermione said. “It’s certainly worth a go, at any rate.”

“Yeah,” Ron said again. “But I was wondering if you’d – well, if you’d – ”

“Help you?” Hermione said brightly. “Of course I will! Did you think you even had to ask?”

“Thanks,” Ron said. “But that wasn’t what I mean, exactly.”

“Oh?” Hermione said.

“See,” Ron said stumblingly, “I won’t know anyone there – I mean, I wasn’t invited last year, like you and Harry were. So I was wondering if you’d, um...if you’d come to the parties with me, so I’d at least have someone there I could, you know, relax around. I know you’ll be invited – you’re bound to be brilliant in Potions again, so how could Slughorn not invite you? Only I thought, what with your work schedule being so massive, you might not want to come like you did last year. Not that you’d have to come all year, mind. I just thought, you know, until I get to know everyone...”

A short silence followed, and Harry found that he was holding his breath as he awaited Hermione’s answer.

“Of course,” she said in an understanding voice. “I’ll be happy to go with you to Professor Slughorn’s parties.”

“Thanks, Hermione,” Ron said, sounding nearly as relieved as Harry had when he’d been cleared of improper use of magic charges at the Ministry two years ago.

Knowing he had heard far more than he should have done, Harry made a desperate lunge for the stairway. But in his haste, he moved his back foot a moment before his front foot had left the floor. His left toe hooked onto his right heel, and the rubber soles of his trainers locked as if fused by a Sticking Charm. With an inarticulate cry, he pitched straight through the doorway and landed on his face in the middle of Ginny’s room. Jerking his head up, he saw Ron and Hermione looking at him in surprise. They were wrapped in a hug, no doubt initiated by Ron in gratitude for Hermione’s promise. The scene held for a moment, then Ron and Hermione jerked apart.

“Harry!” Ron said, speaking a moment before Hermione. He fumbled for words for an instant, then, seeing the broom lying at Harry’s side (it had slipped from Harry’s grasp when he fell), he said, “So, Ginny found you, then? You, um, ready to have a practice?”

Scrambling upright, Harry snatched up his broom and said, “Yeah, Ginny told me. You ready, then?”

“Yeah,” Ron said. Harry saw that Ron’s broom was standing in the corner. Ron snatched it up and rushed through the door, not looking back. Harry looked at Hermione for a moment, his expression blank.

“I, um, just agreed to help Ron with his potions this year,” Hermione said. “As you could see, he was ever so grateful.”

“Right,” Harry said. “Well, I’d best be off before Ron and Ginny leave me behind. I’ll, uh, see you later.”

“Have a good practice,” Hermione smiled.

Harry answered with a smile and a nod, and he was off down the stairs. He burst into the kitchen just in time to see Ginny rinsing out her dishes in the sink, per her mother’s instructions.

“Ready, Harry?” she called over her shoulder.

“Right,” Harry said. “Got your broom?”

“It’s in the shed,” Ginny said as she set the clean dishes on the counter to dry, not bothering to towel them off. “Let’s go.”

Ron was already outside, opening the door to the broom shed with his wand. Harry swallowed his brief twinge of envy and smiled.

“I want you to put me through the paces, Harry,” Ron said, handing Ginny her broom. “I want to be the best Keeper at Hogwarts this year.”

Harry refrained from mentioning that, as all four Houses would be rebuilding from the ground up this year, Ron was bound to be the best Keeper if only by default. Instead, he said, “You will be. We’re going to train like we’ve never trained before, Captain.”

Ron’s chest swelled at this address, pridefully acknowledging the title he had sought for so long. Ginny grinned at Harry as Ron led them over the back hedge and up the hill to the paddock.

“What are we using for a Quaffle?” Ginny asked as they broke through the trees and entered the enclosed space that was their makeshift pitch.

In answer, Ron walked over to a shapeless lump lying at the edge of the trees, bending to pick it up.

“What is that?” Ginny said with a chuckle.

“My book bag,” Ron said with mild indignation. “I stuffed it with leaves and sealed the flap with a Sticking Charm. It was Luna’s idea, actually. If we can’t have a real Quaffle, this’ll do in a pinch.”

Ginny shrugged and swung her leg over her broom. “Chuck it here, then,” she said. “Let’s see how it feels.” Ron pitched her the bag, which she caught easily. She hefted it, slapped it a few times to test its solidity, and finally nodded. “Not bad.”

Without a word of warning, Ginny whirled and heaved the makeshift Quaffle at Harry. Though surprised, Harry caught it as easily as Ginny had. She grinned.

“Haven’t let your reflexes waste away over the holiday, I see,” she said approvingly. “Let’s see if your throwing arm’s as good.”

Harry’s throw was high, but Ginny slammed her knees together around her broom handle and kicked off in the wink of an eye. She caught the bag one-handed, and Ron’s face broke into a grin.

“Nice catch!” he said. “You haven’t lost your reflexes, either. I think we’re going to have a smashing season this year.”

“Only if we can find four more players as good as we are,” Ginny said immodestly.

Ron’s smile flickered for only a moment. “We will,” he said confidently. “At least, we’ll put together a better team than the other Houses. That’s all we really need, innit?”

“Can you show me some of those unusual moves Luna used when you and she practiced?” Ginny asked. There was no taunt in her voice when she named Luna, nor merest glint in her eyes. Ginny’s competitive spirit was roused, and she intended to use every advantage to win the Quidditch Cup this year. It was as much for Ron as for herself that she wanted to win, though she would never admit this to her brother. Harry was not fooled, however.

Ron demonstrated some of the moves Luna had used that had most impressed him, and Ginny watched closely, asking him to repeat them several times until she had a blueprint of them in her mind. When she was satisfied, she took the “Quaffle” from Ron and soared as high into the air as the surrounding trees would allow. Harry and Ron joined her a moment later.

“What are we using for a goal?” Ginny asked.

“Oh, right,” Ron said. “Hang on.”

Ron drew his wand and used it to describe three large circles in the air, each at a different height. Harry wasn’t aware that Ron knew that spell, the same one Hermione had used in their own practice session (one having nothing to do with Quidditch) two nights ago. The lines he drew remained in the air like streaks of silver, easily seen against the dark green of the trees. Even Ginny was impressed.

For the next twenty minutes, Harry and Ginny took turns throwing the “Quaffle” at the three rings. Ron darted back and forth, blocking every shot.

“You realize,” Ginny said, her Weasley pride wounded at her repeated misses, “that we can’t throw this thing as hard as we would a real Quaffle. It’s too light, and it wobbles in flight. It’s about as aerodynamic as...”

“As a bag of leaves?” Harry offered, his eyebrows rising. Ginny laughed, Ron joining her a moment later.

“Seriously, Ron,” Ginny said, “if you’re going to be the Keeper you were last year, we need to find a way to test your flying better.”

“What do you have in mind?” Ron asked with equal seriousness. Sibling rivalry was being submerged by their mutual desire to do their best for the team this year.

Tapping her chin, Ginny said, “Could you maybe Transfigure your bag into something, I dunno, less soft? And the leaves, too, while you’re at it.”

“I never thought of that,” Ron confessed.

Harry saw the indecision in Ron’s eyes. He knew that Ron hadn’t mastered the finer aspects of Transfiguration as he, Harry, had. That deficiency was reflected in their O.W.L. marks. Harry had got an Exceeds Expectations, while Ron managed only an Acceptable. Wanting to spare Ron another assault from his sister’s sharp tongue, Harry thought quickly.

“We may be overthinking this,” he said, commanding the attention of both Ron and Ginny. “Hang on a minute.”

Harry pointed his Firebolt and the ground and swooped low. He made a couple of passes before leaning down and catching up something with his hand. At that distance, neither Ron nor Ginny could see what he’d grabbed. It was so small that it was completely engulfed in his hand. Harry zoomed back up to his starting point and opened his hand. Ron, who was closer to Harry than Ginny was, leaned forward to see what was in Harry's hand.

“A nut?” he said. Harry nodded resolutely.

“It’s solid and aerodynamic,” Harry said, “and it’s thin-shelled, so it’s not too heavy.”

“It’s also closer in size to a Snitch than a Quaffle,” Ron pointed out.

“It is now,” Harry agreed cheerfully. “But little things can grow into big things, can’t they?”

Ron’s face lit up at once. Harry nodded inwardly, remembering one of the courses in which Ron had earned an E on his O.W.L.’s. “Of course! An Engorgement Charm! Brilliant, Harry!”

Ron instructed Harry to hold his open palm out in front of him. He drew his wand, pointed it at the nut, and said, “Engorgio!” Ron held his wand in place as the nut began to swell in size. When he jerked his wand away, the nut, which Harry was now holding in both hands, was roughly the size of a Quaffle.

“Not bad, if I do say so myself,” Ron preened as he put his wand away.

Ginny took the enlarged nut from Harry. She tested its weight, tossed it up and caught it. She tucked it under her arm and raced around the paddock once, returning to her starting point with a satisfied look on her face.

“Let’s test it out,” she said.

They practiced for another ten minutes. Ron blocked every shot Harry took, but Ginny scored three times. Harry wasn’t sure, but he thought Ginny must be using some of the moves Ron had shown them, the ones devised by Luna. If Ginny could teach those maneuvers to the new Chasers and get them to work as a team, her brother might well have the championship he wanted so badly.

“Good flying, Ginny,” Ron said, taking his turn now at swallowing his wounded pride at having been scored on.

“You did good, too,” Ginny returned, salving her brother’s punctured ego. “Remember, if you didn’t need improvement, you wouldn’t be here. None of us would. We have to work out what we’re doing wrong and learn not to do it when it really counts.”

Harry thought Ginny sounded more like a captain of Quidditch than Ron had done. If she returned for her seventh year, he was certain she would be named to replace Ron as captain of the Gryffindor team. She might have had the job now if not for Ron. If he, Ron and Hermione had gone off according to his original plan, Ginny would almost certainly have been named Quidditch captain this year. Harry hated himself for thinking it, but between the two of them, Ginny was probably better qualified than Ron in every respect, including leadership. He put that thought aside, wishing it hadn’t occurred to him, and stepped in to help take some of the sting from Ron’s displeased expression.

“You have to expect a few goals now and then,” he reminded Ron. “Have you ever seen a match end with a nil score on either side?”

“I nearly happened at the Quidditch World cup two tears ago,” Ron said.

“And how many students at Hogwarts are good enough to play for the Irish National Team?” Harry challenged.

“Bet you could,” Ron returned half-jokingly.

“Not the way I’ve been flying lately,” Harry said. “I’ve hardly been on a broom for a month. The Ministry frowns on wizards flying broomsticks around Muggle neighborhoods. We’re neither of us at the top of our form. As Ginny said, that’s what this practice is all about.”

“I just realized,” Ginny said now, “Ron and I have had a good workout, but Harry hasn’t done anything.”

“What do you mean?” Ron said. “He’s been flying beside you all this time, hasn’t he? He’s taken just as many shots on goal as you have.”

“But Harry isn’t a Chaser,” Ginny said in a weary voice that reminded him of Hermione. “He’s a Seeker. His job is to catch the Snitch, not score goals. Good job that, too,” she smiled at Harry, “because if the last few minutes are any measure, you’d never make the team as a Chaser.”

Harry pantomimed indignation, but he didn’t doubt that Ginny was only too right. By all accounts, his father had been a cracking good Chaser – though, judging from all the time he spent playing with the Golden Snitch between classes, he must have longed to be a Seeker, which position accorded the most glory (and, correspondingly, made a bigger impression on the girls – though not, he suspected, on his mother, which may have helped explain his fancy for her). Like his father, Harry’s skill at one position was not duplicated in another. Ginny was a rare exception, a first-rate Chaser who also made a passable Seeker. More than passable, as she’d won as many games as Harry had over the last two years, what with Harry’s seemingly endless detentions during that time, first from Dolores Umbridge, then from Snape.

“There’s still plenty of daylight left,” Ginny observed. “Let’s get Harry some practice before we go in.”

“What are we going to use for a Snitch?” Ron asked. “Another nut?”

Harry had nothing better to suggest. It would be the right size, but it would hardly be a proper practice if the best they could manage was for Ron and Ginny to throw it across the paddock for Harry to chase after. A real Snitch would try to evade capture, requiring Harry to think and act with lightning speed.

Harry pointed his broom downward, prepared to dive in search of another nut to substitute as a Snitch (Ron wanted to keep the enlarged one for future practices). It was then that he saw that the paddock was no longer empty. At first he thought Luna had turned up, as Ginny (and perhaps Ron) had hoped. But Luna was recognizable even at a distance by her long, dirty-blond hair. The figure below did not resemble Luna in any way. But that was not to say she was not easily recognizable to Harry, nor to Ron and Ginny. Harry zoomed down and landed smoothly at the new arrival’s feet.

“Having a good practice?” Hermione asked brightly.

“Ron and Ginny are,” Harry said, nodding as the pair alighted next to Harry. “I’ve got a bit of a problem, though.”

“What’s that?” Hermione inquired.

“It’s easy to make do with an improvised Quaffle,” Harry said. “But there’s no substitute for a proper Snitch.”

“You’re right,” Hermione agreed. “There isn’t. And – ” Hermione reached into her pocket, and when her hand emerged, it was closed into a fist around something Harry could not identify through her fingers. Smiling, Hermione said, “That’s why I brought one with me.”

“Are you joking?” Harry said, his eyes widening as they focused more intently on Hermione’s hand. “No, that’s never!”

Smiling brightly, Hermione opened her hand. A tiny winged ball was revealed, glimmering in the bright sunlight with a rich golden sheen. It quivered on Hermione’s palm, and she closed her fingers around it just as the wings were beginning to thrum with life.

“Where did you get it?” Harry asked. Two shadows had appeared on either side as Ron and Ginny stepped up, their interest nearly as keen as Harry’s.

“Well,” Hermione said slowly, enjoying the excitement she was creating, “it was the day after the championship match. You and Ron went up to your dorm after lunch to polish your brooms before packing them away, and I went for a walk on the grounds. I had a lot to think about then, as I’m sure you remember.” Harry nodded. “So, as I was getting in sight of the pitch, I spotted Madam Hooch levitating a dustbin out of the Quidditch lockers. I don’t know why, but I went over and asked her what she was doing. She said she was binning some items that were due to be replaced. I looked inside, and I saw that one of them was a Golden Snitch with a damaged wing. It was so bad off that it couldn’t even fly out of the bin to escape.”

Harry almost thought to hear a trace of sadness in this comment. It was as if Hermione’s innate compassion for all creatures (with the possible exception of Blast-Ended Skrewts) included even inanimate objects that resembled living things.

“Madam Hooch said it would never fly properly again,” Hermione said, “and since there was no fixing it, she was going to replace it. She said the school equipment has to be turned over from time to time. They were due for some new brooms – used ones, actually, but newer than the lot they were replacing – and she was going to add a new Snitch to the list. They usually buy old brooms that have been traded in at Quality Quidditch Supplies for new ones, but the Snitch has to be new or the matches would be compromised. Well, I asked her if I could have the Snitch, seeing as she was binning it anyway, and she said I could. I was going to save it for your birthday, but when you gave me that book, saying it was an early birthday present, it seemed only right that I do the same.”

“Will it fly?” Harry asked. “Only you said Madam Hooch was binning it because it was damaged.”

“I don’t expect it will fly as well as a new Snitch,” Hermione admitted. “But I’ve fixed the wing so it’s about 90% of what it should be. That should do to be getting on with, don’t you think?”

Even as Hermione spoke these words, her hand began to vibrate. The Snitch was trying to escape. She laughed, tightening her grip just enough to keep the Snitch from bursting free, but not enough to crush the wing she had labored so hard to heal.

“But how did you fix it?” Harry asked.

“Well,” Hermione said, “I thought that since a Snitch resembles a bird, maybe there was something Hagrid could do to help. He was caring for animals long before he became Care of Magical Creatures teacher. Even if he isn’t allowed to do magic, strictly speaking, I knew he must have a book that tells how to heal animals. I remembered when Hedwig turned up with an injured wing, and Professor Grubbly-Plank healed her, so I thought if I could find the spell she used, it might work on a different kind of wing. I didn’t know if I could bring it off, but there was nothing to lose, and I looked at it as an exercise in healing.”

She paused as the Snitch in her closed hand vibrated harder, trying to break free of her gentle grip.

“I think the patient is doing nicely,” she chuckled.

“This is brilliant, Hermione,” Harry said, excitement dancing in his eyes.

“It took me a bit of time to get it so it would fly again,” Hermione said. “I was going to give it to you at King’s Cross so you could have it over the holiday and think about the upcoming season. Then, when the school was attacked...” She hesitated, resuming in a quiet voice, “When I thought we were going off at once to find the Horcruxes, I decided I’d hang onto it and make it a birthday present. I thought it might be a nice souvenir to take along, to remind you of happier times.

“Then,” she said more brightly, “when you owled me and said you were returning to Hogwarts, we didn’t know then if there’d be Quidditch this year, so I thought I’d make it a present anyway. Even if there were no official games, you could use it on the pitch in mock contests to keep your spirits up. But now, after everything that’s happened,” and her voice softened even as her eyes grew less so, “it seems that it’s become more than just the plaything it was. It’s become a symbol of hope.” Her eyes falling onto her humming fist, she said, “I took something that was broken and made it better. Maybe that’s a sign that we can all of us go off when our time comes around and make things better for everyone.”

A silence fell over the foursome. It was broken unexpectedly by the sound of gentle laughter from Hermione.

“What’s so funny?” Harry asked, finding Hermione’s humor infectious.

“I was just picturing you this year at Hogwarts,” Hermione said, “playing with this the way your dad used to do, you know, turning it loose and catching it at the last second to impress all the girls.”

“And you want me to impress the girls at Hogwarts this year the way my dad did?” Harry teased. Ron and Ginny laughed.

“When we decided to ask Professor McGonagall to carry on with Quidditch this year,” Hermione said, “I gave it some thought, and I decided that the sooner we put it to use, the better. You can use it to get in form for the season, and we can all use it as a symbol, reminding us that, no matter how bad things look, there’s always hope that we can make them better. You keen to have a go, then?”

Harry couldn’t wait to turn both of Hermione’s wishes into reality. But for the present, there was very little he could do to bring the latter to fruition. The first, however, was another matter entirely. But just as he was reaching out to take the Snitch from Hermione, Ron stopped him with a question he hadn’t considered.

“Once we turn it loose,” he asked, “how do we stop it from just flying away and never coming back?” As if to underscore this concern, the hidden Snitch thrummed even louder, trying to break free of Hermione’s hand. “It looks like it can’t wait to take off, and even if it isn’t in top form, there are still too many places it can hide around here. It’s not like we can just throw a Containment Spell around the paddock, like the pitch at Hogwarts. And can you imagine if the Muggles in the village see it flying about? We’ll have more Ministry owls swooping down on us that we can count between now and September first.”

Harry silently damned Ron for thinking so rationally. By contrast, Hermione seemed genuinely impressed at Ron’s reasoning.

“I’ve thought of that,” she said. “As Ron said, we can’t enchant the paddock to keep the Snitch from flying away. But just as we did for the wedding, there’s another spell we can use that easy to cast, and it should do until we get back to school. Since I only just decided to bring it out, I haven’t done the spell yet, so...”

Hermione drew her wand and motioned for Harry to step closer.

“The moment I open my hand,” she instructed, “be ready to catch the Snitch.” Harry nodded, his muscles tensing with anticipation. “On three,” Hermione said. “One, two – ”

On “three,” Hermione opened her hand. The Snitch’s wings buzzed, but the moment it leapt into the air, Harry caught it as easily as he had seen his father do in Snape’s memory he’d visited in Dumbledore’s Pensieve. It struggled to escape, and Harry tightened his hand a bit more, careful, as Hermione had been, not to damage its newly-healed wing.

