1. The End of One Life

Some names, locations, characters, and objects described in this work are © J.K. Rowling. In these cases, the names, locations, characters, and objects are used without permission under the Fair Dealings provision of the Copyright Act of 1976, USC 17 §107. Other names, locations, characters, and objects that are referenced, implied, or alluded to are © their respective owners, and are used under the same conditions. The remainder of this work is licensed by the author under a Creative Commons Attribution Non-Commercial Share Alike 3.0 Unported license. To view a copy of this licence, visit http://creativecommons. org/licenses/by-nc-sa/3.0/ or send a letter to Creative Commons, 171 Second Street, Suite 300, San Francisco, California 94105, USA.

Chapter title attributed to C.S. Lewis, being modified from the title of the last chapter of The Magician's Nephew (the little-read prequel to The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe).

Chapter 1: The end of one life

An unseasonable chill penetrated the fog swirling around Privet Drive, and found it’s way to a second floor window on the unassuming Number Four where a thin sixteen-year-old named Harry Potter looked out over the blissfully ignorant suburbs. Hundreds of thousands of people lived in Surrey, all but a minute percentage going about their daily routines, unaware that a darkness was rising which threatened to destroy the free world. Harry looked out from his window solemnly, the grief brought on by the recent murder of Albus Dumbledore magnified beyond measure by the knowledge that even now everyday folk were being slaughtered without mercy or regret. Not even the crack of apparition, nor Uncle Vernon’s muffled shouting could rouse the teen from his reverie, until the cries took on a more personal flavour.

“Boy! Get down here!” The shouts to Harry’s mind a letter he had received only the day before. He scanned his room, over the piles of The Daily Prophet’s with headlines describing horrific murders, until he spied the crumpled parchment on his desk.

July 9, 1997

Dear Harry,

I hope this letter finds you well, and not blaming yourself too much for the events of June, seeing as IT WAS NOT YOUR FAULT. Dumbledore was an extremely powerful wizard, and could easily have subdued Draco without a wand. We may never know why he didn’t, but he made the choice on his own. Anyway, I didn’t write just for that; there is a great deal I’ve been allowed to tell you, but it isn’t really the sort of information I can put in a letter. I’m able to stop by tomorrow at three o’clock in the afternoon. Reply by return owl if that’s a good time for you and your family.

Sincerely,

Remus

P.S. I apologize in advance if Cygnus causes your relatives any harm. He’s Dora’s owl, and not very fond of muggles, though he has grown tolerant of Ted.

Harry checked his watch. 3:01 P.M. A thin ghost of a smile crossed his features. Remus was nothing if not punctual. He went down to the kitchen where the werewolf was carrying on an amiable, albeit one-sided, conversation with Aunt Petunia, the latter staring with fear and disgust at the former’s patched, frayed, and very dirty robes. Harry’s arrival, silent as it was, caused the older man to look up.

Remus looked as sickly as he ever did, but his drawn face lit up as his warm, sapphire eyes took in the son of his late best friend. “Harry!” Remus rose quickly to his feet, and turned to address Aunt Petunia. “It’s been delightful to see you again Petunia, but I’m afraid I’ll have to ask for some time alone with my ward.” For her part Aunt Petunia looked quite relieved to be scurrying out of the room, but the werewolf’s choice of words forced Harry to pause and consider.

“Your ward?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

Remus smiled apologetically as he retook his seat. “I suppose Albus didn’t tell you. In his will, Sirius named me your legal guardian.”

Harry was a little sceptical, to say the least, but he took a seat opposite his alleged guardian. “And Scrimgeour just let that happen?” Given Remus’ status as a werewolf, and therefore a nonperson, Harry found it highly unlikely that the Ministry of Magic would allow him to take legal custody of the Wizarding World’s most famous teenager.

Now, for the first time, Remus looked slightly uncomfortable. “No, I’m afraid you’re right.” Harry’s eyebrows rose even higher. “Scrimgeour decided that, since Sirius was your godfather, his closest living relative would become your legal guardian. His only brother, Regulus, has been dead for years, so it would have to be a cousin. However since Bellatrix is a convicted Death Eater, Narcissa is married to a convicted Death Eater, and Andromeda is married to a muggle, officially the only relative Sirius has left is Nymphadora.” The older man elaborated.

This explanation, though thorough, did little to satisfy Harry’s curiosity. “Alright, that makes sense. But that would still make Tonks my guardian, not you.” The slightest hint of a possibility was beginning to form in the back of Harry’s mind, but he didn’t consider it likely just yet.

At this point Remus was visibly fidgeting. “Well uh, Dora and I found a loophole and…” he was never able to finish his sentence, as at that moment Harry realized that he had kept his left hand suspiciously out of sight for the entire conversation.

“No…” Harry was shaking his head slowly, refusing to believe what his intellect told him was true. “Remus let me see your left hand.” The man complied meekly, and Harry saw for the first time the gold band on his fourth finger. For the first time since witnessing Dumbledore falling from the Astronomy Tower, Harry broke into a genuine smile. “So you finally did it.”

Remus nodded his assent, his own smile growing. “What Minerva said in June, how Albus being happy about a little more love in the world, made me re-think my position. I’m sorry you couldn’t come to the wedding, but we just wanted a small affair. It was only us and Dora’s parents.” Harry congratulated his father’ old friend, but was waved off. “It’s a very delightful thing, but it’s not why I’m here.” He leaned in, and Harry followed suit. There was no doubt in his mind that this news was somehow related to the actions of the Order of the Phoenix.

“First and foremost, Minerva and Alastor will be sharing the duties of head of the Order. Minerva has also taken the Headmistress post at Hogwarts, and has promoted Professor Flitwick to be Deputy Head.” Harry nodded, he had expected all that. “Alastor has agreed to fill the vacant Defence Against the Dark Arts post, and Professor Slughorn has agreed to stay on full time as Potions Master and head of Slytherin house. Minerva says she’s filled the Transfiguration position, but won’t let out any details. The reading of Dumbledore’s will has been set for Friday August 1^st. Since you’ll be of age by then, and have been named in it, you have been asked to attend.” This made Harry start. Dumbledore had left him something? What? And more importantly, why?

Remus appeared lost in thought, but the moment passed. “Ah yes, one last thing. Hermione has been spending a lot of time at the Burrow recently,” for reasons Harry would not admit to himself, that simple admission made his heart feel like it was made of lead. His face must have displayed something of his feelings, since Remus flashed a knowing smile before continuing, “And she and Bill have been putting their heads together. According to those two, the blood wards aren’t focused to the house, as we’d previously believed, but to you specifically no matter where you are, and they’ll be maintained until midnight on July 31^st, whether you’re here or not, so there’s really no reason for you to stay here. Dora and I would be delighted if you would come and stay with us until the reading.” The older man grinned hopefully.

Harry smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Grief at Dumbledore’s death, and at returning to Grimmauld Place, gripped him. Nonetheless, “I’d love to” was his simple reply.

Remus beamed at him, but Harry noticed a haunted look in his eyes. It seemed not even being newly married could completely eliminate the pain of recent loss. “Wonderful! We can’t apparate you out, thanks to the wards, but I’ll arrange something as soon as possible.” He noticed Harry’s downcast expression and chuckled. “Don’t worry Harry, it shouldn’t take any longer than a week.”

This did little to cheer Harry up. “Why a week? Why not now?” Of course he was impatient; it was perfectly justified in his situation.

Remus fixed him with a sad look; he knew perfectly well what the young man had been put through, and could understand his frustration. “I’m sorry Harry, I’m on assignment for all of the next week.” He pulled a golden pocket watch from his robe and considered it for a moment before rising with a slight frown and dropping it back into place. “Speaking of, I’m due to start soon. Minerva will not be pleased with me if I’m late.”

Harry perked up at the possibility of more news. “What’s your assignment?” He asked hopefully.

Remus just smiled thinly. “Sorry, not this time.” And with a cheery wave, he disapparated. Harry stared at the spot that formerly held the werewolf. Although there was no change in his almost permanently sombre expression, he was truly happy. Only one more week and he would be gone forever from 4 Privet Drive.

2. The greatest thing you'll ever learn

Chapter title is credited to the late songwriter Eden Ahbez, from his song Nature Boy:

While we spoke of many things
Fools and kings
This he said to me:
"The greatest thing you'll ever learn
Is just to love and be loved in return."

Chapter 2: The Greatest Thing You'll Ever Learn

The days passed slowly for Harry, and he spent most of them in the back garden doing yard work. It had briefly crossed his mind to tell Aunt Petunia that her begonias were beyond saving, but truth be told he was grateful for the distraction. Since his meeting with Remus his head had been filled with questions, and a letter he had received a few days later had only added more.

14 July 1997

Dear Mr. Potter;

As we are quite sure you are aware you officially come of age in seventeen days time, 31 July 1997. Under normal circumstances a witch or wizard would not receive a letter such as this until the death of their parents, however we can all agree that your circumstances are far from normal. Therefore your presence is requested at the Gringott’s Bank Diagon Alley branch at the most convenient date on or following 31 July 1997. We are aware that you are attending the reading of the will of A. Dumbledore (1881 – 1997) on 1 August. This meeting has been scheduled immediately following that event.

Sincerely

Vasa
Director of Hereditary Affairs
Gringott’s International
Diagon Alley Branch

Why the Director of Hereditary Affairs wanted to speak with him was an ever-present question in Harry’s mind, but he had no time to think right now; the hedges weren’t going to trim themselves. Well they could, but making them do so would get him in very serious trouble, and trouble was something he tried to avoid as much as possible. As he trudged back into the house some time later, after completing the task, he faintly heard the doorbell ring. As was expected of him he went to answer it, however Dudley had beaten him to it. Dudley’s impressive girth prevented Harry from actually seeing the caller for himself, but he assumed it was a girl judging by the way his cousin was leaning against the door jam.

“Please be looking for me.” Harry rolled his eyes. Dudley’s favourite way to hit on girls was to play the unfortunate loser who never got any attention from the opposite sex. It seemed to come naturally to him.

The voice that answered the large boy’s clumsy come-ons nearly stopped Harry’s heart. “Actually, I’m looking for Harry Potter.” Hermione! Harry moved to rescue Dudley, knowing first hand that Hermione Granger’s wrath was not something he would wish even on his worst enemy, but fate conspired against the youngest Dursley on this blistering July day.

“What do you want him for? I can do so much more for you.” Dudley had grown angry now. He always got like that when something didn’t go his way. Although, truthfully, how even his remarkable idiocy could imagine that such an attractive young woman would ever be seeking him out was more of a mystery.