“Hold your hand out,” Hermione said. Harry complied, and Hermione touched his hand with the tip of her wand. A golden glow enveloped his fist, fading quickly until it was gone.

“There,” Hermione said, pocketing her wand with a pleased smile. “You can let it go now, Harry.”

Looking doubtful, Harry opened his hand. The Snitch burst straight up, its wings a golden blur, and zoomed away. Ron groaned. Harry echoed his sentiment as he watched the Snitch grow smaller and smaller in the distance. But his almost-groan turned into a gasp of surprise when he saw that the tiny golden pinpoint had stopped receding. It was darting around and around high overhead, but it was not flying away. It almost looked as if it was tethered to an invisible string. Harry looked at Hermione, and her face was glowing brighter than the sun.

“What did you do?” Harry asked.

“I bonded the Snitch to your bio-signature,” Hermione said. “No matter how hard it tries, it can’t fly more than a hundred yards away from you in any direction.”

“I’d love to use that spell when it counts,” Ginny said admiringly. “Gryffindor would never lose a match.”

“That’s exactly why this spell is outlawed in any form of competition,” Hermione said. “But since this Snitch won’t be used in a real match,” and she narrowed her eyes meaningfully at Ginny, whose calculating expression might have been stolen directly from Fred or George, “there’s nothing to stop us from making use of it for our own purposes.”

“You sure we can’t smuggle it in somehow and substitute it for the new Snitch Madam Hooch is bringing in?” Ginny grinned playfully.

“It won’t be quite the same as game conditions,” Ron observed. “I mean, a Snitch isn’t supposed to just hang about, waiting to be caught, is it?”

“Oh, it won’t hang about,” Hermione said with assurance. "It can't actually escape, but it’ll still do everything it can to avoid being caught. That’s what it was created to do, and my spell hasn’t dampened the original enchantment.”

Without warning, Harry kicked off from the ground in a blur of speed. Squinting upward, Hermione, Ron and Ginny saw the tiny speck that was the Snitch dart away. Harry raced after it. The air swooshed as Harry pushed his Firebolt to greater speed. It was over in a minute. Harry spiraled down, his hand held up to show that the Snitch was his prisoner.

“Good show, Harry,” Ginny said.

“Yeah,” Harry said, his smile not as bright as it might have been. “But it was still too easy. I mean, the paddock isn’t as big as the stadium at school, so the Snitch couldn’t build up as much speed as it would need to stay ahead of me.”

“We need something to even the odds a bit,” Hermione said thoughtfully. “And I know just the thing. Harry, when you go after the Snitch in a match, the other Seeker is trying to catch it also, right? And from what I’ve seen, it’s virtually no holds barred. Apart from grabbing your broom tail, the way Malfoy did that time, another Seeker can vie for the Snitch any way he can. So what we need is for you to compete for the Snitch with someone else.”

“Smashing!” Ginny said. “It’ll be me against Harry, and may the best Seeker win!”

“And what do I do while all this is going on?” Ron asked. Already the magic rings he’d conjured were fading, in that way matching his own diminishing enthusiasm. “Do I referee?” It was a reasonable presumption, if less than appealing.

“You can do that, too,” Hermione said, her eyes twinkling. “But I have another, more important role in mind for you. You’re going to be – a Bludger!”

“I’m going to be a what?” Ron said, thinking he must have misheard.

“A Seeker has to do more than compete against the other Seeker,” Hermione said. “He also has to keep an eye out for Bludgers that want to knock him off his broom. I don’t want you to really knock Harry off his broom,” she said quickly. “Just dart across his path, swoop past his head to distract him, that sort of thing. Do what a real Bludger would do, only without breaking Harry’s arm the way Dobby’s Bludger did. The harder it is for Harry to focus, the harder he’ll have to work to overcome these obstacles to achieve his goal.”

Harry’s eyes were now glowing like Hermione’s. He opened his hand, and the Snitch darted away. It flew to the very edge of the trees, then stopped as its magical “tether” reached its limit. Frustrated by Hermione’s spell, it began to dart around at treetop height, flying about at random, but never managing to achieve a greater distance from Harry than the restriction imposed upon it would allow.

“If I’m going to be a Bludger,” Ron said, “I might as well be a proper one.” Turning to Hermione, he reflected, “Too bad we don’t have another broom. You could referee. You don’t have to fly well to do that. Pity Mum traded in my old Shooting Star when she bought me this broom. It would have been perfect. Even at top speed, the bleedin’ thing seemed to be standing still.”

Harry saw a momentary flash of horror pass over Hermione’s eyes like a cloud shadow at Ron’s suggestion.

“No,” she said in a controlled voice. “That’s fine. I'll – just watch from here.”

Shrugging, Ron turned to Harry and said, "Ready, mate?"

“Ginny,” Harry said, his old captain’s instincts asserting themselves without a thought, “you fly to the other end of the paddock. I’ll stay on this end. Ron, you hover in the center where we can both see you. When you give the signal, Ginny and I’ll go after the Snitch.”

“Right,” Ron said, too caught up to in the situation to question Harry’s instructions, which he might have interpreted as a usurpation of his own leadership.

“You’d better fly your best, Harry,” Ginny said, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. “I hate to lose.”

“So do I,” Harry said, his own eyes hardening over his smile.

Ginny took off, dwindling in the distance until she was no more than a dark speck against the green canopy. Harry sped off in the other direction. Ron grinned at Hermione, then shot straight up to hover in the center of the paddock. He raised his arm and looked at Harry and Ginny in turn. Each nodded in recognition of Ron's impending signal. Ron brought his arm down, and Harry and Ginny were off like rockets. They came at the Snitch from opposite directions, but the tiny winged ball was not to be caught so easily. Harry had read in Quidditch Through the Ages (a present from Hermione) that a Snitch possessed a memory of sorts to enable it to remember how a Seeker attacked and counter it more effectively when it was threatened again in a similar manner. This was a short-term memory, ensuring that each new match began with an unadulterated Snitch. But in this brief encounter, it easily remembered how Harry had trapped it the first time, and it was not to be caught in the same manner again.

Ginny’s added pursuit contributed a new element to the chase, prompting the Snitch to react more swiftly than it had done before. It eluded Harry twice, though the second time his aim was spoilt by Ron, who swept across his line of vision in a blue of red hair and indigo robes for a fraction of a second, which brief interval was all the Snitch needed to speed away. Ginny nearly caught it that time, but she inadvertently used the same move Harry had employed earlier – a standard move all Seekers learnt early on – and the Snitch changed direction so quickly that its pursuer nearly ploughed into the ground in an unplanned Wronski Feint. When the Snitch darted away from Ginny, however, Harry, who had found his quarry again by its golden sheen against the dark boughs, dived like a bullet and ensnared it with a bark of triumph. He swooped low to show Hermione, who clapped her hands as Ginny swept in, her long hair trailing behind her like the tail of a comet. She was not smiling.

“I’d have had you a couple of times if it weren’t for this ancient broom,” she pouted. “Charlie bought it used, and it hasn’t improved with age. How am I supposed to give Harry a proper challenge if I can’t at least come close to matching him in the air?”

“That’s a good point,” Hermione said. “Ron!” she called out as Ron drifted slowly down to join Harry and Ginny.

“What?” Ron said as he eased down another few feet so that Hermione would not have to shout up at him.

“Switch brooms with Ginny,” Hermione instructed.

“Switch brooms?” Ron said. “What for?”

“Ginny’s right when she says she needs a better broom to give Harry a real test. Your broom is much better than hers.”

“A Cleansweep 11 isn’t in the same class with a Firebolt,” Ron argued, drawing on the only excuse he could think of to avoid the inevitable.

“It’s still a first-class broom,” Hermione countered, puncturing his argument as easily as he expected. “And it’s actually newer than Harry’s broom, isn’t it? Go on, Ron. You can play Bludger just as well on Ginny’s broom. I’m no expert, but I’ve seen enough games that I know a Bludger can’t turn as fast as a broom. All you need is straight-on speed, and Ginny’s broom can manage that.”

With an inarticulate grunt, Ron acknowledged defeat and landed to swap brooms with Ginny. She mounted her brother’s Cleansweep gleefully, caressing its sleek handle, which Ron had polished only that morning.

“This is fantastic,” she said. “Thanks, Ron. I promise, I won’t damage it. I flew Harry’s broom at school, and it’s still in one piece, isn’t it?” Ron nodded as he reluctantly mounted Ginny’s broom.

“Ready for another go?” Harry said eagerly. Ginny smiled broadly. Ron grunted again and soared back up to his neutral position while Harry and Ginny separated again.

This time, when Ron signaled for the mock combat to begin, both Harry and Ginny leapt forward like arrows from twin archers’ bows. It was a real contest now, with both Seekers playing for keeps. Ginny made good use of Ron’s broom, catching Harry off his guard twice. Harry caught the Snitch after a furious battle, dodging Ron at the last second and grabbing the Snitch when it was inches from Ginny’s outstretched fingers. He laughed, and Ginny’s face hardened. When the contest began again, Harry was a bit full of himself over his recent victory. He paid for his overconfidence when Ginny made a mad dash, and he spun around in a flash and sped past her. But the extra speed of his Firebolt proved a mixed blessing. Ginny had seen the Snitch, but she had flown in the opposite direction. She turned with lightning speed a moment after Harry shot past her. Realizing at once that he had been duped, Harry looped and rolled, coming level and speeding toward the tiny flash of gold he had now spotted. But Ginny had seen it first, and she snatched it from the air almost under Harry’s nose.

“Good one, Ginny!” Ron called out, feeling that he had earned a part in his sister’s victory in that she had used his broom to outfly Harry so spectacularly.

“I told you!” Hermione called up, waving her arm excitedly. “It’s down to the flyer as much as the broom!”

Harry was a good sport, congratulating Ginny with an accompanying thumbs-up.

“The day isn’t over,” he reminded her as she released the Snitch and sped back to her starting position, looking back over her shoulder with a saucy smile.

Ginny’s first triumph of the day proved to be her last. Now that Harry was taking Ginny seriously as an opponent, he gave no quarter. He played fair, as did she. But, relying on his greater experience and his superior broom (and giving no small credit to his natural talent, which he unabashedly rated higher than Ginny’s), Harry caught the Snitch the next five times. To her credit, Ginny did not give up. If anything, she increased her efforts with each new match. In spite of this, Harry’s victories became more spectacular with each catch. The harder Ginny flew, the more splendidly Harry rose to the challenge. The fifth and last time, he deftly avoided a diving Ron (who came to his sister’s aid time and again in true brotherly fashion), looped Ginny twice as if she were hovering motionless in mid-air, and allowed the Snitch to come to within an inch of her outstretched hand before exploding forward and plucking it from the air as easily as picking an apple from a low-hanging branch. Ginny squealed in frustration as Harry looped her again, holding out his fist to show the fluttering wings just under his closed fingers.

“Bravo!” Hermione cried at the top of her voice. “Brilliant!”

Wearing a Cheshire-cat grin, Harry swooped down and landed easily on the grass in the center of the paddock. Hermione ran toward him, her bushy hair flying in the wind. Harry opened his hand casually, allowing the Snitch to dart up and away. He opened his arms, and Hermione crashed into him, laughing. His ego feeling as if he must be channeling his father, Harry caught up Hermione and crushed her lips with his. Hermione responded with equal ferocity, growling deep in her throat like a she-tiger. They kissed with a passion that startled both of them, but not as much as it stunned Ron and Ginny. The two Weasley siblings landed, staring almost in shock as Harry and Hermione showed no signs of coming up for air.

When they parted at last, Harry grinned at the blush of passion coloring Hermione’s cheeks. She seemed less bold as her heart rate slowed and she realized that she had an audience. She pointedly avoided looking at Ron and Ginny, and Harry laughed gently.

“It’s not as if we’ve never been in this spot before, you know,” he said quietly. Hermione’s cheeks went, if possible, an even deeper pink. But she could not deny the truth of Harry’s assertion. She could remember every moment of the scene to which Harry was alluding. She did not doubt that Ron and Ginny remembered as well. But none recalled that moment as keenly as Harry, whose thoughts tumbled backward to a place not so far removed in either time or distance, yet for all that seeming as if it were a million miles and an equal number of years from the here and now.

Harry hurried away from Snape’s dungeon, his detention finished for the day. But the harm had been done. The Quidditch match would surely be over by now. Had Gryffindor won or lost? He hoped for the former, but he fully expected the latter. Without Harry playing Seeker, would the team have been good enough to triumph over Ravenclaw?

He hesitated outside the crowded Great Hall, then ran up the marble staircase; whether Gryffindor had won or lost, the team usually celebrated or commiserated in their own common room.

“Quid agis?” he said tentatively to the Fat Lady, wondering what he would find inside.

Her expression was unreadable as she replied, “You’ll see.”

And she swung forward.

A roar of celebration erupted from the hole behind her. Harry gaped as people began to scream at the sight of him; several hands pulled him into the room.

“We won!” yelled Ron, bounding into sight and brandishing the silver Cup at Harry. “We won! Four hundred and fifty to a hundred and forty! We won!”

Excitement such as he had never known surged through Harry. The celebratory atmosphere was seeping into and through his brain, spurring him to join in the mayhem swirling around him like a floodtide. Though he had never drunk firewhiskey, he was certain it could not impart a greater intoxication than he was feeling at this moment. He felt an uncontrollable compulsion to do something wild and spontaneous, and damn the consequences!

Harry looked around; there was Ginny running toward him; she had a hard, blazing look on her face. But Ginny was not the only person moving toward Harry. Turning about so quickly that Ginny’s open arms closed on empty air, Harry saw Hermione moving toward him and bolted forward. Her face was glowing with the reflected triumph of Gryffindor’s victory, her dark eyes dancing. Harry had never seen her look so beautiful. And without thinking, without planning it, without worrying about the fact that fifty people were watching, Harry threw his arms around Hermione and kissed her.

For a moment, Hermione froze in Harry’s embrace. Then her lips melted into his, returning his kiss with a warmth that surged through Harry like an electric charge.

After several long moments – or it might have been half an hour – or possibly several sunlit days – they broke apart. The room had gone very quiet. Harry and Hermione stared into each other’s eyes, each of them asking the same silent question: What just happened?

“I’ve been wanting to do that properly for ages,” Harry said, and though he spoke in a whisper, there was little chance that his words had not been heard by everyone in the room, so complete was the overpowering silence.

“So have I,” Hermione returned, her words barely audible, though her face was only inches from Harry’s.

They came together again, slowly and more deliberately. The moment their lips met, several wolf-whistles pierced the stillness, accompanied by an outbreak of nervous giggling. The kiss held until neither had breath in their lungs to carry on another second. They parted reluctantly, and for the first time they remembered that they were not alone. Harry saw Romilda Vane looking as if she might throw something. But her expression was benign next to Ginny’s. Hermione was transfixed for a moment by Ginny’s accusatory stare. Harry turned Hermione around to walk the both of them to a spot less centered, and they both saw Ron, still holding the Cup and wearing an expression appropriate to having been clubbed over the head. For a fraction of a second, three pairs of eyes locked, green, blue and brown. Then Ron sighed, a sound as of his soul deflating from deep inside. He gave his head a tiny jerk, as if to say, Well, if you must. Harry and Hermione sighed as well, their smiles returning hesitantly.

Taking Hermione aside, Harry said in a hushed voice, “I don’t want to spoil the party, but we need to talk. About a lot of things.”

“Yes,” Hermione replied. “We do.”

“How about tomorrow, after breakfast,” Harry said.

“We’ll have a walk,” Hermione suggested. “Out past Hagrid’s, where no one will hear us.”

Harry nodded, and together they rejoined the celebration, catching up two brimming goblets to toast Gryffindor’s championship. Their eyes met as they drank, a silent communication that they were toasting more than a Quidditch victory. They had just walked through a door, leaving an old, comfortable room to enter a strange land where everything was new and a bit frightening. But there was no turning back. That door had closed behind them forever, and no Alohomora spell, nor all the magic in the world, could reopen it. The only way now was forward, and they knew that they would make that journey – one lasting, perhaps, the rest of their lives – together.

“Hey, you lot!” Ron called out with a throaty laugh. “This is a public place, you know. Keep that behind closed doors, eh?”

Harry and Hermione separated and turned to face Ron and Ginny.

“Sorry,” Harry said, not sounding sorry at all. “Couldn’t help myself.”

“Are we going to carry on?” Ron asked. “With Quidditch, I mean,” he clarified when Harry and Hermione exchanged an amused look, their chests rippling with silent laughter.

“Let’s go in,” Harry said. “I’m feeling a bit peckish after all that flying and...everything. We can get in some more practice tomorrow.”

“If the wedding plans don’t get in the way,” Ron reminded him. “Beyond that, I reckon we’ll have to wait until Friday, won’t we? I don’t expect you’ll have much time on Thursday, what with this and that.”

“No,” Harry agreed, a cocked eyebrow serving in place of a smile. “Thursday’s booked solid.”

“Let’s go, then,” Ron said, exchanging brooms with Ginny and shouldering his Cleansweep. “Come to that, I could use a bit of a nosh myself.”

“Is there ever a time when you’re not hungry?” Harry laughed.

Ron paused for a moment before replying, “I’ll get back you on that.”

Hermione retrieved the Snitch with a Summoning Charm. She produced a small box from her pocket, explaining to Harry that it had once held a set of earrings that Parvati had binned. Hermione saved the box, which, when sealed with a Locking Spell, did nicely to keep the Snitch. There was insufficient space inside for the tiny sphere to beat its wings, and once it was inside, its rebellious vibrations quickly ceased. Harry pocketed the box, thanking Hermione again for his early present.

The foursome walked back to the Burrow, Ginny lagging behind, an unreadable expression on her face.

Time is running out. I need to get Chapter 10 up no later than Friday. Wish me luck.

The deadline is closing in. Where’s a Time-Turner when you really need one? I apologize if this chapter (and the one that follows) isn’t quite up to scratch. I’m sure I could make them better, but I trust that the essence will come through all the same. Herein Hermione will begin her quest for the truth, and we all know Hermione always does what she sets out to do. Well, except when she botched things at the end of HBP. But that itself is one of the clues that will lead Hermione to the truth. That’s the signpost up ahead. You are about to enter...The Flashback Zone.

Harry awoke early on Wednesday morning with a smile on his face. His thoughts were filled with memories of yesterday’s Quidditch practice. But it was not his successful catches of the Snitch that buoyed his spirits; nor was it the Snitch itself, which was now officially the best present Hermione had ever given him, easily surpassing the Broomstick Servicing Kit he’d received for his thirteenth birthday. He would have named it his best present ever if not for Sirius’ gift of his Firebolt (even then, it was a close contest, as both had been gifts of love).

It was Hermione herself who inspired Harry’s smile. The kiss they’d shared yesterday had flung open another window to the past, a past not so far removed that its images were not as fresh as if they had happened an hour ago.

Following that first real kiss in the Gryffindor common room (the one in the deserted classroom didn’t quite count in Harry’s eyes), Harry and Hermione had done as they’d planned and taken a walk on the Hogwarts grounds, along the edge of the Forbidden Forest beyond Hagrid’s cabin. They had walked and talked for over an hour, trying to make sense of the sudden change in their lives. Or perhaps it was not so sudden as they’d thought at first. Looking back, they reflected on countless times when one of them seemed to be struggling with feelings that went beyond the friendship that had bonded them together for so long. But for one reason or another, those hidden feelings remained dormant – or at least, in Hermione’s case, simply unrevealed.