“Oh, I don’t doubt you can.” Hermione’s voice was dripping with a mock sweetness that would have made Umbridge proud. Harry could only imagine, with a cocktail of feelings that ranged from vindictiveness to masculine sympathy, the smug look on Dudley’s piggish face transforming into a look of extreme pain as a swish and thud were heard and the bulky boy retreated upstairs, desperately trying to comfort his crushed testicles under his massive stomach, revealing the smiling Hermione Granger.

Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, Harry was struck with his best friend’s characteristic preparedness. Even when defending herself from the incompetently amorous attentions of Harry’s cousin, she handled the situation with a level-headed grace that was, in its own peculiar way, beautiful.

It was far from the only such thing. Despite his own self-imposed ban on pursuing a deeper relationship with his very best friend, a promise formed on behalf of love-struck Ron, Harry knew in the depths of his being that he could never do any better. Hermione Jane Granger was an angel in faded blouse and jeans; undeniably intelligent, but also gentle and kind, with a wickedly sharp and subtle sense of humour that often went unappreciated even by those close to her. She was as direct a contrast to Ron Weasley as could be imagined. Honestly speaking, she was much more comparable to himself.

It was that last thought that made Harry immediately stop those thoughts. It wasn’t fair to her, or to Ron, to put their friendship on the line just because he couldn’t keep his hormones under control.

For his part, Harry noticed that he wasn’t the only one with raging hormones; a momentary glazed look had appeared in Hermione’s chocolaty brown eyes, which passed as soon as it had come. He remembered he had removed his shirt during his chore, and was slightly disappointed that she had been looking at him only with physical attraction on her mind. And, if people like Romilda Vane were any example, there was a lot to be attracted to; no longer that scrawny garden cane of an eleven year old he once was, years of hard manual labour had endowed Harry with an upper body that would, according to the always irreverent Weasley twins, soak a girl’s knickers from a mile away.

“So how did you get here?” Harry asked, finally breaking the awkward silence and tearing Hermione’s eyes away from the faint lines of his abdominal muscles.

She started at his voice, obviously having spaced out. “Oh…I uh, drove” Was her stammered reply. She gestured out the open door to a blue Vauxhall Astra parked in the driveway.

Harry nodded, noting with dry amusement the valiant effort his best friend was making to not look at his exposed chest. “I’ll go get my trunk.” He suggested, and bounded up the stairs to his room. He wondered in the back of his mind if Hermione was watching the back of his body the same way she had stared at the front. He decided he didn’t mind if she was.

“Do you need any help?” He heard Hermione call after him.

He pulled on a new t-shirt before answering. “No, I’ll be alright.” He had had his trunk packed for a week now. Ever since Remus’ visit he had been going over his room with a fine toothed comb, looking for anything he could find pertaining to the magical world. Despite himself, he couldn’t help but spare one last glance at the room that would never again shelter him from his horrible family. There were a lot of memories within the four humble walls, few of them memories he particularly wanted to relive, but it had been a crude haven nonetheless, and he was almost sad to leave it behind. Almost. He managed to get it closed and onto the stairs just in time to see Aunt Petunia come from somewhere in the house to see what all the commotion was about.

Shock was evident on her bony face as she took in the ‘freak,’ who had always been pushed around in school, with a girl, and a rather attractive one at that. “And who are you then?” she asked Hermione abruptly, betraying her confusion in her sharp tone.

The young witch seemed flustered by the pointedness of the question, so Harry took over. “Aunt Petunia, this is my good friend Hermione Granger.” He introduced, doing his utmost to maintain civility. However it seemed that Aunt Petunia’s new goal for the day was to throw manners out the window, which she proceeded to do with gusto.

“Oh yes, the little whore who always follows you off that godforsaken platform.”

Hermione gasped in shock at the pure revulsion that had flown from Petunia’s mouth along with the words, but Harry did not hear it, nor would it matter if he had. Every fibre of his being tingled with cold rage, and it was directed entirely and without exception at the pitiful excuse for a woman who had dared to insult someone Harry Potter cared about. His wand was in his hand in the blink of an eye, though he had made no motion to retrieve it, and he vaulted the banister to pin his extremely uncomfortable Aunt between the wall and a foot long stick of holly. “I want you to listen very carefully to what I am about to tell you, because it is your first and only warning. In two weeks I am well within my rights to come back here and do many unpleasant things to you and your family, so I would advise you to be more polite to my friends in the future.” He stowed his wand and walked over to his trunk, which had fallen down the stairs and burst open. “After all, you wouldn’t want me back would you?” He tossed over his shoulder at the quivering bone structure that comprised his Aunt. Never once did his eyes take in the shards of ceramic littering the floor, the last remnants of a number of decorative plates that had, until moments ago, adorned the wall.

Hermione was flabbergasted, and could only repeat incoherent syllables for a short time. While she struggled to find her voice, Harry busied himself with repacking his trunk, which had conveniently decided to launch clothing everywhere. Finally Hermione regained control of her vocal cords, “Thank you Harry. No one has ever stood up for me like that before, except my parents. Not even Ron…” she let out a yip of surprise and clammed up.

Meanwhile her unfinished sentence had caused Harry to perk up. It was the first apparent sign she had even given him, or anyone for that matter, that suggested she wasn’t interested in Ron the way everyone thought she was. Not that Harry begrudged him their mutual best friend, Ron always seemed to get the short end of the stick and he would never find a better woman, but at the same time Harry knew he was obligated to ensure that his other friend was as happy as she could be. If that happened to be with Ron, then he couldn’t say anything about it. But if not…

There was a short pause during which Hermione seemed determined to look anywhere but at him. It was apparent that she was far too flustered by her slip of the tongue to carry on a conversation, so Harry decided to get the whole train wreck moving. “Well, shall we?” he nodded towards the still-open door and the vehicle beyond.

Hermione looked partially grateful for the escape, and partially annoyed that she hadn’t thought of it herself. “Oh yes, of course.” She led him out of the house to her well-aged car and opened the boot to receive his trunk. Some time later Harry would look back on that day and figure that in a perfect world he would have loaded his trunk, they would have driven to London and that would have been the end of it. Moments after this revelation, Harry would come to the conclusion that it was fortunate he did not live in a perfect world.

As it was, fate decided that the top of the boot would come down on Harry’s head as he struggled to load his immensely heavy trunk. That incident, while painful enough in itself, caused him to drop the combined weight of all his worldly possessions onto one foot. “SON OF A…” blinding pain caused Harry to hop around cradling his injured foot and cursing a blue streak at the top of his lungs, several of the expletives strong enough to bring a flush even to the notoriously foul-mouthed Seamus Finnegan. Inevitably he lost his balance and came down, hard. It was all he could do to shake off the pain and pick himself up, only to be startled by the face of Hermione Granger mere inches from his own. It would seem that she had come over to help him up after his fall, but his brain was in no condition for logic at the moment. All he could think about was how her eyes shone with concern, how her skin glistened (or was that his imagination), how soft and warm her lips felt pressed against his own.

Suddenly Harry’s wayward mind caught up to his hormonal body, which had unconsciously begun tongue wrestling with Hermione. He pulled away quickly, feeling quite warm and breathing heavily. His friend seemed to be experiencing a similar reaction. They both came to their senses at approximately the same time and spent an agonising moment gazing at one another before Harry mumbled an apology and set about getting his trunk and Hedwig’s cage, which he had forgotten inside and Hermione had brought out, into her car. Without a word he climbed into the passenger’s seat, next to the current focus of his pains, and they drove off for the M4 motorway, London and ultimately Grimmauld Place in Brixton.

True to her calm, dignified manner, and perhaps a greater-than-normal ability to sense Harry’s misgivings, not a word about the kiss passed between them for the fifty minute duration of the journey. Instead Hermione nattered on about this, that, and the other, including but not limited to the unfortunately brief time she spent with her parents, the exploits of the Weasley family, and her research with Bill. She was about three-quarters of the way through a detailed technical explanation of the nature of the blood wards surrounding 4 Privet Drive, and their connection and interaction with him and his magic, before she realized that Harry had absolutely no idea what she was talking about.

Taking full advantage of this pause in the formerly endless chatter (None of which Harry minded, instead rather enjoying the distraction), occurring somewhere in the vicinity of Cromwell Road, he directed the conversation towards a much more sombre topic, and one which he had been shielded from in his exile at the Dursley’s: the actions of Voldemort and his agents.

Unfortunately, there was little Hermione could convey in that regard. Being at the Burrow alone lowered her chances of absorbing any Order intelligence, and researching wards with Bill reduced her exposure to none, so the only information that had been readily available to her was in the pages of the Daily Prophet. It seemed, from their standpoint at least, that the Death Eaters were laying low in the magical community. The attack on Hogwarts had been a disaster, resulting in few captures but many positive identifications, and the total lack of activity within Wizarding Britain reflected their new-found cautiousness. Muggle England, on the other hand, was another matter entirely. The Prophet had devoted only one article to those activities, and it had been worded in such a way that sounded very much like the newspaper wholeheartedly condoned the brutal slaughter of the thirty-eight male and forty-one female muggles, all of which were clearly committed by Death Eaters.

That did not sit well with Harry. “I wonder if Voldemort’s taken over the Prophet.” He ruminated out loud. It hardly seemed unlikely. In fact, it seemed like a very likely thing for him to do.

Hermione was inclined to agree. “I was thinking that too. The Prophet was always a rag, but it was still a Ministry-controlled rag.” That led to a terrible thought: “Harry, what if Voldemort has taken over the Ministry?”

It was a frightening concept, but Harry didn’t find it likely. The Ministry was filled, day-in and day-out, with an inconceivable number of witched and wizards. For anyone, even Voldemort and his cronies, to fight through the entire staff AND the entire MLE division and Auror corps seemed impossible. Although if anyone could do it…

Fortunately, or not, the discussion was cut short by their arrival at the dreary and menacing 12 Grimmauld Place. Extricating himself and his belongings from the car, making sure not to forget Hedwig again, Harry stood awkwardly on the sidewalk and bid his farewells to his best friend.

“See you in two weeks.” Harry watched her car as it sped away, not even drawing breath until it turned a corner and he could watch no more. He followed suit and, with the air of a man not long for this earth, walked into the last place in the Wizarding world he wanted to be.

The first thing he noticed was the décor. Gone was the peeling yellowed wallpaper, replaced with handsome mahogany wainscoting and warm blue paint. On his way to the kitchen, always the center of activity, he discovered a black spot: the tattered hangings that concealed the painting of Walburga Black were still quite prominent, but the vast increase in lighting served to make them less imposing.