“It’s very odd,” Hermione ruminated as she and Harry walked unhurriedly along the edge of the Forbidden Forest. “There were times when I knew you were the one – the only one. And then, I don’t why – those feelings kind of got turned around.”

“Turned toward Ron,” Harry finished Hermione’s thought. She nodded, unable to speak. “There’s nothing wrong with fancying Ron,” Harry said, a concession he could grant more easily with Hermione’s palm pressed warmly against his. “He’s my best mate. If it couldn’t be me, I’d want you to be happy with Ron, I mean, if that’s what you wanted.”

“That’s just it,” Hermione said in mild exasperation. “I didn’t seem to know what I wanted from one minute to the next. I felt sometimes like my thoughts were a deck of cards, and someone was coming in and shuffling them at the oddest moments. It was very disconcerting.”

“That's not like you,” Harry said. “I’ve never known anyone who was more sure of anything she said or did than you.”

“Do you remember the day the prefect badges arrived?” Hermione asked slowly.

“How could I forget?” Harry smiled. “The look on your face when you saw me holding Ron’s badge – ”

“That’s what I’m talking about,” Hermione said. “I’d never entertained the slightest doubt that you and I would be prefects together. I’d written out my schedule in advance over the holidays, planned nearly my whole year around our shared duties. When I came down and saw you holding the badge, it was nothing more than a confirmation of what I always knew would be. When you handed the badge to Ron...”

“You looked like you’d been kicked in the stomach by a hippogriff,” Harry said.

“That’s exactly how I felt,” Hermione confessed. “I simply couldn’t comprehend it. How could I have been so wrong? How could Ron have been prefect and not you? It was a terrible blow to my pride to have missed the mark so badly.”

“But it was more than that,” Harry said. “You said you’d been looking forward to sharing prefect duties with me.”

“Yes,” Hermione said. “It would have been the chance I’d been wanting for so long to spend some time alone with you – without having to fight off Death Eaters or dementors for the privilege, I mean.”

Harry smiled, but his manner quickly became serious again.

“When I look back,” he said, “I can remember times when you seemed – well – consumed by Ron. And other times, it looked like you couldn’t bear to be in the same room with him.” Harry hesitated for a moment, then said falteringly, “Do you remember Christmas of our fifth year? When I came back to the common room just after I’d...”

“After you kissed Cho under the mistletoe,” Hermione said softly.

“When I remember that time now,” Harry went on, “I can see things that didn’t register on my mind before. I remember how chuffed Ron was to hear what I’d done. But you were just the opposite. The expression on your face, the tone of your voice – it was like the news that I’d kissed Cho was the most terrible thing you could have heard – and it was almost like you’d been expecting it to happen, but you hoped it wouldn’t – and when it did, you were – well – destroyed inside – I know I must sound like an arrogant prat for even thinking that...”

“No,” Hermione said. “Because that’s just how I felt. I’d been wanting to be the one for so long – and suddenly it was too late – someone else had been first...”

“But Ginny told Ron you’d already kissed Viktor Krum,” Harry said in mild puzzlement.

“I did,” Hermione said. “But not the way Ginny made it sound. She turned it into something it wasn’t just to get on Ron’s wick. I kissed Viktor, yes...I kissed him goodbye, the night I told him that there could never be anything between us. I told him there was room in my heart for only one.”

“Ron and I wondered what you and Krum were writing about in your letters,” Harry said. “Ron was sure there was something going on between you. I saw the look in his eyes when he said that Krum wanted to be more than a friend to you. He resented the fact that you might fancy an international Quidditch star more than someone like him. If I hadn’t been so distracted that night, I’ve have seen straightaway how much you meant to him even then. I think that had a lot to do with his reaction when he learnt I’d kissed Cho. He was dead chuffed, and you weren’t too happy about it, I remember.”

Nodding, Hermione said, “I’ve thought about that night a lot. I was absolutely furious at Ron. Do you remember what I said to him?” Harry shook his head.

“Not exactly. Like I said, I was a bit distracted. But I remember he wasn’t too pleased.”

“I shouldn’t wonder that he wasn’t,” Hermione said. “I told him that he had the emotional range of a teaspoon, and then I said he was the most insensitive wart it had ever been my misfortune to know.”

“Not exactly something you’d say to a bloke you fancy, is it?” Harry said with a small smile.

“Not likely,” Hermione agreed. “That's why I’ve never forgotten that night, even in addition to my reaction to you and Cho. Because you’re right, it’s not something I’d have said if I fancied Ron. And it’s all the more disconcerting when I compare that night to the time when we were in the D.A. meeting where you had us practicing conjuring Patronuses. You remember that, don’t you?”

“I’m not likely to forget the Inquisitorial Squad raiding the meeting,” Harry grunted. “Nor Marietta Edgecombe’s betraying us to Umbridge.”

“Nor I,” Hermione said, remembering with satisfaction the purple pustules arching across Marietta’s face, spelling out the word SNEAK. “But that’s not what I’m talking about. You remember that I was one of the few to conjure a proper Patronus?”

“What Susan Bones called a ‘corporeal Patronus,’” Harry said, his insides twingeing upon remembering that Susan’s aunt, Amelia Bones, had been murdered last year by Voldemort. “Yeah, I remember now that you really made a good show of it that time.”

“Do you remember what animal my Patronus turned up as?” Hermione asked.

Somewhat ashamed, Harry shook his head. “I was, er, busy at the time.” Busy chatting up Cho.

“It was an otter,” Hermione said. “Does that strike you as significant in any way?”

“Should it?” Harry said, feeling foolish for asking.

“I did a bit of reading up on Patronuses when I knew we’d be having a go at conjuring them,” Hermione said. “Do you know that a patronus can change from one animal to another during a wizard’s lifetime? The patronus reflects what’s inside us, and when our feelings change, our patronus changes accordingly.”

Harry remembered Remus Lupin saying the same thing. Tonks’ patronus had changed recently to that of a giant dog. Harry suspected that this was a manifestation of Tonks’ deep feelings for Sirius, enhanced by her grief over his death.

“When you conjured your patronus,” Hermione went on, “your strongest feelings were centered on your father, whom everyone says you resemble so closely. That’s why your patronus is a stag, the animal your father changed into when he assumed his Animagus form. In the same manner, my patronus reflected what was inside me.”

“An otter?” Harry said bemusedly. “But what would make you – ”

“Do you know what an otter is?” Hermione said cryptically. Not waiting for Harry to reply, she said, “Basically, it’s a weasel.”

Harry’s eyes opened wider. “So when you conjured that patronus, you were...”

“I was thinking of Ron, yes,” Hermione said.

A silence fell over them as they continued to walk. When they had gone as far as they dared from the castle, they turned around by unspoken agreement and headed back the way they had come. Treading on the same ground they had just crossed seemed to reopen the talk that had languished.

“It’s all confusing,” Harry said. “It’s almost like you were two different people. One of them fancied Ron, the other wanted to throttle him, and I never knew which one was going to turn up on a given day.”

“That’s about right,” Hermione laughed humorlessly. “And it didn’t get any better this year. It got worse, in fact.”

At Hermione’s statement, Harry felt a door open in his mind, and images from the preceding school year poured forth, each vying with the other for preeminence.

“When we had our first Potions class – before I started using Snape’s book and our year-long row started – ” Harry paused to flash a pale smile at Hermione. “I remember how Ron was trying to get your attention after Slughorn mentioned that I’d told him you were the best in our year. You acted like you didn’t even know Ron was there.”

“I remember,” Hermione said.

“Then why – ”

Harry’s words cut off abruptly, and Hermione turned to look directly at him.

“What were you going to say, Harry?”

Not wanting to answer, but unable to refuse Hermione’s earnest entreaty, Harry said, “Why did you react the way you did when you saw Ron kissing Lavender?”

Hermione’s eyes fell away from Harry’s. He knew his question must be causing Hermione pain, but he likewise knew deep in his heart that it was a question that needed asking – and more, it needed an answer.

“When I found you in that classroom,” Harry said, “it looked like your heart was breaking. How could you have felt that way if – if you – ”

“If I didn’t love Ron,” Hermione finished.

“When Ron and Lavender came in,” Harry continued, "I know you only kissed me to make Ron jealous. I knew you must have felt very deeply for him. But even so, I – ”

“What?” Hermione asked, turning back to Harry.

“When you were kissing me,” Harry said, “I knew you were only doing it to get back at Ron. But I didn’t care. It was the most fantastic thing I’d ever experienced. I never wanted it to end.”

Hermione fell silent. They were passing Hagrid’s cabin now. Soon they would be back on the main school grounds.

“What’s it all mean?” Harry said, seeming to ask the question to the universe as much as to Hermione.

“I wish I knew,” Hermione said. “I’ve been going over everything in my head, and every time I think I’m beginning to make some sense of it, the answer just slips away. It makes me feel like, well, like how you must feel in a Quidditch match, when you think you’re about to catch the Snitch, but when you close your fingers, it suddenly slips away so that you’re left holding only empty air.”

“Does it matter that much?” Harry asked gently. “We’re together now. That’s all I care about.”

“But I need to know, Harry!” Hermione said. “I need to understand! Why have I been acting like two different people? There has to be a reason! There were times this year when I looked at myself in my vanity mirror, and it was like someone else was looking back, someone I didn’t recognize. It was like something out of Alice and the looking glass. Who is this other person who was staring back at me? And what is she doing inside my head? Sometimes I’d be absolutely frightened by it, and other times I just came over all angry and frustrated – well, you saw how that went this year, didn’t you? All I know is, I don’t like being a puppet, dancing to the pull of invisible strings. I need to know who’s pulling those strings, Harry! I have to find out the truth!”

“Then you will,” Harry said simply. “When Hermione Granger makes up her mind to do something, she does it. I dunno now long it’ll take, but you’ll find the answer.”

“Thank you, Harry,” Hermione said, slipping her arm around his waist and pressing against him.

“For what?” Harry said.

“For believing in me. For never turning your back on me, no matter what.”

“I should be the one thinking you for that,” Harry said. “When everyone turned on me during the Triwizard Tournament – even Ron – you never did. And it wasn’t just then. No matter what I was going through, you were always there. When I was always blowing up at everyone, treating my friends worse than I’d have done a Death Eater, you never turned away. You never let me quit. You always believed in me. Even when I didn’t believe in myself, you never stopped. If anything, you believed even harder.”

“Of course I believe in you,” Hermione said. “I love you.”

Harry froze in mid-step, jerking the pair to a halt. He drew away from Hermione far enough so he could tilt her head up and peer into her large, deep brown eyes.

“Did you just say what I thought you said?” Harry choked, not believing his ears.

“I love you,” Hermione repeated softly.

It was the first time Hermione had spoken the words, words he’d feared he would never hear from anyone. And now they were coming from the smartest, cleverest – the most beautiful witch Harry had ever known.

And Harry suddenly realized something he should have known all along.

“I love you, Hermione. I think I always have. I just wasn’t smart enough to realize it. Looking back, I think I’m the only one who didn’t see it. I feel like someone who’s been groping in the dark, and suddenly someone lights a candle and I can see what was there all along. I love you.”

“Say it again, Harry,” Hermione said in a heartfelt sob. “Please. I’ve waited so long to hear it.”

“I love you.”

Harry drew Hermione to him and kissed her. It was not a fierce kiss, as the one in the common room had been. It was gentle as the wind rustling the leaves overhead, warm as the sun bathing them in its golden light. It was a kiss that spoke in lieu of words, embracing a thousand volumes, yet as simple as the dawning of a new day.

They parted, their lips just touching as they stared into each other’s eyes.

“What happens now?” Hermione asked. “Where do we go from here?”

“Anywhere we want,” Harry said. “As far as our dreams will carry us.”

“As far as our dreams will carry us,” Harry repeated, smiling at the warm feeling spreading through him.

Turning onto his side, Harry saw that Ron’s bed was empty. He wondered why Ron hadn’t shaken Harry awake to join him in whatever endeavor was on his day’s agenda.

Maybe it’s something he wants to do alone, Harry thought. But what? Had it something to do with Luna? But that was probably no more than wishful thinking. Still, where had Ron gone?

Harry dressed quickly, which task was made easier by his adoption of wizarding attire here at the Burrow. He was becoming more and more at ease dressing in non-Muggle fashion. Not that he’d had much opportunity to develop anything resembling a sense of style while living with the Dursleys. Wearing Dudley’s hand-me-downs made him look like a homeless person who’d robbed the first clothesline he’d found to avoid running around starkers.

Hermione, on the other hand, always dressed elegantly, though without ostentation. Her conversion to wizards’ robes was a step backward in Harry’s judgment. It was next to impossible to accentuate either feminine or masculine attributes in loose, flowing robes. That, Harry realized, was one reason that the wizarding world was not confined by gender boundaries as the Muggle world was. Everyone dressed more or less equally, granting variations in grandeur by the selection of a more expensive fabric or a bit of decorative trim here and there. Harry smiled as he remembered the frayed lace cuffs on Ron’s first set of dress robes.

But that was not to say that robes could not reflect the deeper aspects of the one wearing them. Hermione’s floaty blue dress robes which she’d worn to the Yule Ball had clung to her every curve in tantalizing fashion. Even swept up as he had been by his role as a Triwizard Champion (and his slightly sour mood over losing Cho to Cedric), Harry had been stunned at the beauteous aspect Hermione presented that night. Indeed, he’d not even recognized Krum’s date as Hermione until the four champions came together for the first dance of the Ball. How lovely she’d looked that night. Looking back now, he wondered how he could ever have thought of Hermione as anything but beautiful.

But that was only his natural bias talking. To someone in love, the object of that love must ever be the most beautiful girl in the world. Hermione did not need elegant dress robes, nor Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion, to make her more beautiful in Harry’s eyes. Hermione’s beauty came from within. If Hermione walked in right now dressed in a dustbin bag, with stinksap dripping from her face and her hair looking like a broom tail after a disastrous Wronski Feint, she would still be the most beautiful witch in the world to Harry.

Harry was of a mind to go downstairs for breakfast, but he remembered that he had another, more important, chore to attend to first. Walking down one floor, he entered the twins’ room and negated the protective barrier surrounding his cauldron with a wave of his wand. His Advanced Potion-Brewing book lay open as he’d left it yesterday, and he read down the list of steps until he reached the one he’d marked in pencil. He checked the specifics of that step, then turned and peered into his cauldron. The potion was bubbling softly, the blue flames crackling underneath with a soft, steady hiss. He nodded. The potion was exactly as it should be. He moved to the next line and noted the next ingredient. This he selected from his potions stores and measured carefully on his brass scales. He added the fine powder (ground unicorn horn) to the potion and stirred it slowly in the prescribed manner. The potion turned from deep blue to a pale green, exactly as the book said it should.

Potion-brewing wasn’t so difficult without Snape’s constant badgering, Harry reflected. Even Neville Longbottom had achieved a passing mark in his O.W.L. examination, an accomplishment so remarkable that even Ludo Bagman wouldn’t have taken a bet on it at any odds.

Suddenly Harry’s head jerked up. Neville! He’d been so immersed in his thoughts about his own birthday tomorrow, he’d forgot that today was Neville's birthday!

Harry knew that Neville had never found a really close friend at Hogwarts. Dean and Seamus had become mates, as had Harry and Ron. That was not to say that someone couldn’t find a friend outside his own dormitory. Ginny had found a friend in Luna, who was in a different House, though Harry reflected that, as they were already neighbors, that might not be a good example. Ginny had likewise found a non-Gryffindor boyfriend before turning to Dean Thomas. Even then, Ginny and Dean were in different years, proving that Neville could have found a companion outside the simple boundaries of his dorm. But Harry had never heard Neville mention such a friend. That meant that, in all likelihood, Neville had never received a birthday card from any of his schoolmates. He would likely have got some from his aunts and uncles, but that wasn’t the same as being remembered by his peers.

Assured that his potion was coming along as it should (the next step wasn’t due until this evening), Harry restored the protective spell and ran upstairs. He opened his trunk and dug through his odds and ends until he found what he was looking for. It was a birthday card Harry had bought in Diagon Alley. It featured a picture of a lion that roared when its head was touched by one’s finger (contact with the envelope did not trigger the effect). The card further delivered a spoken birthday greeting when it was opened. These were limited-duration spells, like the rosette Ron had bought at the Quidditch World Cup that shouted out the names of the Irish National Team. By the end of the day, the spell was wearing off and the players' names were barely audible.

The card Harry had purchased for Neville had been opened only once, a demonstration by the clerk to show Harry the nature of the spell. Now safely in its envelope, the card was good for many more roars and birthday greetings. He would have to open it once more, of course. A card was worthless unless it was signed. Harry intended that everyone sign it, himself, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny. Though Ginny was not a friend in the same sense as the rest of them, they had both gone with Harry to the Ministry a year ago on their ill-fated rescue mission. And even before that, Ginny had been Neville’s date at the Yule Ball (he’d asked her after Hermione turned him down). All things considered, Harry thought it only proper that she add her name to theirs before he sent it off.

But there was a problem. Hedwig had not yet returned. This gave Harry cause for worry. He knew that Hedwig had often been gone for days at a time. Still, these were dangerous days, and who was to say that Voldemort might not harm Hedwig to get back at Harry? It would not be the first time. As Hermione had recalled in the paddock yesterday, Hedwig had been attacked at Hogwarts in Harry’s fifth year. Luckily, Professor Grubbly-Plank had fixed Hedwig's injured wing, leaving her as good as new. But what happened once could happen again, and Harry would not rest easily until he saw Hedwig back on her perch where she belonged.

In the meantime, there was always Pigwidgeon. The little owl would be keen for such an important mission, Harry mused with an inner smile.

Harry tucked the card into his robes, ready to be pulled out and signed when the opportunity arose. Upon reflection, he decided that he should have everyone sign the card together. The spell infusing the card would be maximized if it were opened only one more time before being sent off. Harry walked downstairs and into the kitchen, where he found Mrs. Weasley cleaning the kitchen with her wand. The table was empty, as was the top of the stove. Spotting Harry enter, Mrs. Weasley saw the disappointment on his face, and she smiled.

“Not to worry, dear,” she said. “There’s a warm plate in the oven, waiting for you. Third setting.”

Smiling his thanks, Harry walked over to the stove and turned the oven dial to the third position. He opened the oven, where he found a plate of sausage and eggs waiting. As Mrs. Weasley had promised, the plate was warm, but not too hot to touch. Harry carried it to the table and sat down. Already Mrs. Weasley was pouring him a glass of orange juice.

“You’re spoiling me, Mrs. Weasley,” Harry grinned as he raised a sausage to his mouth.

“That’s a mother’s job, dear,” Mrs. Weasley said pleasantly. “If you want anything else, just ask.”

“Thanks,” Harry said.

As he ate, Harry mused on Mrs. Weasley’s words. A mother’s job. This was not the first time Harry’d got the notion that Mrs. Weasley regarded him as another son to add to the six she already had. She’d said as much when Harry had attended his first meeting of the Order of the Phoenix at Sirius’ house. During the discussion about how much information Harry would be allowed, Sirius had remonstrated, “He’s not your son, Molly,” whereupon she’d retorted, “He’s as good as.”

Harry ate quickly, though not without savoring every bite, and went outside, thanking Mrs. Weasley on his way out. She merely smiled in a motherly fashion, leaving Harry all the more certain that he’d become a member of the family as surely as if he’d been adopted.

Too bad they couldn’t have adopted me for real years ago, Harry thought. I wouldn’t have had to live with the Dursleys. It would have been fantastic to belong to a real family, he mused; to have proper brothers who treated him as one of them, rather than a cousin who regarded him as nothing more than a punching bag with glasses. And he’d have grown up with a sister, too, which concept was totally alien to him. It was as complete a picture as he could have imagined.

But he knew even as he thought this that, even if the Weasleys had known the Potters (which they had not), Dumbledore never would have permitted such an arrangement. The spell that had protected Harry from Voldemort’s wrath all these years was energized only by his proximity to his Aunt Petunia, Harry’s only living blood relative. He needed to spend at least a fortnight every year at Privet Drive to keep the spell in force.

But that’s all done now, Harry thought. The moment he turned seventeen – at midnight tonight, in fact – that spell would lose its power and fade into nothingness. All that would stand between Harry and the Dark Lord’s revenge would be Harry himself. And there was no doubt in his mind that, sooner or later, Voldemort would attack again. I’ve got to be ready when that happens, Harry thought with grim determination. No more people are going to die because of me.

Harry walked out into the back garden, casting about for a sign of his missing friends. He was hoping to find everyone together so they could all sign Neville’s card at once, but it was only Ginny and Hermione whom he found. They were sitting under a tree, talking in quiet, urgent tones. Harry wondered if he should interrupt, but the decision was taken from him when Hermione spotted him and waved her hand in invitation. Harry walked over, but did not sit down straightaway.

“Are you sure I’m not intruding?” he asked.

“If I didn’t want you to join us,” Hermione pointed out, “would I have invited you over?”

“Bit thick sometimes, isn’t he?” Ginny said in a very audible whisper, her eyes twinkling under her fiery brows.

“It’s the Y chromosome," Hermione said with an exaggerated shrug. “Nothing to be done.”

Harry sat next to Hermione and asked, “So, what have you two been talking about? And if you say ‘girl stuff’ again, I’m using the Tickling Charm on both of you, and damn the Ministry owls.”

“Well, it is, sort of,” Hermione said. “But it’s nothing we can’t repeat.”

“Hermione’s helping me sort out things with Dean,” Ginny said. “It’s not working out between us, and I need a way to let him down easy.”

“Good luck with that,” Harry said. “Nothing hits a bloke harder than a girl breaking up with him.”

“Do you have any suggestions?” Hermione asked.

“Well,” Harry said thoughtfully, “don’t do it in a letter. That’s the worst. And if no one else knows what you’re planning, don’t say anything to anyone until you tell him. Hearing something like that second-hand will make him think he’s not important enough that his feelings matter to you.”

“Should I tell Luna?” Ginny asked. “We usually talk about stuff like this, so it might be rude of me not to discuss it with her.”

“Is she trustworthy?” Harry inquired.

“Sort of,” Ginny said. “I mean, she wouldn’t say anything intentionally, but she has a habit of talking without thinking – you know, like a certain brother I could name.”

“Then I’d keep it between us,” Harry said. “As far as Dean goes, it might be better to tell him after the Welcoming Feast. I don’t think he’d want to hear it on the Hogwarts Express. Depending on how hard he takes it, he might want to be alone, you know, go straight up to his dorm to sort things out in his head. Can you manage to avoid him until we get to Hogwarts?”

“I think so,” Ginny said, not sounding entirely certain. “He usually hangs out with Seamus, but I don’t know if Seamus is coming back this year.”

After another thoughtful pause, Harry asked, “Do you have anything personal that Dean gave you last year? Something of his he wanted you to wear? I remember Dean went to Muggle school, and that’s the way blokes do things there.”

“He gave me a ring,” Ginny said, looking puzzled by Harry’s question. “He said he won it playing football for his Muggle school just before he got his Hogwarts letter. When he gave it to me, he said it was the most special thing he owned. That’s why he wanted me to have it, to show I was more important to him than any object. It was so big, it kept falling off my finger, so he put it on a chain and hung it around my neck. I wore it all last year, even when things became strained between us. I didn’t feel I could just stop wearing it without explanation. I took it off as soon as I got home and put it in my dresser. I got it out today, to remind me to have this talk with Hermione.” Ginny reached into her pocket and pulled out a fine chain of time-dulled brass with a sterling silver ring hanging from it. “It’s going to be hard on him when I give it back, but it has to be done.”

“Hermione,” Harry said, “do you remember a Charm Professor Flitwick showed us last year – you know, the one that Ron tried to do, but when he made to shut it off, he did the wand movement wrong, and the row ended up shattering the chandelier so it rained bits of glass on everyone?”

“Brilliant, Harry!” Hermione exclaimed. Turning to Ginny, she explained, “The spell turns a personal object into an early warning device. The closer the owner approaches to the object in question, the more pronounced the alarm becomes. Even though Dean gave you that ring months ago, it will still be infused with his personal aura. When the spell is activated, it will respond to his presence, letting you know when he’s drawing near. When we’re aboard the train, you can keep the ring in your pocket, and when Dean comes toward your compartment, the ring will warn you so you can hide under Harry’s Invisibility Cloak or something until he's gone.”

“Can you cast the spell?” Ginny asked excitedly.

“Do you need to ask?” Harry laughed.

Drawing her wand, Hermione asked, “What kind of alarm should I specify? It can be sound, light or heat. A flashing light won’t do if you’re keeping the ring in your pocket. Would you prefer it sound an alarm, or just grow warmer the closer Dean gets?”

“That’s the way our fake Galleons worked when we were called to D.A. meetings,” Ginny remembered. “It worked well then, and I’d rather not alert anyone else in the compartment to what’s going on.”

“Heat it is,” Hermione said. Ginny held out her hand, and Hermione pointed her wand and directed a beam of amber light at the ring lying on her open palm. The ring glowed for a few moments before returning to normal. “There you are,” Hermione said as she put her wand away. “Just don’t forget to carry it with you on the train. It won’t do you much good if it’s locked away in your trunk in the storage compartment.”

“Thanks,” Ginny said. “And thank you for suggesting it, Harry. I owe you.”

“You can pay me back by never telling anyone what Ron did in Flitwick’s class,” Harry said.

Ginny’s eyes began to glow maliciously, but Hermione said, “I can cancel the spell as easily as I cast it.” Ginny looked disappointed, but she nodded.

“And don’t tell Dean I helped,” Harry said. “It could make things uncomfortable between us. I know we’re not exactly mates, and I don’t expect I’ll be sleeping in the seventh-year dorms this year, but I’ll still be seeing him often enough in the common room, even if we don’t have any classes together this year.”

Ginny’s expression flickered at Harry’s mention of classes. Spotting this, Harry flashed Ginny a silent question with his eyes: Can I tell Hermione? Ginny read Harry’s question as clearly as if he had spoken it aloud and gave her head a small shake. Harry’s spirits deflated slightly. If Ginny would not give him permission to tell Hermione about his and Ginny’s probably shared classes, Harry was honor-bound to keep the secret. He wished he hadn’t made that promise, but he had, and that was that. Still, keeping any secret from Hermione was painful. It seemed a betrayal of the mutual love they had declared, the unspoken promise that they would be one in all things.

“If that’s all settled,” Harry said now, “what are you planning for the rest of the day?”

The question seemed to have been addressed to both of them, so neither knew who should speak first. At last Hermione said, “I’m going to tend to my potions for a bit. How is yours coming along, Harry?”

“The latest step came off okay,” Harry said. “I’ll be watching it off and on, but I won’t have to do anything else until this evening. How are yours coming?” Harry knew that Hermione, in typical fashion, had begun two potions this time, borrowing Ginny’s cauldron for the second.

“I’ve nearly finished the Energizing Draught,” Hermione said. “It works like the energizing spell, but it’s much easier on the system. It helps a wound to heal more quickly, as well as strengthening the system to help fight off an illness. I imagine you’ve had more than your share from Madam Pomfrey over the last few years, even if you never knew what you were drinking.” Harry grinned. “The other is a Cleansing Draught," Hermione went on. “It purifies wounds from the inside by helping the body to carry away infections and neutralize them. When the patient uses the loo directly after, the poisons go straight out harmlessly.”

“TMI,” Ginny said with a curl of her upper lip.

“What?” Harry said.

“Too much information,” Ginny clarified. Harry and Hermione both laughed.

“Well,” Harry said as he rose and offered Hermione and Ginny each a hand up, “I know what Hermione and I will be doing. What about you?”

“I thought I’d go help Ron practice some more,” Ginny said. “When I told him I couldn’t come straightaway,” she smiled meaningfully at Hermione, “he said he’d go ahead and practice on his own until I could catch him up.”

“What’s he practicing by himself?” Harry asked, knowing that Ron could hardly practice goalkeeping without someone to throw objects for him to deflect.

“The Wronski Feint,” Ginny said, standing up and smoothing out her robes. “Dunno why he wants to learn it. It’s a Seeker’s maneuver, not a Keeper’s, isn’t it? He’ll probably muck it up. I have this picture of him ploughing into the ground, coming up with his face all covered in dirt and grass. Like as not it’ll be an improvement.” Harry smiled weakly, but before he could turn toward the Burrow, Ginny said, “Can I use your Firebolt, Harry? Only I think I should give Ron the best practice I can if he’s to be the best Keeper he can be this year. I mean, unless you’re planning on using it?”

“No,” Harry said. “It’s in my trunk. It’s not locked.”

“I remember,” Ginny said as she ran off toward the house. “Thanks!”

Ginny was through the back door before Harry and Hermione had passed the frog pond. The door slammed loudly, and Mrs. Weasley shouted, “GINNY!” Harry and Hermione laughed out loud. They had just reached the back door when Ginny burst out, Harry’s broom in her hand. With a hurried, “Thanks again, Harry!” she was off in a streak of wind-tossed robes and dancing red hair, leaping the back hedge and vanishing over the hill.

“With that kind of enthusiasm,” Harry smiled, “we’re going to win it all this year.”

“Just so you remember,” Hermione admonished again, “it’s only a game.”

Harry nodded as they entered the kitchen. Mrs. Weasley smiled approvingly when he closed the door carefully and soundlessly. He could almost hear her unspoken praise: You’re a good son, Harry.

With his own potion bubbling merrily away, Harry followed Hermione into Ginny’s room. He saw the two cauldrons sitting a few feet apart, each suspended over a flickering blue flame. Hermione checked the first cauldron, nodded, then turned to the second. She nodded once, turning to her night table. Harry saw that it was brimming with bottles of every size, shape and color. He was forcibly reminded of Snape’s potion room under Hogwarts that had been part of the safeguards protecting the Sorcerer’s Stone.

Hermione selected a bottle, poured a small portion into a phial marked with tiny measuring lines, and replaced the stopper. Returning the bottle whence it had come, she turned to pour the phial’s contents into the cauldron. Looking over her shoulder, Harry saw the potion change color subtly, from mustard to a deep saffron.

“Which one is that?” Harry asked.

“The Cleansing Draught,” Hermione said.

“I was afraid of that,” Harry made a face. “It looks vile.”

“It is,” Hermione confirmed. “From the description in the book, I imagine it tastes as bad as the Wolfsbane Potion Lupin takes every month. Not that I’ve ever tasted that, of course.”

“I hope not,” Harry said. “I don’t fancy kissing a werewolf. A cat, now...”

Hermione’s eyebrows rose.

“You aren’t serious!”

Harry gave a very Ron-like shrug.

“I never thought about it at the time,” Harry said, "but looking back, that cat-face you had in our second year was very snoggable."

“You’re horrible,” Hermione said, trying not to laugh.

“I bet those whiskers would’ve tickled,” Harry went on. “And what you could have done with those fangs – ”

“Stop it!” Hermione said, her eyes beginning to moisten with tears of mirth.

“I’m just pulling your tail,” Harry grinned, pantomiming a gesture in the vicinity of Hermione’s backside. “I think you’re just right exactly as you are.”

Harry swept in and kissed Hermione. Though startled, she returned the kiss without a thought. They parted with a mutual sigh, Hermione’s eyes closed, her lips drawn back in a contented smile.

“I could do that all day,” Harry said.

“So could I,” Hermione said. “But we wouldn’t get much work done, would we?”

“Work is overrated,” Harry said.

“Another Ron-ism?” Hermione smirked.

“Actually, I think it was from Mundungus Fletcher,” Harry said. “Though I reckon Ron might have appropriated it somewhere along the way.”

“Would you hand me the green bottle from the table, Harry?” Hermione asked as she bent her head over her cauldron. “The square one with the round stopper?”

Harry’s eyes roamed over the dozens of oddly-shaped bottles crowded onto the small table until he found one that answered Hermione’s description. He extracted it from the glass jungle and held it out. Hermione took it blindly, pulling out the stopper as she continued to scrutinize the bubbling surface of her potion. Suddenly, her whole body went rigid. She turned and looked at the bottle in her hand, and her face went pale as that of a Hogwarts ghost.

“What is it?” Harry said in a worried voice.

“Wrong bottle,” Hermione murmured disjointedly. She replaced the bottle Harry had given her and quickly selected the right one. It was very like the first, its stopper being a bit larger, and its color a darker shade of green. When Hermione returned to her cauldron, Harry retrieved the first bottle and looked at it curiously. Though it bore no identifying marks, there was something familiar about it. Very slowly, his eyes opened wide and his mouth went slack.

“Hermione?” Harry said. “Is this – ”

Harry turned to find Hermione still bent over her potion, in an attitude as if she did not want to look at him. Harry’s face suddenly felt very cold in spite of the heat permeating the room from the two simmering cauldrons.

“I thought you must have binned this,” Harry said. “Why did you keep it?”

Turning deliberately, Hermione said in a stiff voice, “To remind myself. Every time I look at it, I remember all the things that happened over the last year and a half. And I think of all the terrible things that could have happened. Bill nearly died because of that bottle. And Dumbledore...”

“I keep telling you, that wasn’t your fault,” Harry said.

“Wasn’t it? You know what happened that night. I might have done something to stop it, but I didn’t. I couldn’t.”

“You can’t know that for sure,” Harry said. “There were many factors involved.”

“But this factor shouldn’t have been part of the equation,” Hermione said unrelentingly. “I should have known. I should have suspected. But if I can’t change what happened, I can make sure it never happens again. There’s a saying that those who don’t remember the past are condemned to repeat it. That’s why I kept it, to remind myself that I can’t ever let that past be repeated. Not ever.”

Harry placed a comforting hand on Hermione’s shoulder. She remained silent for what seemed a full minute. But for the gentle rise and fall of her chest, she would have done to resemble her petrified state in Second Year when she’d seen the basilisk’s reflected stare in Penelope Clearwater’s pocket mirror. Slowly her face softened and she turned to Harry with a kind of resolute calm shimmering in her chocolate eyes.

“Would you get my scales from my trunk, please, Harry?”

Nodding, Harry opened Hermione’s trunk (like his, it was unlocked in these friendly environs) and quickly found Hermione’s brass scales. She took them with a murmured, “Thank you,” and opened a tin full of a coarse, dark powder. She dipped her finger and thumb inside and sprinkled a small measure onto the scales, her brow wrinkling as she watched the arrow move slowly toward the desired position.

Turning his back on Hermione, Harry deftly plucked the square green bottle from the table and held it before him. In her way, Hermione was right. So many things had happened that night two months ago. If even one of them could have been erased by the removal of this seemingly benign object...

He didn’t believe that Dumbledore’s life could have been spared. Malfoy had been determined all year to carry out Voldemort’s edict. And failing that, Snape was ever on hand to see that the Dark Lord’s orders were carried out, bound by the mark burned onto his arm. But as for the other...

Harry remembered Bill’s visit to the Burrow days ago, how Hermione had kissed him, carefully avoiding the scars on his face – as if she were responsible for them.

Hermione was right about one thing. None of them must ever let the happenings of that night be repeated. Harry stared at the bottle in his hand, and dark shapes began to gather in his memory, growing, engulfing his mind...

The morning following Dumbledore’s death, Harry’s first thought when he climbed out of bed was to find Hermione. If ever he needed to look into her eyes, to hold her, to take comfort from her presence, it was now. But Hermione was not in the common room when Harry came down. When Harry questioned a couple of fifth-year girls sitting morosely by the hearth, one of them said she’d seen Hermione come down the girls’ staircase an hour ago and go out through the portrait hole.

Harry paused in the Great Hall to look for Hermione at the Gryffindor table. He hadn’t really expected to find her there, so he wasn’t as disappointed as he might have been when he was told that she had not come in to breakfast.

His mind wrapped in a kind of numb insensibility, Harry walked the Hogwarts grounds. Even if he didn’t find Hermione, he needed to be away from everyone else. Even Ron. The only person he wanted to see was Hermione. If he couldn’t find her, he was better off alone.

But he did find her. As he was nearing Hagrid’s cabin, Hagrid came around from his pumpkin patch and waved to Harry.

“She’s inside,” Hagrid said in a low voice. “She said she din’t wan' anyone ter find her, but I thought you oughter know.”

“Thanks,” Harry said. Hagrid walked toward the castle, leaving Harry to enter the cabin unfettered by an unwanted audience. He found Hermione sitting in an overstuffed chair, like the ones littering the common room. It was far too small for Hagrid to sit in. Harry concluded that Hermione had conjured it for her needs. He’d already seen how she could work the most complex magic under trying circumstances. The birds she’d conjured in the deserted classroom were ample testimony to her prowess under mental stress.

Hermione had drawn her legs up and wrapped her arms around them, hugging her knees to her chest. She was rocking back and forth, her face a mask of misery. If Harry had thought her in despair when he’d found her in the classroom, that was nothing to how she looked now. She was muttering to herself, her voice so low and choked with emotion that Harry could not understand what she was saying until he was only inches away.

“It’s all my fault,” she was saying over and over. “It’s all my fault.”

Harry reached out and placed his hand on her shoulder. She jumped as if Harry’s touch had been white-hot iron. Her eyes were wide and deeply ringed, as if she had not slept that night. Harry knew his own face must resemble Hermione’s in that regard. He’d done little but stare up at the canopy of his four-poster hour after hour, his thoughts far too turbulent to permit anything resembling sleep.

Harry expected Hermione to turn away, to tell him to leave her alone. Hagrid had said as much when he called Harry over. But instead, Hermione looked at Harry with imploring eyes, as if begging his forgiveness for something that was beyond forgiving.

“It’s my fault, Harry,” she said in a weak, almost childish voice. “It’s my fault Dumbledore died.”

Acting without thought, Harry lifted Hermione to her feet. She did not resist, but meekly allowed Harry to lever her from the chair. In a single motion, Harry swept Hermione off her feet and sat down in the chair, settling her on his lap. She drew her legs up child-like, pressing her face to Harry’s chest. Harry slipped his arms around her shoulders and held her against him gently.

“It wasn’t your fault, Hermione,” he said soothingly. “No one person could have stopped what happened last night.”

Harry was momentarily surprised when Hermione lifted her head to peer into his eyes. There was a glimmer of reason in place of the overpowering despair that had greeted him before.

“I could have stopped him,” she said mournfully. “When he came out of his office alone, I knew something was wrong. When he said we should go in and take care of Professor Flitwick, I knew I shouldn’t trust him. But I went in anyway. I let him go, and he went and...and...”

“You couldn’t have stopped him,” Harry said. “I tried when he was running away, and he blocked every spell I sent at him. He’s too powerful a wizard for either of us to have stopped him. He’d have killed you if you’d tried. The only reason he didn’t let the Death Eaters kill me was because Voldemort left orders that no one but him was allowed to have me. No one else would have mattered to him. You heard what Lupin said. If Snape killed Dumbledore without blinking, he wouldn’t have hesitated to kill you, too.”

As Harry continued to caress Hermione’s shoulders, the light of sanity began to return to her eyes, though they remained haunted, scarcely seeming to blink.