The kitchen however was very similar to its original state. Admittedly it had been cleaned up, and painted a nice pale blue, but it was all extremely familiar. Except, that is, for the figure sitting at the table.

The imposing man was immediately recognizable for Mad-Eye Moody, with his legs (both real and wooden) perched on the table, snoring gently. He was so convincing that Harry thought for a moment that he was really asleep, but one glance at his heavily scarred face abolished that theory. While the normal eye was closed, the eerily familiar blue one had stopped spinning to fix directly on Harry. “What advice did I give you when we first met?” the man grumbled sleepily at him.

Harry decided, given the wand point peeking out of a hole in Moody’s cloak, to be honest and prompt. “Not to keep my wand in my back pocket.” If his voice wavered slightly, it was out of apprehension. Alastor Moody was a notoriously unstable man.

Mad-Eye’s other eye opened and joined its brother in looking directly at the boy. “And did you follow that advice lad?” Harry was spared having to respond (which was good, because he doubted Mad-Eye would have liked his answer) by the flaring of the fireplace and the emergence of Nymphadora Lupin neé Tonks, her hair shortening and rapidly changing from brown to bubble-gum pink. Moody rose from the table to greet her.

“Wotcher Harry!” she greeted him with her usual exuberance. He could only smile half-heartedly in return. “Wotcher Mad-Eye, thanks for watching the house.”

The older man grunted. “Anytime. I have far too much time on my hands; co-running the Order of the Phoenix and all.” His sarcasm, scathing in any other person, was in Mad-Eye an unusual affection. It was a well-known fact that there was a soft spot, however small, in the grizzled warrior’s heart for his former pupil, even if it didn’t seem like it from his demeanour. He reached into his cloak, for what Harry could only assume was a portkey, and vanished. Tonks quickly surveyed the kitchen and focused her attention on Harry.

“Well kiddo; it looks like Mad-Eye fried up some bacon, so help yourself if you’re hungry.” Harry looked over at the skillet. The contents, which were apparently strips of bacon, resembled little more than charcoal briquettes. Any hunger the drive had caused evaporated instantly, as well as a large measure of confidence in Moody’s culinary skills. Tonks followed his eye line and nodded. “Or maybe we’ll just get you settled.” Harry happily indicated his consent to this alternative. Tonks silently levitated his heavy trunk, while the teenager carried Hedwig’s cage up the stairs. He immediately noticed, with no small amount of relief, the absence of decapitated house-elves on the wall.

Eager to break the silence, which was still eerie in the ancient house, Harry brought up a subject that had been troubling him for some time. “So, Remus finally popped the question. I thought he was dead set against you.”

Although he could not see his hostess’ face, the slight darkening of her hair indicated that she was blushing quite profusely. “Yes, well. I just tied him to his bed and showed up one night wearing nothing but a bathrobe. It didn’t take him long to see reason.”

Harry had never before appreciated how fascinating the ceiling was. “Thank you very much Tonks, now my beloved teenage mind will be feeding me images of Remus, hogtied while you have your wicked way with him.”

Tonks giggled. “You asked kiddo. Besides, I doubt your imagination could even come close to the things we…”

“THANK YOU!” Harry cut her off loudly.

Fortunately he was spared further mortification, as Tonks had stopped in front of the room he had shared with Ron on his last visit to Grimmauld Place. “Well, here we are.” Tonks pushed the door open and floated Harry’s trunk onto the spare bed. “Remus and I will be a floor up if you need anything, just follow the sound of the bed springs.” She chuckled as Harry once more became absorbed with the cracks in the ceiling. “We’d have put you in the master bedroom, seeing as it is your house, but uh…” Tonks’ hair wilted ever so slightly, like a week-old pink salad, and Harry quickly reassured her that his accommodations were perfect and that e didn’t want to keep her from her usual routine on his account. Truthfully, he didn’t want to think about Sirius any more than she did.

He let out a long sigh and flopped unceremoniously onto his bed. He just wanted to get his things unpacked, or as unpacked as they needed to be for the two weeks he’d be staying, and consider his earlier interaction with Hermione, but of course fate couldn’t let that slide. “Well well, if it isn’t Mr. Potter. Long time no see.” A familiar snide voice called out from the far wall. Harry lifted his head and saw Phineas Nigellus glaring at him with clear contempt from his portrait.

An unwelcome development, though not an unexpected one. “And will I be sharing a room with you again?” Harry deadpanned at the sarcastic ex-Headmaster.

“It will appear so.” Phineas called over his shoulder, being on his way to his other portrait, presumably to report to McGonagall.

Finally alone with his thoughts, Harry forced himself to relive the kiss he had shared with his best friend, analyzing and dissecting it from a hundred angles until he could build up a clear picture of what he was up against. As he progressed, a very disconcerting conclusion began to emerge. He cared for Hermione, definitely more than a friend should. It was clear just in the kiss. He vividly remembered his last kisses, few in number as they were. Kissing Cho was all about desperation; she had little affection for him, she was just still shaken up over losing Cedric and needed to get the emotions out. Kissing Ginny was all passion, and all of it one-sided; Ginny was a very forceful person by nature, and reflected this in no better way than intimately. If he was honest with himself, sometimes he couldn’t remember why he had felt compelled to go out with her in the first place.

3. A disease with no cure

Chapter title credited to John Glenn: "There is no cure for the common birthday." Sorry if the title made you think that I gave one of the characters Cancer or something.

Chapter 3: A Disease With No Cure

“Open this one next Harry!” Harry smiled wanly as a large, heavy, clumsily wrapped package was thrust into his hands. It was his birthday, which he had forgotten completely until nearly strangling Hermione when she woke him up at the crack of dawn. His nightmares had returned with increased vigour, especially now that they were fuelled by an incredibly ancient man with a long white beard being flung from the top of a tower, so his reactions when woken were always unpredictable and dangerous more often than not. He was still nursing the bump from when he had accidentally head-butted Tonks on his first morning, the cord of his neck where she had hit him reflexively, and the last vestiges of the stomach ache induced by the enormous meal she had cooked by way of apology.

The typical exasperated snort and breathed reprimand of “Honestly Ronald” from the bushy-haired girl to his right jerked him back to the Grimmauld Place sitting room where his impromptu, and unexpected, party was being held. He was sitting on a sofa between his two best friends, Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley, the former glaring at the latter who had ‘presented’ Harry with the aforementioned package. Ginny was lying on her stomach on the floor at his feet, looking for all the world like a ginger sheepdog. Mr and Mrs Weasley were curled up on a nearby loveseat. The twins were on another sofa across the room from their parents, whose casual public displays of affection they were doing their utmost to ignore, while Bill and Charlie stood guard behind them, the latter sporting several new burns and sutured scratches on his face. Tonks stood by the door, periodically looking out for some sign of her husband who had vanished a few minutes prior.

Harry gingerly felt the package in his hands before starting to open it. He soon discovered that it was a rather weighty tome. “What’s this? A book from Ron Weasley? What is the world coming too?” He asked in an obviously falsely cheerful voice, earning few chuckles around the room but a short outburst of roaring laughter from Ginny.

Ron’s face turned an impressive shade of red, most likely from a combination of his friend’s half-hearted teasing and his sister’s totally inappropriate outburst. “Yeah, well take a look at it before you make fun of me.” He requested indignantly. Never one to deny a friend, even in the nearly perpetually depressed mood he had recently found himself in, Harry obliged.

“1001 Curses, Hexes, Jinxes, Rituals and Enchantments You’ll Wish You’d Never Have Asked About? Thanks Ron, this should really come in handy.” He, Ron, and Hermione shared a knowing look, oblivious to the confused stares directed their way from every occupant of the room. Naturally Hermione was first to become aware of the situation. Nonchalant as ever, she cleared her throat and handed Harry a similar-looking package to Ron’s, albeit considerably more neatly wrapped.

It may have been his imagination, but it seemed that Hermione’s finger lingered a moment longer than necessary as it brushed against his. As though he had entered one of those moments between moments, where time slows to an unrecognizable crawl, their eyes met and Harry saw a profound sadness buried in their usually mild depths. As soon as it had come, the deep brown pools returned to their normal glimmer, and the moment that Harry had almost allowed passed them by. In his haste to return to a normal reaction and divert attention from the fraction of time, however, he missed the scathing look Ginny directed at Hermione as he turned his interest to the object in his hands.

Unsurprisingly it was another book, though a slightly more dangerous one, and one that attracted more than a few stares. A Dark & Despicable Guide to the Darkest of Arts was its title. He turned to his friend to thank her, but couldn’t find the words. None were necessary. After so many years they had become so attuned to one another that expressing such things took place on an almost purely instinctual level. All the same he added some, strictly for appearances. “Thank you Hermione.” She smiled softly at him. One might have mistaken the expression as one that was happy and carefree, which was indeed how it was intended, but at close range there was sadness behind it; the sadness they all felt. Ginny was obviously not close enough to notice this, and apparently interpreted it as a smile of wistful longing. In the mind of Ginny Weasley, anyone else smiling in such a way at Harry was unacceptable.

“Open mine next Harry.” She requested in a breathy voice, pushing a small box towards him. Inside was a boutonniere of lilies and a note reading ‘for the wedding.’ Harry was grateful that the symbolism afforded him some time to think things over without arousing suspicion. He had once thought he loved Ginny, though he couldn’t for the life of him remember why. All the same, a part of him admired her tenacity. Maybe, just maybe, he could learn to love her. If she truly loved him. One look into her eyes told him everything he needed to know. He could forget what happened between him and Hermione, pretend to love Ginny, and one day marry her, but he would be not be making himself happy; he would be fulfilling a young girl’s childhood fantasy of marrying Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. He could not, and would not love someone who only loved the idea of him. He thanked Ginny quietly, averting his gaze from the hurt, confusion, and anger he saw in her eyes.

“Heads up Potter.” His head snapped up the moment Bill called, after he tossed over a ring box. It was wide to the outside, but not even near outside the reach of the greatest seeker Hogwarts had ever seen. Opening it revealed a thin, carved ring made of white gold and encrusted with a single diamond.

“What’s this Bill? I thought you were already getting married.” One of the twins joked, to sparse laughter.

“Shut up you, it’s not an engagement ring. It’s a curse detection ring. The diamond turns red when there’s dark magic nearby.” Bill explained.

Harry put it on his right middle finger and examined it. It was very good quality. “Thanks a lot Bill, this should be useful for fighting Voldemort.” He ignored the shudder that passed through the room, as he was now so used to doing.