“Lupin called me the cleverest witch he’d ever met,” she said, her voice trembling dangerously close to insane laughter. “If I’d been clever, I’d have known something was wrong when Snape wanted us to go straight into his office. I’d have gone inside and peeked through the door until he’d gone, then I’d have left Luna to care for Flitwick and followed Snape to see what he was going to do. If he was about to do something horrible to someone, I could have done something to distract him, like when I set fire to his robes when I thought he was Cursing your broomstick in the Quidditch match. But I was too stupid! I wasn’t thinking! And now Dumbledore’s dead!”

Hermione buried her face in Harry’s chest, her tears quickly wetting his robes. He let Hermione cry until her mournful wails dwindled to soft sobs. He stroked her hair, feeling her pain as deeply as if a Sectumsempra spell had sliced open his heart. An eternity of time passed as the two sat together, silence wrapping them like a shroud. Hermione was now very quiet. Harry hoped that her excited exhaustion had caught up with her and eased her into the sleep that was the best medicine for her now. But at length she lifted her head, and Harry, feeling her motion where none had been for so long, looked down into her eyes. They were once more the eyes he knew and loved, eyes that were windows to a mind and soul whose depth could not be plumbed. Harry slowly eased her into a sitting position on his lap so that their faces were level. He reached out and brushed an errant strand of hair from her face. Hermione lifted a hand and wrapped her fingers around Harry’s.

“Why was I so stupid last night, Harry?” she said. It was not a recrimination this time, but a question.

“Everything was a bit mad last night,” Harry said. “So many things were happening so quickly, there was no time to sort them out.”

“No,” Hermione said, shaking her head. “That’s not an answer. We’d taken the Felix Felicis, Ron, Ginny and I. We were on our game. We reacted faster, our thoughts were swifter. How could I have...”

Hermione’s voice trailed off, and Harry looked at her quizzically.

“What is it?” he asked, Hermione's puzzlement seeming to infect him just as strongly.

“Everything was okay while the Felix Felicis was working,” she said thoughtfully. “But the potion doesn’t last that long – you’d know, you took it when you went to get Slughorn’s memory that Dumbledore wanted.”

Hermione paused as she spoke Dumbledore’s name. She took a slow breath and continued in the same thoughtful manner that was her trademark ever since Harry had known her.

“We were down in the dungeons, watching Snape’s office for a long time,” she said. “Long enough for the Felix Felicis to wear off. The feeling that I could do anything at all had faded. I was glad it had gone. I didn’t like being controlled by a potion. I’m more comfortable when I can rely on my own wits in a crisis.”

“I’ve never seen a time when you weren’t equal to whatever came at you,” Harry said. He felt Hermione stiffen in his arms.

“That’s just it,” she said with renewed fire. “No matter what we’ve faced, I’ve always been able to draw back and think of a course of action. I didn’t panic when Professor Umbridge had the edge on us last year. I played to her sodding arrogance and turned her advantage over us into a weakness we could exploit.”

“When I saw you pretending to cry, to make her think she’d broken you,” Harry said, “and then feeding her that rubbish about the secret weapon hidden in the Forbidden Forest, it was like I’d never seen you properly before. I almost felt like I had no right to be in the same room with such a clever witch.”

Hermione’s face softened for a moment at Harry’s praise before her eyes hardened again.

“But last night,” she said stonily, “when Snape came out of his office, I knew there was something dodgy about the way he was acting, but for some reason I didn’t act on that knowledge. It was almost like – ”

“Like what?” Harry pressed, feeling Hermione’s urgency.

“It was almost like I knew what to do,” she said, “but as soon as I had the thought, I went and did the exact opposite.”

“But why would you do that?” Harry puzzled. “That’s not like you at all.”

“No,” Hermione agreed. “It isn’t.”

Hermione shifted in Harry’s lap so that her back was to him. She focused her eyes into the shadowed corners of Hagrid’s cabin where the sunlight beaming through his windows did not reach. She sat in silent thought, her hands on Harry’s arms as they lay encircling her waist. Harry scarcely dared to breathe as he allowed Hermione to delve into her thoughts in search of the answer that both of them so desperately wanted and needed.

“Harry,” Hermione said at last. “This isn’t the first time we’ve had a discussion like this.”

“It isn’t?” Harry said, not understanding Hermione’s suggestion.

“You remember the day after Gryffindor won the Quidditch Cup, just after we – ” Harry nodded once, and Hermione said, “We took a walk, right out here beyond Hagrid’s cabin, to talk about things. And I told you how baffled I was about how odd I’d been acting for so long, my thoughts going first one way, then another. You said – you said it was almost as if I were two people, constantly switching back and forth between one and the other.”

“Do you think this is the same thing?” Harry asked, wondering how that could possibly be.

“Yes,” Hermione said. “I don’t believe in coincidences. Things that happen by themselves occur at random. But anything that follows a pattern can’t be a natural phenomenon. There has to be planning behind something that precisely ordered.”

“Someone planned for you to let Snape go so he could kill Dumbledore?” Harry asked, hardly believing his own proposition. “No offense, Hermione, but I doubt that Voldemort even knows who you are. In fact, I pray he doesn’t. You’ve seen how worried Mrs. Weasley is over Ron and Ginny because so many of the family are in the Order. The less Voldemort knows about the people I care about, the less danger they’re likely to be in. I hope the filthy bugger never learns who you are.”

Hermione squeezed Harry’s arm gently. “I reckon he’ll know about me soon enough, once word spreads that you and I are together. But you’re right, there’s little chance that Voldemort knows me from Morgan Le Fey just now. And it would be pure ego on my part to suppose that Snape considers me such a threat that he’d have arranged to get me out of the way so I wouldn’t spoil his plans. I’m just an annoying little know-it-all to him. As you said, if he warded off your attacking spells without batting an eye, he’d have had no trouble getting me out of the way by much simpler means than subterfuge. With his Legilimency, he could have outwitted me any time he chose and either Stunned me – or killed me.”

Harry admired the courage with which she spoke so calmly about the prospect of her own death. She had nearly died once before, when Dolohov’s wordless spell had struck her in the Department of Mysteries just over a year ago. Such an experience might well cow even the bravest soul into nurturing a debilitating fear of death. Instead, Hermione had chosen the other path and used that experience to shackle her fears and submerge them where they could not hinder her purpose. Harry felt his love for Hermione deepen beyond anything he had felt before. He knew then that, if he were to pursue the secret goal he had stayed up all last night refining in his thoughts – that of abandoning his seventh year at Hogwarts to go straight off to find and destroy Voldemort’s Horcruxes – there was none he could want at his side more than Hermione. Ron would want to come, too, of course. And Harry knew that his best mate would not be denied, no matter what argument he put forth. It was something he had taken into account when his decision had been finalized as the gray light of dawn was pouring through the window onto his four-poster. But for all that they were best mates, Ron was still only a secondary consideration. He’d known all along, however, that he could never go off without Hermione at his side.

But that was a matter for the future. There was another matter to be settled, and Hermione’s determination in this regard was as unshakable as Harry’s was in his own.

“Whatever has been making me act so out-of-character,” Hermione said, “has nothing to do with Snape or Voldemort. It goes back too far to be laid at their door.”

“Do you have any ideas?” Harry asked, instinctively holding Hermione more snugly against him.

“Not yet,” Hermione said. “I have a lot of thinking to do on the subject. And,” she turned and smiled at Harry, “I’m not worth a bent Knut until I’ve had breakfast. Care to join me?”

“I’d be honored,” Harry said.

He stood up, placing Hermione on her feet. They were a step away from the door when Hermione turned suddenly. She drew her wand and pointed it at the stuffed chair, which promptly vanished.

“Now that’s the Hermione I know,” Harry said.

Their hands locked, and they walked out into the sunlight, ready to face whatever awaited them. Together.

It was a close thing, but here’s the final chapter. Time to turn J.K.’s world upside down. Levicorpus!

The atmosphere in the castle was as grim as Harry had ever seen. It surpassed even the last days of his fourth year, when everyone was mourning the death of Cedric Diggory. Students were rushing up to the owlry to tell their parents the sad news. Some had confided that they were asking to be withdrawn as soon as someone could come for them. If many more took that road, there would soon be more than enough chairs in the common room to accommodate everyone without the usual pushing and arguing.

Having breakfasted in silence, Harry and Hermione left the dining hall and mounted the grand staircase leading up toward Gryffindor Tower. Once inside the common room, they parted after a brief hug and ascended the stairs leading to their separate dormitories. Hermione had asked for some time alone to sort things out, which Harry granted without question. His own brain was still buzzing like a swarm of caged pixies, and he was grateful for the opportunity to lie back on his four-poster and open his thoughts with a clearer mind than he’d enjoyed last night.

Strictly speaking, he was not alone. Neville Longbottom was sitting on his bed when Harry came in, writing a letter, and Harry could see two feet protruding from the hangings at the end of Dean Thomas’ bed. But unlike the student body in general, Harry’s long-time dorm mates had learned to give Harry his space when the need arose. When Harry entered, Neville merely nodded once in acknowledgment of his friend’s arrival and turned back to his letter. Harry hoped that Neville was not asking his grandmother to remove him at once, as so many others had already done. But in the end, what did it matter? Harry returned Neville’s nod and lay down on his bed, drawing the hangings around him.

Despite the frantic racing of his thoughts, the sleep that had eluded him all last night overwhelmed him now. He fell into a shallow, fitful slumber, in which he felt as if he were a piece of flotsam being tossed about on a stormy sea. He awoke suddenly in a cold sweat, the image of Dumbledore’s face filling his mind. He saw again the old wizard’s pleading eyes as be begged, “Severus...please...”

Harry threw his bed curtains aside and walked down into the common room. To his relief, it was deserted. But he instantly revised that sentiment. He wished Hermione were here. On an impulse, he opened the door leading to the girls’ staircase and called up, “Hermione?”

There was no guarantee that his voice would reach Hermione’s dormitory. He had no way of knowing if her door were open or closed. He realized that he didn’t even know on which level her sixth-year dorm lay (his own was at the topmost level of the tower, and that only by random selection). But after a few moments, a familiar voice called back, “Harry?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, feeling his heart beat faster at the mere sound of Hermione’s voice speaking his name. “Are you coming down soon?”

“In a bit,” Hermione said. “But you can come up if you like. There’s no one else here with me.”

“Have you forgotten what happened the last time I tried to visit your dorm?” Harry reminded her. On that day not so long ago when he and Ron had attempted to visit Hermione in her dorm, they hadn’t taken three steps when the stairs flattened into a smooth ramp down which they slid back into the common room in a tumble of arms and legs.

“It’s okay,” Hermione said. “I’ve fixed it for you.”

Shrugging, Harry set his right foot on the bottom step, then his left. Nothing happened. He mounted to the second step, the third, the fourth, each time expecting the steps to disappear and precipitate him back the way he had come.

But the stairs did not collapse as they had done before. Harry walked up until he saw a door marked SIXTH YEARS standing ajar. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The girls’ dormitory was much as Harry expected it would be, decorated in pastels, with lace curtains on the windows and vanity tables beside every bed. Hermione was sitting at her vanity, her eyes moving back and forth between two sheets of parchment. There was writing on each, and as Harry stepped closer to see better, Hermione turned and smiled up at him.

“What’s that?” Harry asked, nodding at the parchment.

“I’ve made up two lists,” Hermione said. “One is a record of all the times I acted oddly, going back nearly two years. The other shows everything I was doing just before I did those unusual things. I’m trying to find a pattern, but so far I’ve come up empty. I know that these incidents can’t be coincidental. There has to be something I’ve done, or that’s happened near me, that’s consistent with those occurrences. But I can’t see anything at all that isn’t completely harmless.”

“Have you considered the Imperius Curse?” Harry asked. “That’s how Madam Rosmerta was being controlled when she poisoned the mead that Ron drank by mistake.”

“I know what it feels like to be under the Imperius,” Hermione said. “We all experienced it in Defense Against the Dark Arts two years ago, remember? And there are accounts of people who were being controlled by Voldemort during his first reign. When he was destroyed, they said they sort of came out of trances. But I never experienced anything like that. I wasn’t acting under anyone’s orders. I was thinking my own thoughts, but those thoughts kept jumping back and forth so that I kept acting, well, backwards. And I’ve ruled out the Confundus,” she said before Harry could suggest it. “I wasn’t confused when I acted as I did. I was thinking clearly, only in the opposite way I should have done. And while it could have been an enchantment, I don't know...It was too subtle – too much a part of me to be something as superficial as a spell. No, this has all the earmarks of a potion. But I haven’t figured out how I would have ingested it. It would have to be introduced on a continuing basis to have the effect it had.”

“If it was a potion,” Harry said harshly, “that falls right into Snape’s territory.”

“Yes,” Hermione said, “but as we already discussed, I don’t think he considered me such a threat to his plans that he’d go to such bother to remove me from his path.”

“Could someone have put something in your food?” Harry suggested. “You remember when Umbridge tried to get me to drink the tea that she’d dosed with Veritaserum. It wasn’t really, but she didn’t know that, and neither did I, so I only pretended to drink, and when I got the chance I emptied the cup into a potted plant. Someone could have slipped something in your pumpkin juice every morning. I wouldn’t rule out Malfoy. Maybe Snape wasn’t fussed over you, but you’ve been a thorn in Malfoy’s side almost as long as I have. And he learnt more than once that he couldn’t match you in magic.”

“I thought of that,” Hermione said. “At least, the part about something being added to my food. But some of the out-of-character things I did were nowhere near mealtimes. And I suppose we can’t rule out Malfoy, knowing what he was up to all year. If he saw me as a potential threat to his success, he could have done any number of things to put me off my game. We all learnt about wordless spells this year. Who’s to say that Malfoy didn’t put a hex on me when I wasn’t looking? But that doesn’t explain the things that happened in our fifth year, before Voldemort engaged Draco to – ”

Hermione stifled a shiver before straightening her shoulders.

“I’m convinced it isn’t an enchantment,” she resumed. “It’s something more concrete. Spells can wear off too quickly, and it becomes more difficult to reapply them continuously. But a foreign agent in my system would linger a while before my body flushed it out. And if it were introduced on a regular basis, however erratic, there might be cumulative effect, carrying on even if there were gaps in its application.”

“Can you test yourself for foreign substances?” Harry asked.

“I can try,” Hermione said. “It would help if I knew what I was looking for, and how it got into my system. I can’t remember ingesting anything recently that might have influenced my actions yesterday.”

“Maybe it has a timed effect,” Harry said. Hermione’s eyes opened wide.

“I think you may have something, Harry!” she said with controlled excitement. “If I was given a dose of something that didn’t go to work for days, I wouldn’t know anything had happened until it was too late. I wouldn’t suspect anything because there’d be no obvious pattern to spot. I should probably start a new list,” she remarked, nodding at the parchment lying before her. “This one seems to be a dead end.”

Harry picked up the list Hermione had said was composed of the things she had done which were out of character. One item caught his eye.

“You wrote down the times we all played Quidditch at the Burrow last year?” he said. “What was so odd about that?”

Harry was surprised when Hermione’s eyes glazed over for a second.

“That’s the one that has me confused most of all,” Hermione said. When Harry questioned her with his eyes, she asked him, "Before the four of us played those games of Quidditch, when’s the last time you saw me on a broom?”

Harry thought for a moment. “It was when we were going after the Sorcerer’s Stone,” he said. “We were trying to catch the key that would open the door to the next chamber – the one with the giant chessboard, though we didn’t know that at the time. There were brooms in the chamber so someone could have a go at catching the key. Once we spotted the one we wanted, we all mounted brooms and you and Ron herded it toward me so I could grab it.”

“I was terrified every moment I was on that broom,” Hermione said with a small shudder. “That was my first time in the air. Remember, when Madam Hooch gave us our introduction to broomsticks, mine never responded to me the way yours did. It was telling me that I was better off staying on the ground, and I totally agreed. I only showed up for the lesson because it was on the schedule, and I hadn’t yet developed my, I guess you’d call it my rebellious streak. When we were in the key chamber, I was so caught up in the desperation of the moment, I never gave a thought to what I was doing. We needed the key, and the brooms were the only way to catch it, so I acted without thinking. I think I must have subconsciously blocked out the fear so I could do what needed doing. But when we were done, I promised myself I’d never fly on a broom again.”

Harry well remembered that first flying lesson Hermione had just referenced. How could he ever forget it? If he hadn’t jumped on his broom, against Madam Hooch’s orders, and gone after Malfoy to retrieve the Remembrall he’d stolen from Neville, Professor McGonagall never would have recruited him to be Gryffindor’s Seeker.

But if that memory was as sharp now as it ever was, so, too, was the scene Hermione had recounted wherein her broom had reacted in a radically different manner than his had done. When the first-year Gryffindors and Slytherins each stood before a broom and, with hands outstretched, commanded “Up!”, Harry’s broom had leapt straight into his hand like a faithful pet responding to its master’s voice. By stark contrast, Hermione’s broom had done nothing more than roll over on the ground. Brooms, it appeared, had a kind of sense about them, whereby they could detect who was meant to fly and who was better served remaining earthbound. Lacking a voice, Hermione’s broom had nevertheless spoken clearly. Rather than rising up, it remained steadfast, as it to affirm that Hermione’s feet, perhaps mirroring her innate sensibility, were best disposed to remain anchored on solid ground.

“When we were all flying about in the paddock last year,” Harry said, “it was easy to see that you hadn’t flown in a bit. But all the same, I could see you were giving it your best effort. There wasn’t an ounce of fear in your eyes. I never gave it any thought then. I was too caught up in the match, I suppose.”

Hermione’s expression was intent, her eyes hard. There was no need for her to speak. Like the broom lying on the grass at Hogwarts, her silence spoke clearly.

“How could you have been affected the way you think you were if we hadn’t gone back to Hogwarts yet?” Harry said. “You weren’t threatening anyone at the Burrow. And even if you were, what could they gain by having you fly a broom in a Quidditch game against your nature?”

“That’s what’s got me all in knots,” Hermione said. “What could the Burrow possibly have in common with Hogwarts that would explain it all? The only common denominator is us – you, me, Ron and Ginny. There’s no way one of us would do something like that to the others. And for what purpose? It doesn’t make any sense.”

As if to underscore this statement, Hermione crumpled the parchment she’d been writing on and flung it across the room.

“You told me something once, when you were helping me with a homework assignment,” Harry said. “It was from Sherlock Holmes. You said that after you’ve eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. If the four of us are the only common denominator, then that must be the answer. And since Ginny hasn’t really been a part of our group all that much, until we all went to the Ministry together, that narrows it down to Ron and me. Somehow, one of us must be causing these changes in you.”

“I don’t want to believe that,” Hermione said. “But I think I’d already come to that conclusion. I just – I wouldn’t accept it until someone other than myself said it out loud.”

“I have a lot of enemies,” Harry said. “There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t worry about someone close to me being hurt because of me. Cedric and I weren’t friends in any sense, but he died because of me. And there isn’t a single bad thing that’s ever happened to you or Ron that didn’t happen because of me. Do you think...” Harry swallowed hard. “Do you think Voldemort’s making me do something to you? You said you were sure you weren’t acting under the Imperius all those times. But what if I was being controlled? What if Voldemort – ”

“No,” Hermione said quickly. “You said Dumbledore told you that Voldemort had closed off his connection with you. He can’t afford to have you see what he’s planning, and the only way to do that was for him to completely sever his mind link with you. And we’ve already established that I’m not a big enough threat in Voldemort’s eyes that he’d risk his plans being exposed by invading your mind again. There has to be another answer.”

“I have to be the one,” Harry said painfully. “It can’t be Ron. If Voldemort isn’t worried about you, I can’t imagine he’d be all that fussed about Ron. And it goes without saying that Ron himself would never do anything to hurt you, especially the way he – ”

Harry cut himself off, fearing he might have said more than was necessary. But Hermione seemed not to be listening. She was sitting with her hands over her eyes, oblivious to everything around her, including Harry. He immediately sensed that this was not a duplication of her miserable state in Hagrid’s cabin. She was merely thinking, shutting out everything that might distract her from finding the answer that she so desperately needed to find. Harry thought it best to remain silent so as not to disturb Hermione’s thoughts. He began to look around the dormitory, seeking something to occupy his own thoughts while Hermione was engaged. He saw Hermione’s night table, and his eyes wandered over the items arranged neatly within the small square. An oil lamp sat squarely in the center, by which light Harry could imagine Hermione poring over textbooks and homework until the small hours of the night.

There was nothing on the table to interest Harry. Everything there was what Ron would call “girl stuff.” Without knowing why, Harry was drawn to a small rectangular bottle of green glass, with a large stopper shaped like an egg. It was about 2/3 full of a colorless liquid (or maybe it was green; either way, the color of the bottle was not compromised by its contents). Turning it about, Harry saw that there was no label on the bottle, nothing to indicate what its contents might be.

“Hermione,” Harry said absently, unmindful that he was breaking his vow not to disturb her meditation, “what’s this?”

For a moment, neither moved. Hermione’s hands dropped away and she turned slowly.

“Did you say something, Harry?”

“What’s this bottle?” Harry asked, holding it out for Hermione to see. “There’s no label on it. It isn’t something dangerous, is it? Something someone slipped onto your table without your knowing? I mean, you said you thought someone had been dosing you with something. Only if there’s no markings on it – ”

“No,” Hermione smiled, seeing the bottle in Harry’s hand. “It’s nothing like that. It’s only...”

A change came over Hermione that was so sudden that Harry felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. Very slowly, Hermione took the bottle from Harry and stared at it, her eyes growing round with something like astonishment, mixed with a touch of horror.

“No,” she whispered. “I can’t believe it. He’d never.”

“Hermione?” Harry said, his fear rising. “What is it? What’s in that bottle?”

“But this has to be the answer,” Hermione said, as if she had not heard Harry’s question. Her whole manner seemed to be turned inward. Nodding to herself, she said, “This is when it all began. How could I not have seen? It was right there under my nose all along...right under...”

A small laugh escaped Hermione’s lips. Turning her head, she saw Harry staring at her uncomprehendingly, almost fearfully.

“Hermione!” Harry said forcefully. “What is it? What’s in that bloody bottle?”

Composing herself, Hermione nodded at the bottle and said, “Don’t you recognize it? You’ve seen it before. At Sirius’ house. Go on, have a look. Better yet, take the stopper off and have a sniff."

Keeping one eye on Hermione, Harry removed the egg-shaped stopper and held it under his nose. At first his expression did not change. He inhaled again. Now that he thought on it, there was something familiar about that oddly pungent aroma. Where had he smelt it before?

And all at once, he remembered. His face assumed an aspect of disbelief, along with a measure of the horror he’d seen in Hermione’s eyes.

“No!” he said. “He can’t have done! I mean – he’d never!”

“You’re right,” Hermione said, her manner oddly composed now. “He wouldn’t. Not ever.”

“But if he didn’t,” Harry said, “then who – ” Harry felt his lightning scar begin to pulse, in such manner as it had not done for more than a year. “I was right! It was Voldemort, or more likely one of his Death Eaters. They put a girl here at the school under the Imperius, like they did Madam Rosmerta – there were loads of Hogsmeade trips when they could have done – and she came in one day when you were in class – ”

But Hermione shook her head.

“No, it’s no one here at the school.”

“Are you saying you know who did this?” Harry asked, for there was now a conviction in Hermione’s voice, in her whole manner, that had not been present only a moment ago.

“I’m 99% certain,” Hermione said. “But in deference to that one per cent, I’m going to give things a nudge with a spell I learnt in Advanced Charms this year.”

Hermione drew her wand and waved it over the bottle. The green glass glowed pink for a few seconds before resuming its natural color.

“Harry,” Hermione asked in a calm voice, “do you have your dad’s cloak handy?”

“The Invisibility Cloak?” Harry said. “Yeah, it’s in my trunk.”

“Would you please bring it here?”

Knowing that further discussion was profitless, Harry descended the staircase and went up to his own dormitory. Neville was gone, probably to the owlry to post his letter. Dean’s feet were still sticking out at the end of his bed, motionless. Harry opened his trunk and took out the Invisibility Cloak. Closing the trunk lid noiselessly so as not to awaken Dean, Harry went down and again mounted the stairs to Hermione’s dormitory. As before, the steps did not collapse, but allowed him to complete his journey without incident. Hermione smiled when she saw the silvery cloak draped over Harry’s arm.

“I don’t know if we’re allowed to leave the school grounds,” Hermione said as she ran her hand over the watery fabric gently. “If I were Professor McGonagall, I wouldn’t let anyone go, given what’s just happened.”

“But we’re going,” Harry said, divining Hermione’s meaning. “Where?”

“First, to Hogsmeade,” Hermione said. This was no more than Harry expected. But her next words surprised him. “Then to Diagon Alley.”

“Is that wise?” Harry asked as Hermione continued to run her hand along the cloak idly. “You said it yourself, after what just happened – ”

“When you went off to the Department of Mysteries a year ago,” Hermione said, “you knew there was danger, but you went anyway, because it was something you had to do. This is something I have to do.”

Harry nodded. “What do you think Professor McGonagall will do if she finds out?” he asked.

“No telling,” Hermione said. “But there’s an old saying I heard somewhere,” she added, a razor-thin smile appearing on her face. “It’s easier to ask forgiveness after than get permission before.”

Hermione pocketed the green bottle, then opened the top right-hand drawer of her vanity. She took out a small pouch, and Harry did not have to ask its contents as he had done the bottle. Hermione tucked the pouch into another pocket and closed the drawer. Harry thought she was done, but she proceeded to open another drawer and reach inside probingly. When her hand emerged, Harry noted with curiosity the object held between her thumb and first finger.

“Spellotape? What do you need that for?”

But Hermione’s only reply was a cryptic smile as she tucked the tape into the same pocket as the pouch and stood, closing the drawer smoothly as she rose. Nodding her readiness, Hermione bent her head slightly as Harry threw the cloak over the two of them. As they had both grown a bit since the last time they’d shared the cloak, they had to stand very close to avoid their feet showing. Harry didn’t mind at all.

“There’s one thing you still haven’t told me,” Harry said as they moved toward the door, Hermione preceding him so that Harry, who was taller, could look over the top of her head. “How did you manage to get the staircase to let me climb up here without collapsing under me?”

“Oh,” Hermione said, and though Harry could not see her face, he knew from the way that her cheeks suddenly went round that she was smiling. “I cast a special Charm on the stairs. I nicked a lock of your hair when you weren’t looking. The spell wouldn’t have worked without it.”

“What did the spell do?” Harry asked. Immediately he saw Hermione’s cheeks go pink.

“There’s one way to get around the no-boys enchantment,” she said. “The only way the stairs will let a male walk up is – is if he’s married to the girl at the top. According to Hogwarts, A History, that’s happened a few times – seventh-year students are of age – even some sixth-years, as I demonstrated this year – and though the school doesn’t encourage students to marry before they complete their training, there’s no rule against it. That would be an abridgement of personal freedom, something the wizarding world embraces to the fullest degree.”

“How does the spell work?” Harry asked.

“When a wizard couple gets married,” Hermione explained, “the ceremony commonly includes a spell that harmonizes their bio-signatures. That way they can pass through the same wards and such, almost as if they were the same person – that’s a bit of what marriage is about, you know, the ‘two becoming one’ – I imagine Bill and Fleur will do something like that during their ceremony. I’ve always thought...”

Hermione paused, and Harry almost thought he could feel the added heat from the blush that he sensed was spreading across her face.

“The Weasleys probably use a similar spell to allow the family to Apparate into and out of the Burrow,” she resumed in a more casual voice. “The spell I cast won’t last long, but while it does, the stairs will be fooled into thinking that you and I are, well...”

Harry was speechless as they walked down the stairs and into the common room. Two first-year girls were sitting on the hearth, staring expectantly into the empty grate. Harry supposed that they were waiting for a fire communication from a parent, much as he had sat waiting for the face of Sirius to appear during the Triwizard Tournament. Easing Hermione ahead of him, Harry reached out and pushed open the portrait. They stepped through the hole and let the painting of the Fat Lady swing closed.

“Is – is someone there?” the Fat Lady said in a slightly slurred voice. Turning his head, Harry saw several empty boxes scattered around the Fat Lady, boxes that had once held chocolate liqueurs. Confident that she was so tipsy that she would not remember this moment five minutes from now, Harry turned his face forward without another thought.

The corridors were nearly deserted. Harry and Hermione walked down the marble staircase, through the Entrance Hall and out through the great oak doors. With slow, rhythmic steps, they walked the path to Hogsmeade, arriving in the little wizarding village some twenty minutes later. There were scarcely more people on the streets than had been in the castle. Nevertheless, Harry and Hermione remained under the cloak, lest a teacher (most likely Hagrid) appear and order them – perhaps even escort them – back to school.

They entered the Three Broomsticks, finding it sparsely filled with witches and wizards deep in their cups. A quick surveillance assured them that none of the patrons was from Hogwarts. Removing the cloak in a shadowed corner, they walked up to the fireplace unchallenged, Harry tucking his cloak into his robes. Hermione took out her pouch and opened it, holding it out to Harry. He dipped inside and came out with a pinch of silvery powder. With a last look at the patrons (none of whom seemed to care about anything but how full their glasses were), Harry tossed the powder into the grate. Emerald flames erupted, and, linking arms, Harry and Hermione leapt into them with a shout of “Diagon Alley!”

They emerged from a fireplace in a shop they did not recognize. For a moment, Harry feared that they had come out in Knockturn Alley, as he had done four years ago. But there was nothing sinister about the proprietor, a bent old witch with a kindly face now marked with the unmistakable brand of fear. She regarded Harry and Hermione with trepidation, and they left quickly, lest the old woman faint dead away.

After a quick tidying up (courtesy of Hermione’s Cleansing Spell), they gained their bearings and made their way unerringly to a shop that, if not exactly overflowing with customers, was yet not as empty as the other shops. While they waited for the last customer to be served, Harry saw Hermione fumbling with something inside her pocket. Perhaps the drawstring on her Floo pouch had come loose, he speculated, and she was tightening it to avoid the powder spilling out. It wouldn’t do for them to be stranded in Diagon Alley with an empty pouch. Bad enough they had left the school without permission without adding unlicensed Apparation to their transgressions.

At last the shop was empty of all save the two proprietors standing behind the counter. Glancing casually up and down the narrow street, Harry and Hermione entered, closing the door behind them. Harry was only a little surprised when Hermione took the sign in the window reading OPEN and turned it around so that the other side, reading CLOSED, was facing the street. Taking no chances, she drew her wand and pointed it at the door handle, muttering, “Colloportis!” The lock clicked, and Hermione pocketed her wand.

The two wizards standing behind the counter had not yet spoken. They, like the rest of the inhabitants of Diagon Alley, showed signs of lost sleep. But they smiled as best they could when Harry and Hermione walked up to them.

“Harry,” Fred Weasley said. “Hermione. What are you doing here? Don’t tell me you two did a runner like George and I did last year?” His smile faded as he asked cautiously, “They didn’t close the school, did they?”

“No,” Harry said. “It’s still open, for now. The Board of Governors might want to close it, but McGonagall is confident that she and the other teachers can convince them to keep it open.”

“That’s good,” George said. “It wouldn’t be the same without Hogwarts, would it? Had some of our best times there, didn’t we, Fred?”

“So,” Fred said, returning to his original question, “why are you here?”

Harry wasn’t sure, but he thought he detected a note of panic underneath Fred’s casual manner. Though Hermione had as yet said nothing to him about the purpose of their visit, Harry was beginning to formulate a theory, though the full story, he knew, was a long way from the telling. But if his suspicions held even a gram of truth –

“I’ve come to ask you something,” Hermione said. She dipped her hand into her pocket and set the featureless green bottle on the counter. “Have you ever seen this before?”

“Dunno,” Fred said, giving the bottle a passing glance. “How about you, George?”

George looked at the bottle and shrugged. “I’ve seen loads of bottles like it. There’s a shop around the corner that sells them. They sell every sort of bottle you can think of. People who brew their own potions need something to keep them in, don’t they?”

“Yes,” Hermione agreed placidly. “They do. Do you know what’s in this bottle?”

“Well, there’s no label on it, is there?” Fred said. “Could be anything.”

“It’s perfume,” Hermione said. “Do you know where I got it?”

“I will as soon as you tell me,” Fred said with a jaunty smile.

“Ron gave it to me Christmas before last,” Hermione said. “It was when we were staying at Grimmauld place, just after your dad had been attacked by Voldemort’s snake. You remember, Harry saved your dad’s life when he saw the attack in his mind and told Dumbledore.”

“Never forget that night,” Fred said, and his brother nodded heavily.

“It was very sweet of Ron to give me a present like this, wasn’t it?” Hermione said. “I imagine he wanted me to know that he knew I was a girl, something I accused him of overlooking when he was trying to find a date for the Yule Ball.”

“That’s our Ronnikins,” Fred grinned. “Romantic to a fault.”

“I never thought to wonder,” Hermione said thoughtfully, her eyes drifting over the bottle, “where Ron found the money to buy me this. What do you suppose?”

“Well,” George said casually, “I expect he saved his pocket money, didn’t he?”

“Well, now, that’s the odd thing, isn’t it?” Hermione said, her eyes still caressing the bottle. “When I was handing out the fake Galleons we used to signal each other when to come to the next D.A. meeting, Harry said our only worry was that we’d get them mixed in with real Galleons and spend them accidentally.” Looking up now, she asked, “Do you know what Ron said to that?” When Fred and George responded with a bemused expression, Hermione returned her eyes to the bottle and replied, “He said there was no danger he’d do that, because he didn’t have any real Galleons to confuse it with. That was before Christmas. If Ron hadn’t any money then, how did he manage to buy me this splendid Christmas present?”

Fred and George looked at Hermione, then at each other.

“Dunno,” Fred said, his smile fixed firmly in place. “Maybe he found some Skiving Snackboxes in our old dormitory and sold them. We left in a bit of a hurry, as you recall. Didn’t have time to pack up, as it were. I expect Ronnikins was having a look through our trunks before having them sent home to Mum and Dad, and he saw an opportunity to make a bit of money. I mean, there was no sense letting them sit there going to waste after we did our runner, was there? Not exactly sporting of him, capitalizing on our hard work that way, but I suppose we can’t fault him for his ingenuity. In fact, I reckon it does a bloke proud to think that his little brother’s taken a leaf from his book, right, George?”

“Couldn’t have put it better myself,” George said.

“I suppose that’s possible,” Hermione said placidly. “But I think it’s more likely that Ron confided his dilemma to someone he thought could help him. He told this person – or persons – that he wanted to buy me something that would show he appreciated my, shall we say, ‘girlishness.’ He thought a bottle of perfume would be just the thing, but unfortunately he hadn’t the price of such a gift, and wouldn’t it be grand if this someone – or someones – would see their way clear to help him out – say, brother helping brother?”

“An interesting notion,” Fred said, and George nodded his agreement. “But little brother knows that we have a strict policy never to lend money to anyone.”

“And that applies double to family members,” George said.

“Yes,” Hermione agreed. “If I learnt anything from your embryonic business endeavors at Hogwarts two years ago, it’s that there’s no profit in giving something for nothing.”

“Well said, Hermione,” Fred smiled, and George nodded.

“But I also recall,” Hermione went on, “that you never missed a chance to test some new creation on an unsuspecting student so you could monitor the results with an eye toward future sales. Before I put a stop to it, you plied dozens of unwary students with Fainting Fancies, Nosebleed Nougats, Puking Pastilles – and who can forget the Ton-Tongue Toffee you maneuvered Dudley Dursley into eating?”

“One of our finest moments, that was,” George glowed reminiscently.

“I only wish we’d hung around long enough to see it for ourselves,” Fred said. “All we ever had was Dad’s description, and Harry’s, of course. Blimey, if we could have got just one photo to hang on this wall...”

“But that was only the beginning for Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes, wasn’t it?” Hermione said. “Who’d have dreamed then you’d have a marvelous shop like this one less than two years later?”

“Hard work,” Fred said with satisfaction, his eyes wandering around the shop.

“And, of course, a fair bit of ingenuity,” George said.

“But ingenuity doesn’t bear fruit overnight,” Hermione said. “You knew you weren’t the only joke shop around, and the only way you were going to compete with established firms like Zonko’s was through innovation. You’d make your mark not by selling the same old items as the others, but by creating new and better ones, conjured from your own twisted but admittedly brilliant minds.”

“You’re making us blush, Hermione,” Fred grinned.

“But,” Hermione continued, “before you can dazzle the wizarding world with these new wonders, first you have to develop them. You have to experiment with various combinations of spells and potions. And when you’ve come up with something that looks promising, the next step is to test it. I remember you did a lot of testing at Hogwarts, using First Years as your subjects.”

“Until you waved your prefect badge under our noses and shut us down,” George said with an unabashed grin.

“But we’re not in school now, are we?” Fred said, his smug expression a mirror of his twin’s.

“But you still have to test whatever you create before you’re entitled to market it, don’t you?" Hermione said. “I remember when we came to visit you a year ago, you were doing a smashing business with a new item. What was it, now? Oh, yes, I remember. It was a love potion.”

Harry, standing mutely at Hermione’s side, saw Fred’s and George’s smiles retreat slightly.

“I imagine you had to do a lot of testing before you got the formula just right and could get the Ministry’s approval to sell it to the public,” Hermione said, her eyes narrowing in concert with a hard smile that seemed to grow in direct proportion to the ones slowly vanishing from Fred’s and George’s faces. “Who was your test subject then? Anyone we know?”

Fred and George were trying desperately to smile, but Harry saw that it was becoming more and more difficult as the seconds dragged by.

“When Ron told you what he wanted," Hermione said, her smile becoming more like the grimace of a shark, “you saw the perfect chance to test your new concoction. You gave Ron this bottle, probably telling him that one of you had bought it as a Christmas present for some girl, but you’d gladly give it to Ron to give to me – brother helping brother, and all that. Ron had no idea that there was anything but perfume in here, did he? He’d never have given it to me if he thought you were using him to use me as a test subject for an experimental potion.”

Fred’s smile was now back in place, though Harry thought it was hanging by a thread. George was attempting to imitate his brother, but with limited success.

“There’s only one thing wrong with that theory, luv,” Fred said. “We already told we’ve never seen that bottle before, didn’t we?”

“Are you absolutely sure?” Hermione asked. “You said yourself that it’s a common bottle that the shop around the corner sells by the hundreds. But no two objects are precisely alike, are they? Maybe you’ve seen it without realizing it. Have a closer look. That way we can remove all doubt.”

With a glance at his brother, Fred shrugged and picked up the bottle, making a show of peering at it closely.

“Nope,” he said at last. “Sorry. How about you, George?”

Leaning close to the bottle in his brother’s hand, George said a bit too quickly, “Looks like just another bottle to me.”

“Right,” Hermione said in a slightly defeated voice. “I’ll have it back, then.”