Tonks walked over from her position at the door, and handed him what looked like a wand box. “Looks like this is the last one, until Remus shows up.” She told him, a little sad that her lover wasn’t there yet.

Harry opened Tonks’ gift and was faced with the most useful gift he had received yet, or so at least Mad-Eye would think. It was a wand holster, designed to be strapped to the forearm. “Thanks Tonks!” He thanked enthusiastically; this was actually something he was excited about. His other gifts had also been practical, but this one would give him a distinct edge in combat.

Tonks smiled. “No problem Harry; one of these days I’ll teach you how to work it.” Harry looked at her with puzzlement. How would he need to work it? He was to put it on his left forearm, and draw his wand with his right hand. He was about to ask Tonks what she meant, but the sudden appearance of Remus put an end to that train of thought.

The werewolf struggled through the narrow door, clutching a giant gift-wrapped box. He set it down at Harry’s feet and collapsed in an armchair. “Happy birthday Harry.” He panted, gesturing for him to open it. Harry removed the paper with trepidation, especially when his hand closed on something cold and wet. When he had finally removed all the paper, he was looking at a large box with holes in it. A hairy nose was poking through one of the holes.

Harry looked at Remus. “A dog?” He asked incredulously. Remus only smiled his thin smile.

“Not just any dog Harry, let him out. He’s very playful.” Eyebrows raised, Harry reached over to the top of the box and opened the flaps. A very familiar shaggy black dog bounded out and shook himself. He looked around the room, sniffing, and found his way to Harry. Tail wagging, he ran over and started licking Harry’s hand.

Harry grasped the dog gently by the snout, and manoeuvred the head so he was looking into the dog’s eyes. “Sirius?” He asked, shocked. The dog shook his muzzle free, barked happily, and transformed into the crouching form of Harry’s godfather.

Sirius stood up and stretched his back. “Honestly Moony, couldn’t you have found a more comfortable box?” He complained in the direction of his old friend. He turned to the four children, all of who were staring at him in slack-jawed amazement. “What? Did he turn my robes invisible again?” He asked, checking that he was in fact fully clothed (which, fortunately for all concerned, he was).

Ginny’s jaw opened and closed repeatedly with no sound coming out, and Ron kept stammering “Wha…but…” over and over. Meanwhile Harry had found himself incapable of any sound at all, so only Hermione was in any position to point out the glaringly obvious point that was slapping everyone in the face.

“Uh, Sirius? You’re kind of dead.” She pointed out. Sirius looked at her like she had dropped in from Mars, and poked himself firmly in the stomach.

“I seem pretty alive to me.” He noted jovially.

By this time Harry had regained full use of his vocal cords, so he was able to ask the question that had been running through his mind since he first saw the dog. “How did you come back? You fell through the veil and you were gone.” A small frown creased Sirius’ face as he thought about it.

“I don’t really know. Last thing I remember I was fighting my dear cousin Bella,” He stressed the ‘dear’ sarcastically, “She shoots a stunner at me, and next thing I know I’m being prodded and poked by Unspeakables. Managed to escape about a week ago, and got here only the day before you did.”

Harry turned to Remus angrily. “He was here this whole week and you didn’t tell me?”

Remus shrugged. “I thought it would be a good birthday present for you. Plus I couldn’t wait to see the look on your face when Sirius leapt out of the box.” He chuckled. Harry looked as though he would protest the matter further, but Sirius cut him off.

“Hey, there’s more stuff in here!” He called out, drawing the room’s collective attention back to him and his box, and tossed Harry a silver pocket watch. “From James. Since he can’t give it to you in person, I get the job.” Harry turned the watch over. On the front was an engraved coat of arms. The shield was quartered with a stag’s head, dog, werewolf, and rat (counter clockwise from top left). At the centre, between all four animals, was the intricate letter ‘M’ superimposed over a blossomed flower. “The Marauder’s crest.” Sirius explained. “Lily designed it shortly after we graduated. It’s symbolic of Prongs, me, Moony, and Wormtail.” He pointed at each animal, “And Lily.” He pointed to the flower. Harry opened the case. On the inside cover, opposite the watch face, was a small photograph on a younger Remus, Sirius, James and Lily with Hogwarts in the background. They looked so happy. “Last time I saw this Wormtail was in it. He must have walked out after selling out his friends.” Sirius noted bitterly. Harry closed the watch and looked up at his godfather.

“Thank you Sirius.” Harry said simply, emotion overflowing in his voice. Beside him, he felt Hermione put her hand on his shoulder in a comforting way. It was the happiest he had been in two months. Deep within his body, he felt a glimmer of his old self.

Sirius held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Don’t get all weepy eyed on me yet kiddo, I have one more for you.” He handed Harry a small rectangular package wrapped in simple brown paper. Harry looked at him, a question written in his eyes. Sirius nodded, and Harry tore open the package. “Tonks found the remains in your room a few days ago, so I fixed it up.” He told his godson, who was admiring the two-way mirror. “Just remember to use it this time before you go running off to fight Death Eaters, okay?” he joked.

Harry looked up at him. “That’s not funny. Try and be serious about at least this, I thought you’d died.”

“Serious?” Sirius asked, sounding affronted. “Of course I’ll be serious. Serious is my middle name. Well, technically it’s my first name.” He trailed off as a collective groan passed around the room.

“Padfoot.” Remus called out from his chair.

“Yes Moony old buddy, old pal?”

“Remember that time in third year when Prongs, Wormtail and I threatened to prank you into the next decade unless you stopped those stupid Sirius/serious jokes?” the werewolf asked tiredly.

Sirius looked confused. “Yeah? So?”

“So, the offer still stands. And I’ll be doing the work of three.” Remus reminded his oldest friend.

Sirius paled. “Right, I’ll remember that.” He turned to his godson. “Sorry Harry, I’d love to chat but I’d better hide before Remus changes his mind.” With that he changed into a dog and bounded out of the room.

From the loveseat Molly cleared her throat. “Well I’d best get dinner started. Ginny, come and help me.” She ordered. Ginny turned to her from where she had been glaring at Hermione and, more specifically, Hermione’s hand on Harry’s shoulder.

“Fine Mum.” She sighed, and followed her mother into the kitchen.

Hermione slid her hand down Harry’s arm, apparently unaware of the unwanted tingling feelings she was leaving behind, and grasped his hand. “Come on Harry, we need to talk.” She informed him, dragging the young man to his feet. As he was being pulled out of the room he turned to look at Ron. His best friend was glowering at him from his place on the sofa surrounded by Harry’s gifts; a box of candy from Mrs Weasley, an enchanted wallet from Hagrid, a Dragonhide combat suit from Charlie, and the keys to Sirius’ old motorcycle from Mr Weasley. Harry shrugged helplessly, and shook his head indicating it wasn’t what Ron thought. This, however, did nothing to improve Ron’s mood.

***

“Alright Harry, what the hell’s gotten into you this time?” Hermione had finally pulled him into the room she and Ginny had shared two years previously. Harry had advised her against discussing anything in his room, reasoning that Phineas Nigellus could be listening. Harry gave her a confused look, and she rolled her eyes angrily.

“I...I don’t know what you’re talking about Hermione.” He informed her jerkily. She did not look impressed.

“Yes Harry, you know exactly what I’m talking about.” She let out a heavy breath when he just shook his head vigorously. “I’m talking about how you’ve been moping around for two weeks, barely eating, barely talking to anyone, and not sending a single letter to me, Ron, or anyone else. And before you try to deny it,” She interrupted him at the very moment he was about to do just that, “I’ve been owling Tonks daily; she told me everything.”

Harry sighed. He had been afraid of this. How to begin explaining it? He knew better than to lie, of course; nobody in the world could see through him better than Hermione, including Professor Dumbledore. How could he possibly explain to anyone, even her, how he felt? How to impress upon her that there were hundreds of Death Eaters at large, every one of them baying for his blood and the blood of anyone associated with him? That he could feel down to his very bones that the final confrontation with Voldemort would be soon, and his fears that he would be destroyed and the Wizarding world would fall? His fear that more people he cared about would die, and that it was a miracle that even one other had returned? That his own best hopes for ultimate victory had fallen hundreds of metres from the highest balcony of the Astronomy tower, and now lay in a marble tomb?

And yet, somehow, he had managed to communicate all of these things without conscious knowledge of it. By the time he had collected his thoughts again, Hermione’s eyes glistened with rare tears. She grasped him around the middle and, burying her face into his shirt, wept openly for the first time in living memory. She wept for Harry, for herself, for her friends and family, for what had passed and what was still to come. And as she wept, Harry could have sworn he heard her murmur that she would stay with him, no matter what, until the end.

After what could have been as long as an eternity, or as short as ten minutes, Hermione pulled back from him. Her eyes and face were red, but a quick wave of her wand restored her flawless complexion and composure, and simultaneously dried the wet spot on his shirt. She muttered her thanks, and he told her not to mention it. “Don’t tell Ron.” She pleaded.

He understood her feelings entirely, and informed her that he wouldn’t dream of it.

She smiled thinly at him, and then started on another tangent. “I also wanted to talk about what happened two weeks ago.” Harry personally didn’t think there was anything to discuss, and his face must have betrayed that feeling. “Harry, I know you. I know you very well. You have an almost paranoid fear of intimacy, so you’ve got another thing coming if you expect me to believe that you kissed me for no reason.” She had adopted her typical stance for telling him off, hands on hips and glaring. It was actually kind of cute.

Nevertheless, Harry sighed. Once more he didn’t even consider lying, so he just came out and said it. “Hermione, I’m a seventeen year old male, and I had a very attractive female right in front of me; I acted totally on instinct.”

Hermione coloured slightly, and he couldn’t figure why until he realized what he had just said. “You…you think I’m attractive?” She asked, almost shyly.

He looked her up and down purposefully. Her hair was as untamed as ever, although it had mellowed out in the last few years. Her arms were thin and lithe, with slightly defined muscle, but Harry knew that she was stronger than she appeared. Her chest was nice; neither gargantuan nor invisible, but noticeable. Her stomach was a little bit rounder than she herself liked, but it wasn’t much and he didn’t mind it; it was a part of who she was. “Yes, Hermione. I do. I always have.” He answered, finally, and totally honestly.

Her flush darkened, and she looked down at her shoes. “Is that all you like about me? My body?”

Harry instantly, without hesitation, responded in the negative. There were countless things he liked about her, and he listed many off the top of his head; her level-headed grace, her quiet dignity, her intelligence, her ability to reason, her subtle humour, her single-minded determination, and more. By the time he was finished, her face had gone from a light scarlet to a deep tomato red. “You’re the most incredible person I’ve ever met.” He told her frankly.