Harry was amazed that Hermione had abandoned her crusade so meekly. She’d been positively on fire at Hogwarts, convinced beyond doubt that she was dead-on. Harry watched as Fred made to hand the bottle back to Hermione.

But he couldn’t. The thread holding his smile in place snapped. George eyed his brother with a bemused expression, his own fragile smile melting away.

“What’s wrong, Fred?” George said. “Hand it back.”

“I can’t,” Fred said. “It’s stuck to my hand.” His eyes swerved away from his brother as he said, “What are you playing at, Hermione? Did you put a delayed Sticking Charm on this ruddy thing?”

“No,” Hermione said through a hard smile. “It’s a Biomagnetic Charm, actually. Before leaving Hogwarts, I Charmed the bottle to be magnetically attracted to anyone who had touched it, no matter how long ago. I activated the spell just before I came in. I wouldn’t have been able to release it from my own hand if not for this.”

Hermione presented her hand palm-up, her fingers spread. Bending slightly, Harry saw that the tips of her fingers were wrapped in clear Spellotape. Now he knew what she was doing when her hand was fumbling inside her pocket outside the shop. She methodically pulled the tape from her fingers, crumpled it and tossed it unerringly into a waste bin sitting at the end of the counter, never taking her eyes off Fred and George. Harry couldn’t help but wonder if, but for her fear of flying, she might have made a passable Chaser.

Her normally soft eyes now hard as flint, Hermione said very softly, “The only way that bottle could be sticking to your hand is if you’d touched it sometime in the past. But how could you have touched it when you just told me you’d never seen it before?”

“We, uh...” Fred stammered.

“We helped Ron wrap it,” George said, nearly stumbling over the words as they spilled out. “That’s right, I forgot, we helped him wrap it after he bought it. You know Ron, he’s useless at that sort of thing.”

“Where did he buy it?” Hermione said in a low, venomous voice. “The shops in Hogsmeade never extend credit to students. If he hadn’t any money, how was he able to buy it?”

Harry watched as Fred and George began to deflate, much as Harry imagined his Aunt Marge diminishing after the Ministry undid his unintentional magic at the Dursleys four years ago.

“It’s no good, Fred,” George said. “I knew this day would come. Ron always said Hermione was the cleverest witch at Hogwarts. Leave it to us not to pay attention the one time in his life he got something right.”

Hermione drew her wand and waved it over Fred’s hand. The bottle began to glow softly, and Fred set in down on the counter with a look that Harry had only ever seen on Ron’s face when Barty Crouch, in his guise of Mad-Eye Moody, had enlarged a spider to the size of a dinner plate just under Ron’s nose.

“What’s in that bottle?” Hermione asked. “I’ve a good notion, but I want to hear it from you.”

“It’s not a love potion,” Fred said. “Not in the sense of the stuff you saw us selling here in the shop last year.”

“It’s based on something we were working on just before we left Hogwarts in such spectacular fashion,” George said. “We could have made a fortune on it at exam time if we could’ve got it to work properly.”

“When we were studying for our O.W.L.’s three years ago,” Fred said, ignoring the sardonic look that suddenly appeared on Hermione’s face, “we noticed that everyone seemed to have at least one subject they were good at, and one other they were bleedin’ horrible at. So we reckoned we might do well to create something that would sort of turn their brains around for a couple of hours.”

“The formula was designed to make the drinker’s brain do a turnaround,” George elaborated. “Observation had taught us that everyone’s brain functions differently in regard to the things they do well and those they do poorly. Like that mate of yours, the one who turned the boggart into Snape wearing his gran’s dress – the whole school was talking about that for weeks. Anyway, we heard that while he was bugger-all at Potions, he was a ruddy genius in Herbology. But one sip of our formula before exams, his brain would suddenly turn arse over and he’d get his best Potions grade ever. Of course, during that time, he wouldn’t know a bubotuber from a mimbulus mimbletonia, so he had to be careful not to take the formula too close to his next exam. But quick as the dose wore off, he’d back in form as if nothing had happened. Fred and I reckoned that, between O.W.L.’s and N.E.W.T.’s, we’d make a fortune.”

“But there was a problem,” Fred took over the narrative from George, whom Hermione was now regarding with an almost palpable abhorrence. “We both tested it on ourselves, because you wouldn’t let us carry on using students as test subjects as we had been. What with all the projects we had going then, we’d been slipping a bit in Transfiguration, so we took a dose before class, and it was like everything McGonagall had been saying all month suddenly made sense.”

“Only while we were riding the crest of the wave in Transfiguration,” George put in, “we realized that we’d forgotten nearly everything we’d learned that term in Charms class, which was always our best subject. We expected that to happen, so we weren’t fussed, since we knew we’d be back to normal once the dose wore off. Except – ”

“Except it didn’t wear off when we calculated it should have done,” Fred resumed. “It should have gone through our systems in no more than two hours, which would have carried us through a double class if need be. Only it took nearly two days before the effects wore off completely. Good job we had McGonagall’s class on Friday. If it had taken any longer, we’d have looked a right pair of twits in Flitwick’s class on Monday, wouldn’t we?"

Hermione’s eyes narrowed as if to imply that they had always been a pair of twits in her judgment, but rather than give voice to this observation, she merely asked, “When did Ron enter the equation?”

“Well,” George said, “when the formula didn’t work out the way we reckoned, we just put it aside and redirected our energies toward other, more profitable goals. I mean, the Skiving Snackboxes were doing smashingly, and we had to keep turning them out. Didn’t want to disappoint our clientele, did we? We’d completely forgotten about it when Ron started going on at Sirius’ house about wanting to buy you something for Christmas that would show that he appreciated your feminine qualities, as it were. It was like a light went on in our heads. We – ”

George looked at his brother, who turned to Harry and Hermione with a deeply haunted look in his eyes.

“Like George said, observation is one of our strongest assets. We can look at people and judge what their wants are so we can hopefully fulfill those wants to our profit. We’d been watching the two of you in relation to Ron, and we both saw clear signs that Ron was developing a fancy for Hermione. But it was just as clear,” and he looked straight at Hermione, “that you were beginning to fancy Harry. As for you, mate,” and his eyes shifted to Harry, “you were a ruddy mystery. It was no surprise when you took a fancy to Cho. We’d played against her before, remember. She was always a smashing bird, and anyone who didn’t see it was either blind or stupid. But through it all, we kept seeing little things that made us think you’d eventually turn to Hermione. I mean, blimey, we heard what Dad said during the Quidditch World Cup about not going for looks alone. What in the bleeding hell did you think he was talking about? After that, we thought sure you’d ask Hermione to the Yule Ball, especially after we heard that Cho was going with Diggory.”

“But when you didn’t,” George took up where Fred left off, “it seemed to us that all bets were off. Ron is our brother, and just because we take the mickey out of him every chance we get, that doesn’t mean we’re not spot-on for him when the potion starts to boil over. It seemed like a simple equation, really. Our brother fancies a bird who also fancies a bit of him, but there’s this other bloke she fancies more, only – ”

“Only this other bloke hasn’t given her the slightest sign that he fancies her,” Fred said, his eyes fixing pointedly on Harry.

“So,” George said, “all things considered, we thought it was time to give things a push in Ron’s direction.”

Fred regarded Hermione with an uncommon earnestness as he said, “It had nothing to do with making a profit. It was all about Ron. When he came to us with his problem, we didn’t have to talk it over, George and I. We just looked at each other and we knew what we had to do.”

“We’d never have considered it if we didn’t know you did fancy Ron just a bit,” George said. “I know you and he had some terrible rows, but it was obvious that all you ever wanted was what was best for Ron. And the more we looked at it, the more it seemed to us that the best thing for Ron was you. And if you didn’t see it, it was up to Fred and me to, well, sort of help things along.”

“When we looked at the whole picture,” Fred said, “it seemed that Harry – sorry, mate – that whether he knew it or not, Harry was standing in the way of you and Ron being together, where we reckoned you belonged. I mean, if Harry wasn’t going to take his ruddy head out of his arse and see what a smashing bird you were...”

“One thing we spotted about you straight off,” George said, “is that you make the best use of your time, and you can’t bear to see it wasted. So why should you waste all those months, maybe years, waiting for a bloke who didn’t fancy you, when there was someone else right in front of you who’d do anything to make you happy?”

“Well, not anything,” Fred said with a crooked smile. “He never did make a bash out of his prefecture, did he? I reckon it’s true that you can’t make a silk purse out of a dragon’s – ”

“Anyway,” George said, “when Ron came to us that day, we took one look at each other, and it’s like we could read each other’s mind.”

“We do that a lot, actually,” Fred said.

“We never really bin anything we create,” George said. “If something doesn’t work the way it should, we just set it aside and come back to it later. Time lends a fresh perspective to everything. Something that’s useless for one thing might be dead-on for something else. So when Ron told us what he wanted, we realized that the time had come to blow the dust off our old formula.”

“We reckoned that, by making a few changes in the basic chemistry,” Fred said, “we might be able to turn it into something that would work on the emotion centers of the brain rather than the logic centers.”

“And we found that the new formula worked just as well if it were absorbed into the skin rather than drunk,” George said. “We had to thin it out a bit to do that, but it worked out better that way, actually. Being absorbed into the system gradually, it would become more a part of the subject’s physiology.”

“And,” Fred said, “we realized that the change would seem more natural if it happened slowly rather than just exploding in the subject’s face like a dung bomb.”

“Ron had no idea what was in that bottle,” George said unnecessarily. “When he told us what he wanted., we realized that we could add our formula to a bottle of real perfume without altering the basic properties. You’re right about one thing, we had a bottle of perfume that was going to be a present for a bird down at the pub. We couldn’t use the original bottle, it was too small. We calculated how much of both parts we had to mix, and in the end we took an empty bottle,” his eyes fell onto the bottle sitting on the counter between himself and Hermione, “and mixed the two portions together. You probably spotted that the result was a bit, well, unusual.”

Hermione’s face twitched, and Harry suddenly remembered when she’d come down on Christmas morning to thank Harry for the book he’d given her, thereafter telling Ron in regard to his present, “That perfume is really unusual.”

“To sum up, then,” Fred said as he stared soberly at the innocent-looking bottle in front of him, “the formula still works pretty much the way it always did, by turning a weakness into a strength and vice-versa. In this case, it dampened your feelings for Harry while increasing the fancy you already had for Ron. That’s all there is to it, really.”

Fred fell silent, and George, having nothing to add, remained mute as the statue of the one-eyed witch at Hogwarts whose humped back concealed the secret passage leading to the cellar under Honeydukes Sweet Shop. All eyes now rested on the bottle on the counter. Hermione picked it up and stared at it intently.

“When I was going over the list of all the things I’ve done that I didn’t understand,” Hermione said, her eyes fixed unblinkingly on the bottle in her hand, “I realized that everything started at Christmas. Before then, everything was going along more or less normally. You’re right when you described it as unusual. That’s exactly what I told Ron when he gave it to me. It was like nothing I’d ever smelt before. To be honest, I didn’t really care for it, but I didn’t want to hurt Ron’s feelings by not using it.” A curious smile tugged unexpectedly at the corners of her mouth. “Whenever Ron and I had a row and I wanted to make it up to him without actually apologizing, I’d get this bottle out and splash a dab on my neck. That way, quick as he got a whiff, he’d know I wasn’t as angry as I’d been and he could take the next step toward making peace, his pride salved by the fact that I’d made the first effort. It was an odd sort of dance, that,” she smiled wanly, “but it managed to keep the peace between us when words never seemed to work.

“After a bit,” she went on, “I began to use it any time I thought Ron needed some cheering up, like when he was nervous about trying out for Seeker. I figured it would boost his confidence to know that his gift was still appreciated after all that time.”

Harry remembered the “helping hand” Hermione had given Ron last year by casting a Confundus Charm on Cormac McLaggen, who threatened to win the Seeker job from Ron in the preseason tryouts. With his mind Confunded, McLaggen had flown the wrong way on his final attempt, removing himself from the competition and virtually handing the Seeker’s position to Ron. Harry had wondered then what had prompted Hermione to do something so unethical. He remembered, too, seeing that incident on the list in Hermione’s dormitory less than an hour ago. That puzzling action, along with the others inscribed on Hermione’s parchment, was a mystery no longer.

“I wore it at the party celebrating Gryffindor’s Quidditch victory over Hufflepuff,” she said, her throat tightening momentarily. This required no elaboration for Harry. He knew now why Hermione had reacted so strongly to Ron kissing Lavender in the common room. “And I wore it on his birthday,” she said, “as a sort of extra present, you might say, to make him feel extra special on his special day.”

Neither was this a surprise to Harry, though he’d not given the matter any thought until now. It was a confession that spoke volumes. He recalled Hermione’s aspect in the hours following Ron’s brush with death when he drank poisoned mead intended for Dumbledore. When she finally spoke after a distraught silence lasting hours, she had sounded very much like someone with a bad head cold. It was clear that she had been crying over Ron, her heart torn asunder at the thought of losing him. It was not unlike how she had cried over Harry following his first encounter with Voldemort at the end of their first year, which had nearly cost him his life.

Hermione lifted her eyes from the bottle and stared at Fred and George, who cringed slightly.

“I always put it away when I went home for the Summer holidays,” she said. “I only wore it for Ron’s sake, and as I said, I never really fancied it. Quick as I put it away, my mind would clear up and I’d start thinking normally again. That’s what kept throwing me off when I was trying to find some common thread linking all the odd events that were adding up bit by bit. At first I thought it was only at Hogwarts that I’d acted out of character. But when I came to the Burrow last year, I splashed a bit of perfume on first thing, just so Ron would know I hadn’t stopped using it. When I went up on that broom, that was the first odd thing I’d done someplace other than Hogwarts, and the first I’d done since leaving school. That’s when I should have realized at once that there was something wrong.”

“What do you mean?” Fred asked, exchanging a confused look with his brother.

“Ron wanted to have a Quidditch practice in the paddock,” Hermione said. "Harry and me against Ginny and him. And without a moment’s hesitation, I got on a broom and flew it like it was the most natural thing in the world. And not just the once, mind, but day after day, and never giving it the slightest thought.” She shuddered slightly, as if a cold breeze had swept through the shop.

“What’s unusual about that?” Fred said blankly.

“I’m afraid to fly,” Hermione said simply. “Just the thought of my feet leaving the ground makes me shiver.” Staring fixedly at the bottle again, she said, “I can see it all so plainly now. Every day I’d start out by dabbing on some of Ron’s perfume. Ginny’d seen me do it the first time, and she reckoned it was a sweet gesture and I should keep on doing it. Looking back, I think she was doing a bit of matchmaking, but in the end I kept on, knowing how much it would please Ron. And every day we went out to the paddock to play Quidditch, and I got bolder and bolder, even if I couldn’t fly worth a hippogriff’s backside.”

Harry expected another smile to appear on Hermione’s face. Instead, her aspect became even darker.

“Do you understand what I’m saying?” she demanded softly, her gaze lancing Fred and George over the top of the bottle hovering before her face.

Fred and George both shook their heads.

“It means,” Hermione said slowly, forming every word with utmost care, “that this concoction of yours – this bloody emotional pendulum you mixed up – does more than reverse love. It also reverses fear. I should have been afraid all those times, but I wasn’t. And if that was the first time it happened, it wasn’t the last.”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat as the full impact of Hermione’s words hit him like a charging skrewt. If her fear of flying had been reversed into fearlessness, then it also held that, in situations where Hermione would normally be fearless, she would instead fall prey to doubts and indecision. But was there more to it? Fred and George had said that the original formula was designed to work on the part of the brain devoted to logic and reason, being modified only later to instead affect emotions. But by their own admission, the formula was still in the testing stage. What if it were affecting both reason and emotion? What if it had done just that during the attack on Hogwarts?

By Hermione’s own account (Harry had not been present), she, along with Ron and Ginny, had done brilliantly against the Death Eaters when under the sway of the Felix Felicis. But when the potion wore off during Hermione’s vigil outside Snape’s office, the power in that innocuous-looking green bottle now cradled in her palm had quickly asserted its control over her. When she should have acted with razor-sharp decisiveness, she displayed, by her own admission, utter foolishness. When she should have been fearless –

A sudden thought flashed in Harry’s brain, as if a window long closed had suddenly burst open to let in an illuminating light. Fear. What was it? Was it not different things to different people? Surely the fears that were Harry’s constant companions were not the same ones that haunted his friends. What would Hermione’s greatest fear be? To a mind as ordered and disciplined as Hermione’s, surely there could be no greater demon than a fear of failure. Harry remembered Hermione bursting wild-eyed and screaming from the trunk containing the boggart in their third-year Defense Against the Dark Arts exam. When asked by Professor Lupin what had frightened her, she’d pointed to the trunk and gasped, "P – P – Professor McGonagall! Sh – she said I’d failed everything!” Hermione’s greatest fear, more terrible, perhaps, than that of death itself, was failure. Down in the dungeons, when Hermione sought do draw upon the courage that had served her so often in the past, the chemicals permeating her brain flipped a switch and transmuted that courage into raw, naked fear.

But not ordinary fear. Nothing about Hermione was ordinary. In reversing her brain, the twins’ potion had taken her calm decisiveness and replaced it with vacillation. The cleverness that had been her weapon against Dolores Umbridge a year earlier was become a blunt sword, its once keen edge dull and useless. Uncertain how to proceed, she had allowed herself to be duped by Snape, who then went off to keep his terrible rendezvous with Dumbledore. Was Hermione right when she said that her foolishness in allowing Snape to flee unchallenged had cost Dumbledore his life? And as he thought thus, another, more chilling question leapt like a ravening shadow through the newly-opened window in Harry’s brain:

Would Hermione say anything of this to Fred and George?

She did not. Instead, she said, “You were spot-on when you said the effects of this formula are cumulative. If my actions are any measure, they seem to increase mathematically. Even used sporadically, it builds up in the system until the user starts to slip over the edge. There was a time last year when I was so jealous of Ron for kissing Lavender Brown, I was on the verge of becoming a raving lunatic. If Harry hadn’t found me when he did...”

“That’s the one thing we never reckoned on,” Fred said. “We never imagined Ron would be such a berk. It was obvious he fancied you, and it was just as obvious that you had at least some fancy for him. Why in the bleedin’ hell didn’t he say something? I mean, blimey, couldn’t he see what was right in front of him? He should have told you how he feels ages ago, the stupid prat.”

“I dunno how he ever managed to get into Gryffindor,” George said to his brother. “Maybe the Sorting Hat felt sorry for him. Maybe it reckoned he couldn’t make it without the rest of his family in the same House to keep him from making an arse of himself. That sure seems right enough, given all the chances he had over the last two years to tell Hermione how he feels about her. If he’d just shown some bollocks and stepped forward – ”

“I know you thought you were helping Ron.” Hermione said in a controlled voice. “Maybe you even thought you were helping me in the bargain. But that’s no excuse for what you did.”

Fred and George hung their heads in shame, unable to look at Hermione. Finally, George raised his eyes to the bottle in her hand and said, “We’ll throw this rubbish in the dustbin and never make it again. We promise.”

“If you ever break that promise,” Hermione said quietly, “I’ll have you up before the Ministry so fast you’ll – you’ll think your knickers have been Charmed into portkeys. As for this...”

Hermione returned the bottle to the pocket whence it had come.

“Maybe you’d bin it as you said you would,” Hermione said, tilting her head symbolically toward the dustbin into which she had tossed the discarded Spellotape. “But I prefer to remove the temptation.”