She continued looking down for a long while, before finally taking a deep, steeling breath and looked up at him again. “Harry, do you trust me?” He nodded. He trusted her more than anyone else in the world. She took another deep breath, got up on her toes so they were at about eye level, and kissed him.

This kiss felt, if possible, even more amazing than the last one. He could feel it tingling throughout his entire body, as though someone had hooked him up to a car battery. Lord Voldemort himself could have apparated into the room in tights and start performing ballet, and Harry wouldn’t have spared a single glance. They finally pulled apart, and Hermione had a triumphant look on her face; he knew that she had just proven something to herself. “Harry, I want you to be my boyfriend.” She told him matter-of-factly.

He grinned at her. “That’s very fortunate, because I want you to be my girlfriend.”

They shared a smile. “I guess that’s decided then.” Hermione moved to kiss him again, and he would have been more than happy to oblige her, except that Mrs. Weasley chose that very moment to announce to the entire house that someone wanted to see Harry and Hermione in the sitting room. The new couple reluctantly pulled apart and, after affirming that neither of them wanted to leave but both knew it was necessary, departed the bedroom together.

***

The two teenagers entered the sitting room, perhaps unconsciously standing closer to each other than they would have ten minutes ago, to be greeted by Mad-Eye leaning back in an armchair with his feet perched on the coffee table across from Professor McGonagall. Harry cocked an eyebrow and spoke to McGonagall with a sigh. “Professor, I have a good idea why you’re here. I’m sorry to say that Hermione, Ron, and I won’t be coming back to Hogwarts this year. Professor Dumbledore left us a job to do, and we need to see it through.” Of course he knew that Hogwarts was re-opening. It had been front-page news in The Daily Prophet, which Remus still received due to his infallible optimism that they would eventually develop some semblance of a clue. McGonagall raised an eyebrow in Mad-Eye’s direction.

“Aye Potter, we know. You were quite insistent with Scrimgeour on that front.” Even Moody’s gruff demeanour couldn’t keep amusement from rising to his voice. His disgust for the new Minister of Magic wasn’t concealed in the slightest. “We also know all about the horcruxes.”

For a long moment, Harry was gobsmacked. Mad-Eye Moody, the unstable ex-Auror, had casually spouted a secret that had been imparted (to the best of his knowledge) to Harry alone. As usual, Hermione buried her confusion and made the level-headed inquiries. “I certainly hope you silenced this room before you said that.” She chastised the old Auror.

McGonagall betrayed no emotion in her voice, but the corners of her mouth twitched almost imperceptibly. “I would have hoped you would have more faith in us than that Ms Granger. Alastor may be many things, but he is not a fool.” Hermione coloured slightly with the reprimand, and McGonagall continued. “And neither was Albus. He was quite aware that his time was coming to a close, and informed us of your mission shortly before leaving for the locket with Mr Potter.”

“He also told us that you three would probably want to leave Hogwarts to pursue the remaining Horcruxes.” Moody supplied.

“We believe, and Albus agreed, that it would actually serve your purposes better to conduct your search from Hogwarts.” McGonagall finally concluded the two-pronged proposition.

Harry, aware that he had said rather little in this conversation, took the lead. “Why? What makes you think that you can help us more than we can help ourselves?” He challenged, more for the sake of argument than for any other reason.

Mad-Eye swung his legs off the table and fixed both eyes on him, the scar tissue pulling his face into what looked like a glare. He slammed one thick finger down on the table. “One: I have been personally overseeing the defences of the castle.” He slammed a second finger. A long scar twisted up its length and disappeared under his cuff. “Two: there are a dozen highly trained witches and wizards on staff, as well as a half-giant and a centaur, all of whom are in the castle all day, every day.” A third finger hit the table, missing the entire top section from the second joint up. “Three: 24/7 Order guard on the perimeter, and at the entrances and exits to the grounds.” A fourth and final finger joined the others, this one sporting an angry burn scar. “And four: we have the largest magical library in the world, with the exception of the ICW Archives.” Moody raised an eyebrow, challenging the duo to argue him.

“And I have taken enough liberties with staff appointments this year to ensure that there are two professors with very specialized skills who would be more than willing to train you in the more obscure magical arts.” McGonagall finished. Moody regarded her curiously, and she nodded at him. He slumped back in his chair. Something about that news caused him a great amount of contemplation.

Similarly, Harry gave Hermione a questioning glance. He knew she had always been set against leaving Hogwarts, so he wasn’t anticipating much difficulty. As expected, he could see the wheels turning, and sensed the answer long before it would have been voiced. He turned back to his professors. “Alright, we accept. I doubt Ron will be pleased though.” He added as an afterthought to Hermione, who simply smiled.

Mad-Eye stirred to life. “Well Weasley’s just going to have to get over himself, isn’t he?” He asked rhetorically, rising from his seat. “Potter, Granger.” He nodded at them both before stomping off in some random direction.

McGonagall reached for a portkey in her robes, but hesitated. Finally she withdrew an envelope from her cloak and presented it to the two of them. “Until September. Happy birthday Mr Potter.” She bid her farewells, and vanished.

Harry looked suspiciously at the envelope. Not that he expected Professor McGonagall, but one could never be too careful when one was the prime target of a psychotic megalomaniac. Cautiously he opened it, releasing a folded piece of parchment and two silvery metal discs. Leaving Hermione with the discs, and ignoring her gasp of surprise, he read the letter.

Dear Mr Potter & Ms Granger;

I would like to formally congratulate the both of you on your appointment as Head Boy and Girl for the 1997-1998 Hogwarts school year. I also wish to assure you that you had been selected for this position some time ago, and it is not merely an incentive for you to return to school.

Your duties are as follows: You are to organize patrols for the prefects of the various years and houses. A complete list has been enclosed. You are both also normally required to take a shift at some point; however Professor McGonagall informs me that you are to be waived of this duty. In addition, you are expected to treat students of all houses fairly, regardless of their own house and any prejudices you may have. Beyond that, be good role models. You represent the cream of the crop of Hogwarts students, and your behaviour should reflect that. First years will be encouraged to seek you out if they have any minor concerns, and you are of course expected to aid them and all other students to the best of your ability.

Now, on to the good stuff. As Head Boy and Girl, you both have the ability to administer detentions like any prefect, and you are able to add or remove house points from any student. I trust you will not abuse this power. Finally, since your position absolves you of any house ties, you are given your own tower, complete with common room, separate dormitories, and separate bathrooms. I need hardly stress the importance of your dormitories being separate. The entrance is on the seventh floor, being behind the wooden door with no handle. The password is unus pro totus. You may, of course, change the entrance to whatever you wish upon your arrival.

Congratulations again

Transfiguration Professor, Hogwarts School Counsellor, Head of Administration

Curiously, the note was not signed. However the envelope was sealed with the Hogwarts crest, so Harry wasn’t unduly concerned. He regarded the list of prefects with little interest, and swapped Hermione the letter for his new badge. It was very similar to his Quidditch Captain’s badge, but instead of the Gryffindor crest it was engraved with the Hogwarts crest, and the letters ‘HB’ were inscribed on its surface. The idea of sharing a private tower with Hermione was very exciting, especially given their new relationship status, but he was mostly concerned with how Ron would react. For all his good qualities, their ginger friend could be very impulsive.

The two friends heard someone approaching, and they quickly hid the letter and their badges. Neither of them wanted to face Ron’s accusations at the moment, though both knew they would eventually have to. It turned out to only be Mr Weasley. “Well Harry, What do you say we get you and Ron to take your apparition tests today? You are of age after all, and it’s a useful skill to have.” He asked, as jovial as he could manage.

Harry shared a glance with Hermione. Although he had missed spending time with his best friend, and would have been happy to spend even more time with her given recent events, he and she both knew that it was very important for him to learn how to move quickly over large distances. “Alright Mr Weasley, just let me put some stuff away first.”

The balding man grinned at him, though it didn’t quite make it all the way to his eyes. “Excellent. Alastor said he’d wait for us to stand guard.” He rolled his eyes. “I don’t think it’s necessary, but you know what he’s like.” Mr Weasley grumbled slightly on his way out of the kitchen. Harry took a deep breath. He did indeed know what Mad-Eye was like.

Yes, I'm in denial. Sirius will always live, as far as I'm concerned. Just so you know, Padfoot is the only character I'm bringing back from the dead. As for saving others from JKR's killing sprees, we'll see.

Also some definative HHr for all my fellow shippers. As Hermsy already stated, I know it's a bit of a cliché. Hey, you can't avoid all of them.

Obviously the phantom Transfiguration teacher will come into play soon enough. He's my favourite OC ever, and will have a substantial part to play. As well the password for the Head's tower, totus pro unus, is latin for 'All for one.' I apologize if my Latin isn't very good, I just got it from an online translator.

4. It takes one

Chapter title attributed to an anonymous soldier in Samawah, Iraq: “It takes two sides to make war. It only takes one side to make a massacre.”

Chapter 4: It Only Takes One

‘I have to hand it to that receptionist,’ Harry thought, referring to the receptionist at the Apparition test center in the Ministry’s Department of Magical Transportation. ‘She certainly can keep her cool.’ And what a sight they must have been, Harry and Ron shuffling through the door behind Mad-Eye Moody, with a rather bored-looking Mr Weasley bringing up the rear. But the toughened old witch didn’t bat a grey eyelash, even when Moody quietly growled that Harry Potter was there to take his apparition test. Stranger still was the man. It may have been his imagination, but Harry was convinced someone had followed them from the alley where Mad-Eye’s portkey had dumped them.

Sparing a glance out the office window, Harry could see him. His face was obscured by shadows, and the glow from the cigarette in his mouth revealed only the shadow of an unshaven shin and the end of a nondescript nose. The man was tall, almost unnaturally so, and wore a black three-piece suit. Everything visible about him was dark, his slacks, his wingtip shoes, his vest, his double-breasted jacket, his shirt, and his tie. He even wore black leather gloves on his hands. He had been standing in the same spot for the entire hour they had been waiting, and the five minutes since Ron had departed for his test. The only movement he had made was to reach into an interior pocket of his jacket for another cigarette.

After what seemed like an eternity, Ron came out of the testing room with a smile on his face. Before he could even ask, though he could see the result written in his best friend’s face, Harry was called into the room himself. The testing room was not very remarkable; it was simply a spacious hall with a few shapes painted on the ground in various spots. Directly in front of him was a man Harry recognized as Wilkie Twycross, the Apparition instructor who had visited Hogwarts the previous year. Wilkie gave him an once-over before addressing him. “Well Mr Potter, lets see what you can do.” He flicked his wand and suddenly Harry’s vision was obscured. “Don’t panic, it’s all part of the test.” The elderly man soothed. “Now, picture a red painted triangle on the floor and apparate to it.”

Harry concentrated hard on the image, and turned on his heel. The familiar sense of being stuffed through an extremely small tube overwhelmed him, but it seemed he had reached his destination. “Excellent Mr Potter, most excellent.” Light assaulted Harry’s eyes as his vision was restored, and he found himself at one end of the hall standing on top of a red triangle. The tester pointed to the other end and Harry could see a small platform jutting out from the wall. “Try apparating over there.” He requested. Harry complied, and quickly found himself standing on the platform. Fortunately the squeezing sensation seemed to lessen with each attempt, or else apparition would be an extremely uncomfortable means of transportation. Twycross beckoned, and Harry apparated in front of him. He was handed a picture of a comfortable looking sitting room. Understanding, Harry concentrated very hard on the image, and found himself in the room depicted. An old, frail-looking woman was knitting in an armchair.

“Go on and apparate back to the testing room dear.” She instructed him in a pleasant, but weary voice. He did so, and was met with a beaming Wilkie Twycross.

“Spectacular Mr Potter! Let me be the first to congratulate you on receiving you Apparition licence.” The ancient instructor handed Harry a piece of parchment and shook his hand with a vigour that belied his frail form. Feeling quite pleased with himself, Harry exited the room.

Mad-Eye immediately rose to his feet. “About time. I don’t like the looks of that fellow.” He pointed behind him, indicating the man Harry had noticed earlier. Receiving various indications of agreement from the party, the heavily scarred man led the way out of the office. He seemed to receive some grim satisfaction from the fact that the mysterious man in black did not stir, though he was gone when Harry looked back before turning a corner.

Moody’s fears seemed unfounded, and they had actually made it all the way to the Atrium without incident. In fact they hadn’t met anyone at all, apart from the people in the testing center and the mystery man, until Kingsley Shacklebolt suddenly ran up to them. “Alastor, you need to get out of here. Death Eaters have attacked the Ministry. They…They have dementors! Hundreds of them!” Kingsley’s normally calm voice was laced with fear.

Moody, being Moody, did little to help him cope. Instead he laid a heavy-handed slap across one of the Auror’s cheeks. “Pull yourself together. What happened?” He ordered, brimming with a sublime authority that seemed out of place in his rough and bad-tempered manner.

Kingsley took a deep breath, but any words he would have spoken were cut off by a gurgling noise in the back of his throat. With a mighty choke, a mouthful of blood spewed from his mouth and splattered on Moody’s cheek. He wiped it off on his hand without changing his expression and flung it to the floor. Suddenly a gratingly high-pitched voice echoed from behind the tall dark man, whose eyes had widened considerably and was choking horrendously. “The itsy bitsy spider went up the water spout” It sang. Kingsley sucked in a breath, and choked up more blood onto Alastor’s face. This time the Auror did not move to wipe it off, but his eyes narrowed dangerously. “Down came the rain and washed the spider out.” Breath. Choke. Splatter. “Out came the sun and dried up all the rain.” Breath. Choke. Splatter. Now a head appeared over Kingsley’s left shoulder. It was quite wrinkled, with a receding line of dark hair quickly greying. Mad-Eye seemed to know the face, and he stiffened. “So the itsy bitsy spider went up the spout again.” Breath. Choke. Splatter. Kingsley’s eyes acquired a glassy quality, and he fell on his face. A small dagger was protruding from his spine. He was quite dead. The one, solitary silver lining of this horrific event was that Harry could now clearly see his attacker. He wore long, deep purple robes and a black tunic, black slacks and boots. The Death Eater, for there was no question about that much, bent over to retrieve his knife, savouring the blood he licked off of it like a fine wine. He regarded Moody curiously. “Well I’ll be, if it isn’t old Alastor. How’s the eye I gave you?” He asked in his irritating voice, which Harry now identified as Welsh.

Moody spat some of Kingsley’s blood onto the floor. “Travers.” He growled. He evidently had a very low opinion of this Death Eater. Travers only grinned.

“After all these years that’s all you have to say? Tell me, how is Marlene these days?” He asked slyly.

At that moment, something inside of Mad-Eye broke. He was shaking with rage as he pulled a wand from its holster on his right hip, and sent another shooting into his right hand with a flick of his wrist. “Arthur, you need to round up the rest of these bastards. This one is mine.” He ordered the Weasley patriarch. Mr Weasley nodded and hurried off to do just that; Moody’s voice brooked no argument. “Potter, Weasley, you two need to get back to headquarters. GO!” He shouted, all semblance of control gone as he roared and launched himself at Travers.

Harry grabbed Ron by the arm and ran towards the nearest lift. Ron immediately hit the button for level one, the offices of the Minister for Magic and his support staff. “Why that one?” Harry asked his friend.

“Went there once to see Percy’s office, before he turned into the king of the prats.” Ron replied, a little bit short of breath. “There’s an apparition point in all of the offices, the narrow hallways make it hard to set up an ambush, and it’s closest to surface level.” Harry was thoroughly impressed. With one sentence, Ron Weasley had proven his usefulness beyond any shadow of a doubt; it was a sound, well-reasoned strategy and afforded them the best chance to get out with their skins intact. In another display of momentary genius, Ron shattered the mirrored wall of the lift with his foot and selected the largest broken piece to use to look around corners.

“First floor: Offices of the Minister for Magic and support staff.” The cool woman’s voice declared as the golden grill opened, depositing the duo in a narrow corridor. Ron led, wand in one hand and mirror in the other, Harry following behind with his own wand at the ready. One, two, and three corners passed the scrutiny of the mirror, until the walls of the corridor exploded, and Harry’s world blurred.

He was vaguely aware of someone yelling “RUN,” but he would be hard-pressed to identify who it had been. He knew that curses were flying, narrowly missing as his legs propelled him in the opposite direction, totally independent of his rational mind. He was also aware of the icy chill that shocked him back to himself as surely as a bucket of water. Dementors. He could feel them coming down one branch of a three-way intersection. The nameless enemies he had fled from were down the other, and the final led back to the elevator. No exits; nowhere to go. He heard an indistinct rumbling behind the wall he was pressed against, and took off in the direction of the elevator just as it blew apart, sending shards of plaster past his ears, but was hindered by a powerful hand on the scruff of his neck pulling him through the hole, lifting him onto a shoulder, and running.

A deep part of Harry’s mind, unfazed by the chaos surrounding him, recognized that he was moving at a rapid pace, totally independent of his legs. Another, significantly smaller portion, translated the shards of plaster striking his face into the understanding that whoever was carrying him was also bursting through walls. This same part recognized when the mysterious entity made a sharp ninety degree turn, bursting through a flimsy wooden door into the rear stairwell. Harry faintly felt himself being deposited against the wall, and was aware for the first time that Ron had also been carried this far. The man, for that was obviously what it had been, was visible as little more than the back of a dark suit retreating towards the door.

Calmly, unhurriedly, he withdrew a cigarette and squashed it against the wall and backed away, now extracting a small silver lighter. Beyond his large frame, Harry could see the billowing robes of a Dementor swarm approaching. “What are you doing?” He yelled at the man, at the same time struggling to his feet.

“Stop.” The simple command, delivered in an icy Russian accent, stopped him dead. Harry, for all his hot-headedness, was not an idiot; he knew that some people you just do not cross. The man watched the door ceaselessly, watching the Dementors approach, until the first of them was barely a foot from the door. Harry could feel the waves of despair wash over him, as well as the impulse to run, but neither seemed to affect this man. Little emotion could be detected in him, beyond the slight tightening of his jaw, when he pushed down on the lighter and, with a click that seemed to echo, the door exploded. A piercing shriek filled the air as the surrounding masonry collapsed on the Dementor unfortunate enough to be in its path. The end result was a massive pile of rubble that the dementors would be unable to penetrate. He knelt down next to Harry, presumably to check for injuries, giving the young man a chance to see the face of his rescuer. There was actually little more to see. The man had dark grey hair, a high forehead, and concealed his eyes behind heavy dark sunglasses. Close inspection revealed the silvery lines of scars that would never disappear scattered around his face. After a moment, he straightened.

“I will be back. I need to find a way out of this place.” The Russian informed the two friends before disappearing into the shadows. Harry struggled to his feet, keen to get away before the strange man came back, but he had only started helping Ron up when two quick immobilizing spells hit them from the stairwell. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry spotted a hooded and robed Death Eater ascending the stairs towards them.

“Well well, look what we have here.” The Death Eater exclaimed. Harry recognized the voice as Avery. “I’m sure the Dark Lord won’t mind if I have some fun with the great Harry Potter before I turn him over.” Harry could sense the twisted smile forming on Avery’s face as he bent over to gag Harry and Ron. Before he could rise, though, he was lifted bodily into the air and flung against a nearby wall, crumpling at the base. In his place stood an icily stoic man in a dark suit, the Russian saviour, who quickly released Harry and Ron from their bonds and helped them to their feet.

“Come.” He ordered simply, turning to lead them out. Harry stood his ground. Sensing this, the Russian turned and approached Harry menacingly. “Come with me. Now.” He commanded in the firmest, iciest voice Harry had ever heard.

Harry did not budge. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me who you are and what you’re doing here.”

“There is no time for chatter. We leave now.”

“No.” The two stared each other down, Harry staring at where he hoped the man’s eyes were. Damned sunglasses. Who the hell where sunglasses indoors anyway?

Ron was getting visibly agitated. “Come on Harry, you heard him; we need to get out of here before more Death Eaters show up.”

“Your comrade is correct, Potter. The forces attacking this building are far superior to our force. We must flee, or die.” Harry didn’t respond. He wasn’t going anywhere as long as this man was a stranger, and all three of them knew it. Pursing his lips in a highly displeased look, the man relented. “My name is Aleksandr Ivanóv. I was hired by certain members of the Order of the Phoenix to protect you.”

“Prove it.” Harry’s eyes were as frosty as Ivanóv’s voice.

“Number 12 Grimmauld Place.” The Russian said simply, catching Harry rather off-balance. “Now come with me. There will be time for questions later.” Harry still wasn’t entirely convinced, but at least he knew that he wasn’t in any immediate danger. Reluctantly, he followed the Russian.