When Fred and George nodded, Hermione turned without a word and walked to the door. She did not look back as she left the shop, closing the door with utmost care. Fred and George looked as if they’d expected her to slam it so hard that the glass shattered, as Ron had once done to a compartment door on the Hogwarts Express. Harry was surprised himself that she hadn’t. He didn’t know if he’d have managed that degree of self-control under similar circumstances. He likewise took no offense at being left behind as he had been. Hermione’s self-control must have been so intense as to blind her to everything around her, even unto Harry himself. He could not but admire her, wishing he could subject his own inner fury to such control. It would have gone far toward helping him master Occlumency, as was Dumbledore’s wish for him.

He was still staring at the door, oblivious to his surroundings, when a voice spoke from behind him, reminding him that he was not alone.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Fred said.

“Me, too,” said George.

“I know,” Harry said, wanting to smile reassuringly, but failing. “I suppose I’ll see you later.”

Harry left the joke shop. He found Hermione standing on the curb, staring out at the variety of magical folk walking up and down the cobbled street. He stood next to her, waiting for her to acknowledge his presence. He was afraid to speak, not wanting to interrupt the silence that seemed to enfold Hermione like a cloak. A scream was building inside him, one that would have shook the tiles from the roofs on either side of the street had he allowed it to escape. When Hermione’s aspect did not alter, Harry stepped behind her and slowly slipped his arms around her waist. He feared she would stiffen in his embrace, perhaps even pull away. Instead she expelled a quiet breath that seemed to carry an anguish that a library full of words could not convey. Harry pulled her against him, and he felt some of the tenseness in her body relax.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” she murmured into his robes. “I’m sorry.”

“What are you talking about?” Harry said. “What do you have to be sorry for? It was all their doing – theirs and mine. You heard them. If I hadn’t been so blind and stupid – ”

“I was just as stupid,” Hermione said, tilting her head so she could look into Harry’s eyes. “If Fred and George indicted you just now, they indicted me as well.” Harry looked at Hermione quizzically, and she smiled even as her eyes began to fill with tears. “They were right when the said that a part of me fancied Ron. But it was more than that. When I believed that my last chance of being with you had gone, I turned my fancy toward Ron.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Harry said. “The way I see it, you did a better job choosing Ron than I did acting the berk over Cho.”

“But that’s just it!” Hermione said painfully. “I didn’t choose Ron! I just transferred my feelings for you onto him! That’s why I was always on his wick to make himself over into someone better. I was trying to turn Ron into another you! And that was a horrible thing to do. Rita Skeeter was right about me! I'm contemptible! I don’t know why anyone would ever fancy me. I don’t wonder that you never looked at me that way. Viktor never would have done if he’d known. I don’t deserve – ”

Harry wrapped Hermione tightly in his arms. He felt her trembling in the grip of her inner misery, and it pained him that she should be in such agony – agony that he could have prevented if only he hadn’t been so thick. He wanted to say something that would take her pain away. If only he could think clearly! This, he realized, was what real love was. It was hurting along with the one you loved, but more than that, it was wanting desperately to take all of that pain onto yourself.

“I don’t believe for a moment that you never had real feelings for Ron,” Harry said at last. “All you ever did was let those feelings take their natural course. Don’t you remember the patronus you conjured in the D.A. class? That was before Ron gave you the perfume with the formula in it. You were still thinking clearly then. You couldn’t have conjured the patronus you did if you hadn’t felt something for Ron.”

One of Hermione’s hands moved to cover Harry’s, and he loosed his hold around her middle to sandwich her hand between both of his.

“That was the night I gave up on us,” Hermione said quietly. “I saw that you only had eyes for Cho. I knew there was nothing for it. It must have been something in my brain that flipped a switch, because all at once there was that otter-patronus scampering around the Room of Requirement. But even then, there was still a bit of hope inside me. Until...”

“Until you learnt that I’d kissed Cho,” Harry finished, feeling a dagger plunge into his heart.

“When I went to the meeting that night,” Hermione said in a voice soft as a breath of wind, “I still had a tiny bit of hope left that I could...that I could make you see me as more than just your best friend who only ‘happened’ to be a girl. I knew there’d be Christmas decorations, and that meant mistletoe. It was stupid, really. I thought if I could somehow maneuver us into the right spot, it would give you an excuse to – to kiss me. I was going to pour everything I had into that kiss. It would have shown you exactly how I felt without my actually coming out and saying it. After that, what happened next would fall to you. But I never got the chance. So I just tucked those feelings away where no one could see them and carried on. After all, as someone once said, tomorrow was another day. But then, when I was back in the common room – ”

Hermione’s voice caught. Acting without thought, Harry threaded the fingers of his left hand through Hermione’s, lacing them together as their palms pressed firmly against each other.

“When I learnt that you’d got Cho under the mistletoe, where I’d hoped you and I would be, it was as if – as if you’d taken something precious – something that should have been mine – and given it to someone else. So when I finished my letter to Viktor that night, I told him what had happened. When he wrote back, he told me that it was time for me to move on, to find someone who appreciated what I had to offer, the way he’d done. I didn’t have to look very far, did I? That someone was right there in the common room with us. But even then...”

The ragged sigh that escaped Hermione’s lips resounded in Harry’s heart like a boom of thunder. He wanted to cry, but he wouldn’t permit himself the luxury. His strength was the only thing holding Hermione together. After all the times she had given him of her strength when he needed it, he could not do less for her now. As he held Hermione against him, he felt her relax all at once, as if some spell had suddenly removed her bones as Lockhart had once removed the bones in Harry’s right arm. When she spoke, in was in a quiet, weary voice that was scarce an octave removed from a whisper.

“I feel tired,” she said. “I feel like I could sleep for a week.”

Harry knew exactly how Hermione felt. He said nothing, but walked them back toward the Leaky Cauldron, his arm steering her as it remained around her waist. The rhythm of their footsteps seemed to act as a tonic for Hermione. Harry felt something of her old motive force return, her steps becoming more driven by her own will than merely following Harry’s impetus. They were just coming within sight of the wooden sign hanging above the pub when Harry broke the silence with a question he must ask at once, before his own resolution faltered.

“Hermione,” he said, bending close so that his words fell on her ears alone, “there’s something I thought I understood – something that happened a bit ago – something we talked about before – but now, after everything that was just said, I don’t know what it means.”

Turning her head so she could see Harry's face, Hermione said, “What’s that, Harry?”

“When you kissed me in the classroom that time,” he said, “ – you know, when the birds were flying around your head – I know it was just to get back at Ron. But when we kissed at the victory party after Gryffindor won the Quidditch Cup, it felt like you really meant it.”

“I did,” Hermione said.

“But why did the perfume stop working all at once?” Harry puzzled. “I mean, you said you’d been using it all year, even using extra doses to draw Ron’s attention from Lavender – that explains why you reacted the way you did in the classroom. And since you were cheering Ron on in the championship match, I expect you must have dabbed some on before leaving the castle, as a gesture of support. Am I right?”

Hermione nodded wordlessly.

“And I know you carried on using it after we got together,” Harry said. “I mean, we both saw how shocked Ron was when we kissed in front of everyone. You probably kept using it to show Ron that, after everything that had happened, he was still important to you, right?”

Again Hermione replied with a short nod.

“You told Fred and George that you reckoned they’d mucked up the formula so that it worked on more than the love centers, but on the fear centers as well. That’s why you got all turned around when you were down in the dungeons with Snape. You didn’t say that to Fred and George, but I know that’s what you’d concluded. That’s the final proof that the formula was still working. But if that’s so, then...”

Harry hesitated, and Hermione, remaining silent, gently prompted him with her eyes.

“If the perfume was still working the way it had all year,” Harry said, “affecting your mind so that you let Snape go instead of stopping him, then why didn’t it turn your feelings back around toward Ron? How could it carry on working one way and not the other?”

“I’ve thought about that,” Hermione said, and even through his puzzlement, Harry’s spirits rose when he heard the crisp, clear voice of the Hermione he’d known so long, and saw again the blazing light of logic and reason in her deep brown eyes, of late obscured by the dark clouds of confusion and doubt. “And there’s only one answer I can come up with that makes any sense.

“Most people aren’t aware that what we feel as emotions are really only byproducts of chemicals in our brains, called endorphins. They’re very powerful. They’re why people do such crazy things when they’re in love. Fred and George altered their formula so it would act on those chemicals in my brain and turn them around. It created an imbalance that was partly responsible for the extremes of emotion I felt toward Ron. But through it all, those weren’t my real feelings coming out, just the product of the potion’s magical influence.

“Remember what Professor Slughorn said about Amortentia? He said it doesn’t create love, just the illusion of love. The twins’ potion worked in the same way, though by different means. But in the end, it was still only smoke and mirrors. My real feelings were still there, just suppressed by the potion’s influence. They were always just below the surface, waiting to reassert themselves.”

“But why didn’t those feelings get turned around again when you kept using the perfume?” Harry said bewilderedly.

“Because,” Hermione smiled, “when push comes to shove, nothing artificial can stand up to what’s real inside us. When I felt the love in your kiss there in the common room, it reached down inside me and triggered my own love for you, the love that had never really gone away...And the combination sent a surge through my brain that completely flushed out the potion’s influence. The love I felt for you was so powerful that it completely cleared my brain of everything that wasn’t part of me all along. And my love for you was always a part of me. The very best part. No potion could ever hold it in for long. When real love goes up against the artificial, it’s no contest.”

Harry realized all at once that Hermione had inadvertently answered two questions for him. He’d wondered for a long time why he hadn’t been affected by Fleur Delacour’s veela magic as Ron had been. The answer was now plain, and its truth buoyed Harry until he knew what his Aunt Marge must have felt when she was bobbing off the ceiling on Privet Drive. The feelings inspired by veela magic were false ones, not unlike the ones created by Fred’s and George’s formula had been – and, indeed, like the Amortentia they had smelt in Professor Slughorn’s classroom last year. The only reason that Harry would not have been affected by Fleur was because his brain was already flooded with the chemicals Hermione had just described, the ones created only by true love. For most of two years, Harry had imagined that he loved Cho Chang. But that had proven to be nothing more than a fancy based on physical attraction – smoke and mirrors, to use Hermione’s term. If the genuine love inside Harry had not come from Cho, there was only one other place it could have come from. And Fred and George had confirmed it themselves. They’d seen the truth inside Harry all along, marveling that Harry himself had never seen it. But now he had.

“I’ve always loved you, Hermione,” Harry said softly, almost disbelievingly, into Hermione’s concealed ear. Pressing his lips against her hair, he repeated, “I’ve always loved you.”

“I know,” Hermione said. “I’ve always known.”

“I should have seen sooner,” Harry lamented. “So much could have been avoided if I’d – ”

“The human heart doesn’t come with a built-in clock,” Hermione said. “No two people fall in love at the same moment. One is always first, and the other has to catch up. Your dad loved your mum before she loved him. The first one to love has to be patient and trust that the other will see the truth. That’s why I never pressed you. I knew we could never be together unless we reached the same place on our own. No one can be pushed into loving someone. Not the twins’ formula, nor Amortentia, nor all the magic in the world can do that. It either happens on its own or it doesn’t happen at all.”

“Thanks for being so patient with me,” Harry said.

“I always knew you were worth the wait,” Hermione smiled.

Harry set the bottle back in its place on Hermione’s crowded table and turned around. Hermione was just putting away a tin that no doubt contained some ingredient she had just added to her cauldron. He walked over to her and put his arms around her waist.

“Answer something for me?” he said, pressing close. “You once said that the Sorting Hat considered putting you in Ravenclaw. What made it choose Gryffindor?”

“What made you think to ask that?” Hermione inquired.

“When I put the Hat on,” Harry said, “it tried to put me in Slytherin. I might not have known much back then, but I knew I didn’t want to be in the same stinking House as Malfoy, and I told the Hat so. So it put me in Gryffindor. But I think there was another reason that had nothing to do with Slytherin. I think...”

“What?” Hermione pressed gently.

“We know the Sorting Hat has its own brain,” Harry said. “It looks inside people’s heads and reads what’s inside them. It told me I was destined for greatness – which I thought was a load of rubbish – and it said that Slytherin would – what were its words – help me on the way to greatness. But I wanted nothing to do with Slytherin, so it had to choose another House for me. But why Gryffindor? I mean, Gryffindors are supposed to be brave, and I sure didn’t feel brave when I was sitting there on that stool with an old hat pulled down around my ears and everyone in the Great Hall looking me like I was some sort of, I dunno, circus freak. I ruddy well didn’t feel clever enough to be put in Ravenclaw. The best place for me probably would have been Hufflepuff, where at least no one would expect that much from me. But the Hat put me in Gryffindor. Why? Because it was the House my parents were in? Maybe, but I don’t think that’s how the Hat works. It put Parvati and Padma Patil in different Houses, even though they’re identical twins. And it put Sirius in Gryffindor when everyone in his whole family had only ever been in Slytherin. So I ask again, why did it put me in Gryffindor?”

Harry took Hermione’s face in his hands and looked into her deep brown eyes.

“It was because of you.”

“Because of me?” Hermione said in a very small voice.

“The Hat had already sorted you into Gryffindor,” Harry said. “You remember the song it sang in our fourth year? It said something like, ‘I’ll have a look inside your head and tell where you belong.’ Well, it looked inside my head and it knew exactly where I belonged. With you. It had already told me that I had some sort of greatness to fulfill, and when I wouldn’t let it sort me into Slytherin, it put me together with the one person who could help me become the best wizard I could be. And more important, the best man. It put me with you.”

Hermione’s eyes were now glowing with an almost liquid softness. She placed her hand atop Harry’s as he continued to caress her face.

“You remember I told you once that the Sorting Hat wanted to put me in Ravenclaw?” she said. “Do you know why it didn’t? The moment I put the Hat on, I was thinking one thing over and over. I was thinking that I wanted to be in the same House as Harry Potter. And the more I thought about it, the more I reckoned that the only place the Boy Who Lived could ever go was Gryffindor. So when the Hat said I belonged in Ravenclaw, where I could ‘realize my full potential,’ I just kept thinking over and over, ‘I want to be in the same House as Harry Potter.’ And the next thing I knew, I heard the Hat shout out, ‘GRYFFINDOR!’”

Harry wrapped Hermione in a gentle embrace. The only sound in the room was the bubbling of the potions, mingled with the soft hiss of the bluebell flames under the cauldrons.

“I wonder if this isn’t the first time the Sorting Hat’s done something like this,” Harry mused.

"What do you mean?" Hermione asked.

“Maybe it does this all the time,” Harry said. “Maybe – maybe it put my dad in Gryffindor because it had already sorted my mum there – I mean, from what I saw in Dumbledore’s Pensieve, my dad was easily smart enough to be in Ravenclaw. And the way Lupin tells it, the pranks the Marauders used to pull had Slytherin stamped all over them. But in the end, he was sorted into Gryffindor, where my mum was.”

“The Sorting Hat as matchmaker?” Hermione giggled, her face glowing brighter than the sunlight streaming through Ginny’s window.

“Why not?” Harry smiled. “It’s like I said, it promised that it would tell us where we belonged. Maybe it looked inside both our heads and knew that we belonged with each other.”

“I love you,” Hermione said softly, her eyes going misty.

Harry tightened his hold on Hermione. She snuggled against him, then quickly recoiled. Harry looked at her curiously.

“Something in your robes just poked me,” she said, her cheeks going red when she realized how her words would have sounded to Mrs. Weasley had she chosen to enter the room at that moment.

Laughing, Harry released Hermione and pulled Neville’s birthday card out of his pocket, sliding it out of its envelope while taking care not to let it fall open. He explained the card’s enchantment to Hermione, who nodded.

“I need to send it off today, and I want all of us to sign it, Ginny included,” Harry said. “We need to do it together so the spell on the card doesn’t lose any of its magic being opened too often.”

“Oh, I can fix that,” Hermione said. She pulled out her wand and tapped the card. “You can open it now. I placed an Inhibitor Spell on it so the enchantment won’t engage when it’s opened. It’ll wear off in a minute, but that’s plenty of time for both of us to sign it. I can do the same again when we give it over for Ron and Ginny to sign.”

They signed the card, and Harry tucked it back in its envelope and stood it upright between two of Hermione’s potion bottles, admiring both the card and Hermione’s spellwork.

“It’s sweet of you to think of Neville this way,” Hermione said. “One more thing to add to the list.”

“What list?” Harry asked, his thoughts turning back to the list Hermione had compiled in her efforts to trace the origin of her erratic behavior. But her answer quickly swept away his apprehensions.

“The list of reasons why I love you. It’s all in my head, but I can see every one as if it were ink on parchment, and it only grows longer every day.”

They shared a gentle kiss, parting slowly.

“If we do much more of that,” Hermione said, “I’ll be lucky to remember what ingredient to add to which potion.”

Knowing that he was being tactfully dismissed, Harry caught up Neville’s card and turned toward the door. But just as he was about to grasp the handle, he cast a final glance over his shoulder at Hermione, and as he watched her tending her cauldron, something clicked in his head, something he should have thought to ask long ago.

“There’s something I never thought to ask you,” he said, standing beside Hermione and looking intently at the contents of her cauldron. “When we were in our first Advanced Potions class, we all got a whiff of the fumes from the Amortentia. I already told you what I was thinking of, but when you were going on about what it made you think about, you never finished. You said it made you think of new-mown grass and fresh parchment, but then you stopped yourself from going on. What was the other scent it made you think of that you never told?”

Looking slightly embarrassed, Hermione said haltingly, “Hippogriff feathers.”

Harry looked incredulous, and Hermione blushed.

“It was from when we were riding on Buckbeak, you know, to rescue Sirius from Flitwick’s office.”

“But,” Harry said with dawning realization, “you must have been terrified. I never gave it a thought then, but if you couldn’t bear to fly on a broom...”

In fact, Harry now remembered with startling clarity how frightened Hermione had been while clinging to him atop Buckbeak.

“I was petrified,” Hermione said. “But through it all, whenever I felt a fresh surge of fear go through me, I just clung more tightly to you, and I knew inside that everything would be alright. I think – ”

“What?” Harry asked, noting the pinkness now spreading across Hermione’s cheeks.

“I think that was the night I knew I loved you. That together, we could do anything.”

Harry hugged Hermione, burying his face in her thick hair and inhaling her intoxicating scent. They parted at last, and Hermione, her cheeks still glowing, pushed him toward the door, telling him that if he didn’t leave she would never get her potions finished. In the wink of an eye, he was standing in the corridor as the door clicked shut behind him.

Harry stood for a moment with Neville’s card in his hand, then turned toward the stairs, his feet hardly seeming to touch the floorboards. He felt that he was surely the luckiest wizard in the world. So what if Lord Voldemort was even now plotting a hundred different ways to kill him, using Dark magic and fiendish tortures too hideous to describe? What was that next to all the good things in his life? He was surrounded by friends, all but adopted into a family whose members had embraced him as if he were one of their own, and who were preparing to fete him with his first-ever birthday party. And not just any birthday. His seventeenth!

And if that weren’t enough, he was in love with – and more, loved by – the most incredible witch in the world.

Looking down at the envelope in his hand, he wondered absently what Professor McGonagall would say if he owled a party invitation to Hogwarts – addressed to the Sorting Hat!

And what will Mrs. Weasley say if it turns up?

Stuffing the card back into his pocket, Harry crossed the landing, only to halt with his foot poised at the topmost step as an even more absurd thought struck him.

Can you put a party hat on a guest that is a hat?

Laughing out loud, Harry swept down the stairs, thinking that prolonged exposure to Fred and George was surely turning him mental.

So ends the story for now. I’ll try to write more as time allows. At least I got my explanation for Hermione’s behavior out before my deadline (with a few extra canon questions answered for good measure). Thanks to everyone for reading.