He led them down several flights of stairs, before finally leading them out of a door leading to the courtrooms. Of course Murphy’s law dictates that if something can go wrong, it will. So naturally Aleksandr was blasted against a wall by numerous high powered curses. Unfortunately his assailant fled, to be replaced by a single dementor.

“Expecto Patronum!” Harry cried out, pointing his wand at the cloaked shape and focusing on his reunion with Sirius. But it wasn’t enough. The dementor’s presence was too powerful and it continued to approach. The report of a gun echoed deafeningly through the hall, and Harry was astounded to see that the dementor had suffered a wound. A small hole had appeared in its body, and the dark presence was being inexorably drawn into it, leaving nothing but a small black spot and Aleksandr, stowing a large black handgun into his jacket.

Ron had submitted some time ago, but Aleksandr seemed satisfied that he would not suffer any permanent damage. Tossing the redhead over one shoulder he wordlessly motioned for Harry to follow him down into the blackness of the hall. “Don’t ignite your wand.” The Russian cautioned, disappearing into the shadows. The only part of him that was visible was the faint colour of Ron’s hair, which Harry followed to a loading elevator at the rear of the Courtroom floor. After a short ride it opened into an alley where a black 1975 Dodge Charger idled. Aleksandr deposited Ron in the back and Harry clambered into the passenger seat. The Russian took his place behind the wheel and sped off.

Though he really didn’t want to irritate a man who carried a 9 mm handgun under his arm which could eradicate dementors, Harry figured that now would be a good time to wheedle some more information out of this enigmatic soldier. “How long have you been protecting me?”

Aleksandr never turned from the road. “Seven years.” He replied simply. “I was hired after you received your Hogwarts acceptance letter.” Evidently not a very sociable fellow, but Harry was unperturbed.

“And where the hell have you been in all of that time? When I was locked in my bloody room without food? When I was attacked by dementors? When I had to outfly a bloody, sodding, DRAGON?”

Ivanóv was silent for a moment or two. “In no situation were you in enough danger to warrant my direct intervention. Rest assured, your existence would have been far more unpleasant had I not been present.” Sensing that Harry was about to interrupt again, he interjected one final thing. “The terms of my employ are not subject to your approval.”

Harry was silent for many miles. Finally, he hit upon another point of contention in this arrangement. “You’re a mercenary.” The Russian nodded. “So how do I know that Voldemort won’t give you a better offer?”

“You don’t. But I assure you Potter, there are more important things in this world. Even to a mercenary.”

Despite his brusque manner, Harry could tell that his host was not actually irritated. As such he felt it safe to ask one of the other questions that was bothering him. “Your gun, how did you kill the dementor with it?”

Ivanóv actually smiled. The look did not suit him. “Trade secret ребёнк.”

After a short drive they turned down a very dirty road that was most certainly not on the way to Grimmauld Place. “Where are you taking us?” Harry asked, nervously eyeing the decrepit warehouses that lined the road.

“A safe house. I have contacted my employer and you will be moved to Headquarters as soon as possible.” Ivanóv replied, moments before an unseen force lifted his vehicle from the road and deposited it in an inverted position. At least it woke Ron up. Aleksandr righted himself inside the car, drawing his gun and a pine wand from his jacket. “There are anti-apparition wards on this entire street. Get beyond them and apparate to safety.” His voice carried the undertone of a man who knew he was about to die, but he climbed out of the cramped prison to face death on his feet. Harry and Ron both drew their wands and followed suit. Not far in the distance they could see Aleksandr, a swirling cloud of muzzle flash and magical energy, surrounded by waves of Death Eaters. The teenagers took the opportunity of a distraction to race down the street, towards where they had been told the edge of the wards lay.

Suddenly, they both stopped. A familiar, and unwelcome, chill had descended on their bones. Dementors. And they were still several meters from freedom. With nothing to lose the two began running once more, only to have their path blocked by a group of nine dementors. Neither Harry nor Ron were quick enough with their wands however, and two of the crowd held Ron in place, while six went off to fight Aleksandr, and the final approached Harry. Despite his valiant efforts, Harry was unable to break free of the monster’s iron grip. It slowly lowered its hood, and Harry was once more greeted with the sight of the rotted flesh and gaping maw of a dementor’s face. Resistance was futile as the creature’s powerful jaws clamped down on his own, and he knew no more. His last thought before descending into darkness was ‘I only wish I could see Hermione one more time.’

ребёнк is Russian for child. My Russian is just as bad as my Latin, so forgive me if it's not exactly right.

5. Learning how to die

Chapter title attributed to Stephen King, from his 1983 novel Christine: "If being a kid is about learning how to live, then being a grown-up is about learning how to die."

Chapter 5: Learning How to Die

The change was immediate; there was no slow wake-up period. One moment Harry was unconscious and the next he was fully aware of his surroundings. Well, not quite fully. He as yet lacked the willpower to open his eyes, but he was aware of a warmth on his left hand. Slowly his eyelids opened, squinting against the glare of the strong lighting. He couldn’t see much, someone had evidently removed his glasses, but he could perceive a mass of brown connected to a flesh-coloured blur lying on his hand. He looked around, and spotted the form of what was probably a nightstand to his right. Slowly, so as not to disturb the object currently using him as a pillow, he reached over and stumbled upon his glasses. Setting them on his nose, he finally examined his location. It looked like the Hogwarts hospital wing, but he had been there so often he could tell that it wasn’t. Looking down the room he could see two more beds. The one farthest from his was empty, but the nearer one held the form of Aleksandr Ivanóv. The poor man was hooked up to an IV drip, as well as an untold number of muggle life support machines. Given his limited knowledge of such things, Harry could see only that the powerful Russian was stable. Barely. It was such a moving thing to witness a man who had conveyed such strength laid low, unconscious and barely breathing. His sunglasses were on a night table nearby. He looked younger without them. A stirring from the region of his hand drew his attention back to the person sleeping there, now identifiable as Hermione. Harry smiled softly to himself. Of course she would be the one to brave sleepless nights to be with him.

“Hermione.” He rasped softly, hating the sound of his weak voice. She stirred; he watched her blink the sleep from her eyes before sitting bolt upright.

“What did you call me?” she asked him, the confusion in her face quickly transforming into joy.

“Hermione.” He repeated, fearing more than slightly for the sanity of his best friend-turned-secret-girlfriend. A brilliant smile erupted on her face and she kissed him firmly on the lips. “What happened Hermione? Why are you asking me this?” he questioned, having been reluctantly released.

Upon releasing his lips, Hermione had begun planting kisses all over his face. Each word was punctuated by them as she answered his question. “All Ron would tell us is that you had been Kissed. Everyone was worried that you’d be gone. Lost.”

Harry smiled weakly. “Well I’m rather glad I’m not to be honest.” She chuckled at that. “Hermione, not that I’m complaining, but you should probably stop that. What if someone comes in?” she grudgingly sat up, pouting only slightly. “So how long was I out?”

“Surprisingly enough, only a few hours. It’s about midnight on Friday. The reading of Dumbledore’s will is this afternoon.” She seemed downcast with this admission, and understandably so.

Harry nodded, understanding and sharing her melancholy mood. He once more looked down at Aleksandr’s bed. He could not shake how unusual it was to see him so peaceful, having only seen him in action. “How’s everyone else?” he asked Hermione, slightly dreading the answer.

She followed his gaze to the Russian mercenary, and it lingered there. “Mr Weasley’s fine. No damage at all. Ron was just in shock apparently. Mad-Eye broke nearly every bone in his body, completely drained himself of magic and pulled several muscles. Madame Pomfrey tried to hide the cuts on his face and chest, but they were hard to miss. He was put in a body cast and ordered to stay in bed, but you know Mad-Eye.” She rolled her eyes and Harry grinned. He certainly did know Mad-Eye. “As for that guy.” She motioned at Aleksandr. “He seems to have had a heart attack or something. He’s in very good health, despite the open pack of cigarettes the nurse pulled out of his jacket. He might have a few broken ribs, but he should be fine.”

Harry frowned at the prone figure. “I’m not sure about him. He risked his life for me and Ron, a couple of times, but something seems...off about him.” Hermione cast him an odd look.

“Really? No one seems to know his name. Ron’s been in no state to talk and Professor McGonagall wouldn’t even look at him. He seems familiar though. Like something out of a dream.” She trailed off, a distant look appearing in her eyes as she was lost in thought. Finally she pulled herself back to Earth and fixed her best mothering glare on Harry. “And you need your sleep. You have a big day today.” She ordered, sounding quite vicious.

“Only if you stay with me.” He pleaded, shuffling over to make space for her. She hesitated, but finally relented. Smiling happily Harry replaced his glasses on the night table, while Hermione spooned him, and draped his arm over her side. “Love you.” He murmured, feeling himself succumbing to exhaustion. She purred contentedly in response, shuffling closer towards him. And it was in that warm position that Harry Potter fell into a deep sleep.

***

Harry awoke several hours later to an empty bed. Evidently Hermione had woken up early and left so as not to arouse suspicion. He wasn’t sure if he should be glad that she had the foresight to think of these sorts of things, or irritated that they had to sneak around. Then again if the alternative was having Hermione killed by Voldemort, or Ron or Ginny, he’d take sneaking around any day. Feeling rather hungry he pulled himself off the bed, finding himself to be clad in white cotton hospital pyjamas. Not particularly caring, he set off towards the kitchen. Neither did he notice that the Russian merc’s bed was also empty.

He entered the kitchen to the sight of Aleksandr Ivanóv having commandeered the table for his own nefarious purposes. At one end white strips were pulling themselves off a block labelled C4, sticking a piece of metal in one end, and rolling themselves in cigarette paper. At the other, Aleksandr was personally disassembling, cleaning and inspecting his gun. His sunglasses were pushed up on his head, allowing Harry his first glimpse at the Russian’s cold brown eyes. He glanced up, brown meeting green. Despite everything, Harry could still detect a glimmer of humanity in their cold depths. The merc grunted, and began reassembling his gun. “Good, you’re up. The reading is in an hour, so eat quickly. I’ll be escorting you due to Moody’s condition.”

Harry heard a disgruntled snort coming from the other end of the table, and realised that he had never really inspected the room beyond the table. Hermione was leaning against the counter, fully dressed, nursing a cup of coffee. Sitting at the table was a formless object only vaguely recognizable as Mad-Eye Moody. His head was reasonably normal, but the rest of him was swathed in so many bandages he looked like the Michelin man. “You know I got one of those damn letters too.” He argued.

The Russian wasn’t swayed. “Yes, and you cannot stand under your own power. I will take this one.” He coolly informed the crippled ex-Auror. He tightened the last screw in his gun, and gathered up his explosive cigarettes. “Now hurry up and get dressed ребёнк. We don’t have all day.” Aleksandr ordered, loading his Glock with a fresh magazine. Not exactly fearing the man, but eager to get away from the menacing black pistol, Harry complied quickly. He wasn’t all that hungry anyway.

Scarcely half an hour later Aleksandr’s black Charger was pulling up in front of the Leaky Cauldron and the tall Russian and his two teenaged charges entering into the bar. (Without a doubt every single person reading this will wonder whom the second teen is. Some will probably guess right, but you will have to wait for now.) Aleksandr ushered them quickly through the bar, not making eye contact with anyone. It was clear that he didn’t want to be there. When they reached the rear of the building, he dutifully pulled out his wand and opened the wall for them to enter the scarcely populated Diagon Alley.

The constant threat of Voldemort had all but emptied the once bustling marketplace; all that remained were a few shops showing optimism to the point of insanity in staying open, and the small clumps of people who couldn’t or wouldn’t order by owl. As they passed, shopkeepers would bound from their dismal stores hoping for a customer. Each time they were rebuffed they looked a little more woebegone retreating into their businesses. But Aleksandr, eternally the practical mind, kept them on a straight path towards the glistening white building that was Gringott’s Bank.

“Reading of Albus Dumbledore’s will.” He informed one of the desk goblins shortly. The diminutive demi-demon bowed and lead them into a small room. It was decorated with oak paneling and very expensive pieces of art, both wizarding and muggle. At an oaken desk was a very old-looking goblin, surrounded by stacks upon stacks of paperwork. Sitting in a corner was an old man Harry recognized as the bartender at the Hog’s Head. Surprisingly Professor McGonagall was also present, wearing a golden ring Harry didn’t think he’d ever seen before. Before he could ask her, Aleksandr ushered him and his companion to their seats, and the reading began.

The old goblin stood on his desk, though he was still shorter than anyone else in the room, and read from a long roll of parchment. “I, Professor Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Order of Merlin First Class, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, and Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, being of sound body and, forgive me, exceptionally sound mind do record here my Last Will and Testament, to be read only after 31 July 1997 A.D., and revoke all previously-made wills and codicils.” The throaty voice declared. Harry smiled despite himself; despite the formal tone it was certainly Dumbledore.

“First, to my brother Mister Aberforth Dumbledore; I bequest the sum of one million galleons. I realize our relationship has been rather rocky over the years Abe, and this money is not my way of making amends. Know that I always cared for you, and am grateful for the aid you gave me over the years. Therefore I also bequeath to you the cottage in Nice where we would often spend our summers.” The bartender, who wore golden coke-bottle glasses and brown robes made of some kind of fur, accepted the proffered envelope with a warm smile.

“Second, to my good friend Mister Alastor Moody; I bequeath my Deluminator. I know the kind of man you are Alastor, you will never cease in your work even having been retired for over a decade. I hope this item will make your tasks easier for you as time goes on.” Aleksandr rose to receive the bequest. He handed the goblin a letter and whispered a few words in his ear. The executor nodded, and handed over a silver cylindrical object which the Russian pocketed.

“Thirdly, to Mister Harry Potter; I am sorry our time was cut short, I had much more to discuss with you. However, I know you will use what little I was able to teach you to the best of your ability. To make things easier for you, I bequeath to you my pensieve, and the contents of a box held by my executor. No one will be able to open the box but you Harry, this is important. Finally I bequeath to you the sword of Godric Gryffindor. While legally the sword is to be kept in the custody of the school until one who fulfils certain conditions comes forth to claim it, the sword is accompanied by a document that will prove that you do so.” Harry accepted the wooden chest, as well as a folder of papers. Glancing through them, he saw a large and extensive family tree.

“Fourthly, to Miss Hermione Granger; I bequeath what matters most to you in the world, bar one thing, knowledge. The executor of my will has a letter addressed to you, that is my bequest. I trust you will use what you learn from the note with the same degree of effectiveness as anything from the school library.” Hermione, for that was who Harry’s companion was, gratefully took the letter. She glanced over it, before hiding it with crimson face. It was all Harry could do not to wonder what Dumbledore had told her.

“Finally, to Missus Minerva Dumbledore neé McGonagall my long-time wife.” Harry and Hermione simultaneously turned to gaze at McGonagall in shock. Sure he had known that Dumbledore and McGonagall had been close, but never that close. Shockingly, considering that he had likely never met either professor, Aleksandr looked extremely unsurprised. “I bequeath to you the remaining sum of the Dumbledore fortune, and its remaining properties, all my remaining worldly possessions, and my pet phoenix Fawkes. I want you to know that these items are meaningless; you already possess the single most valuable thing I ever owned and no one can ever take that from you. Farewell and, don’t take this personally, I hope I don’t see you for a very long time.” The old professor accepted the proffered envelope with a rare, sad sparkle on her lower eyelids. After doing this the goblin motioned that the reading was complete. Harry had intended to corner Professor McGonagall to ask her about her alleged status as Mrs Dumbledore, but Aleksandr had other ideas.

He herded the two teenagers towards the door as quickly as he could. “Come. We have one more stop before heading home.” He told them, steering the triad through the labyrinth of stone hallways with unusual ease. A man of many talents it seems. Silently he pushed open an office door and ushered the teenagers inside. He did not follow them, instead leaving them to the goblin behind the very extravagant desk.

In fact the entire office was opulent, but it felt different than the last office Harry had been in. Three walls were decorated with Wizarding heraldry, and a colossal family tree dominated the fourth. Behind the desk was a female goblin with long black hair, wearing a severely buttoned grey jacket. “Vasa, I presume?” Harry asked.

The goblin looked up from her paperwork, examining first Harry then Hermione. “Mr Potter? And Ms Granger as well.” Harry didn’t bother asking how she knew Hermione’s name; he probably didn’t want to know. “Well, sit down, sit down. We have quite a bit to get through today.” Harry and Hermione took the seats before the desk, one or both being rather worried by Vasa’s comments about ‘a lot to get through.’

The goblin rubbed her hands together quickly before extracting a particularly thick dossier from the mountain on her desk. “Okay then, let’s get the biggest shock out of the way. I am aware that the late Albus Dumbledore bequeathed to you the sword of Godric Gryffindor. Is that correct?” Harry nodded, wondering where this was going. “As you are likely aware, the sword is an extremely valuable item. In fact, besides the Hogwarts Sorting Hat, it’s the only known artefact of that particular founder. A lesser-known fact is that Godric Gryffindor stipulated in his will that the sword be passed on only to his direct descendants.” Harry’s eyes widened. The corners of Vasa’s lips twitched upwards. “As you have no doubt surmised, you are descended through scores of sons and daughters from Godric Gryffindor himself. In your hands are the documents to prove it.” Harry again glanced at the sheaf of documents, the family tree having more meaning for him now.

Vasa cleared her throat, drawing Harry’s attention again. “Now, as you have recently come of age you are entitled to receive your inheritance from Mister and Missus James Potter.” She pulled a bundle of papers from the dossier. It had to have been at least an inch and a half thick. “The paperwork.” The goblin declared, gesturing to the mini-mountain of forms. “Don’t worry, most of the pages are histories of the items you are receiving. The essence of it is that you inherit an enormous sum of galleons, coupled with a considerable amount of investments, several properties, and a sizeable number of heirlooms.” Harry flipped through the papers. From what he could decipher of the legal jargon, the ‘enormous sum’ Vasa had described was a 12-digit figure. He had inherited over five billion pounds!

“In addition,” Vasa continued, “being the last of the Potter family, and eldest of the Gryffindor line, means you are entitled to use the title of Lord. Whether or not you choose to is entirely up to you, but all official documents have been updated to list you as Lord Potter.” The goblin gave Harry a moment to recover from the shock of it all. He noticed that Hermione had been rather silent so far, and it was starting to worry him. But goblins, even female goblins, have no time for personal matters, as Vasa demonstrated when she got the meeting started again. “As I said before you have also inherited a number of properties. There are some very old residences in various European countries, a hunting lodge in the backwoods of Canada, a cottage in Godric’s Hollow, and the family’s ancestral home outside of Ancroft. Details enclosed in the paperwork.” She gestured toward the stack of papers in Harry’s hand.

“Is there anything else?” Harry asked, still overwhelmed by the extent of his inheritance.

“As a matter of fact yes.” Vasa grinned, showing rows of very sharp teeth, at the exhausted looks crossing Harry and Hermione’s faces. “That was just the Potter will. Mister Sirius Black also bequeathed to you the contents of his vault, besides the Black ancestral home. Due to the poor financial management of Missus Walburga Black over the years, the monetary value amounts only to a 7-figure sum. Far more precious are the numerous Black family heirlooms that are enclosed therein.” Vasa glanced at a dusty clock in the corner. “My next appointment isn’t for some time, Should you desire I would be able to accompany you to the Potter and Black vaults to appraise or describe some of the artefacts.”

Harry never had a chance to enter, as their mercenary bodyguard chose that moment to burst in. “I’m afraid that won’t be happening today Madame Vasa.” He looked at the two teenagers. “We have to leave, now.” He instructed them adamantly. Harry was going to press Aleksandr for details, but Hermione seemed to understand his reasoning.

“Thank you for your time.” She politely bowed to the goblin before dragging Harry out of the office. “Alright sir, I still don’t know your name but Harry trusts you. Why do we have to leave?” she fixed the Russian with her coldest glare, the one usually reserved for Snape or Malfoy.

Aleksandr smiled. Really smiled, even showing teeth. It did not suit him, and looked more than a little feral. Hermione took a couple of steps back. “My name is Aleksandr Ivanóv. I am a Russian mercenary, hired by certain members of the Order of the Phoenix to keep this ребёнк,” he gestured to Harry, “Safe from those who wanted him dead. And he does not trust me, as well he shouldn’t. I am not very trustworthy. As to why we should be leaving де́вушку, one day you may understand. For know, follow me.” And that was all he would say until they had climbed into his car and were driving away. Curiously they encountered nothing preventing their escape, but Harry was sure he caught a glimpse of tall cloaked figures converging on the Cauldron in the Dodge’s rear-view mirror.

Hermione spun around in her seat to watch the Dementors, for that was what they were, hover around for a moment before departing. “How did you know they would be coming?” she asked the driver, settling back into her place.

“Ours is not to question why.” He responded simply.

While the remainder of the drive was mostly silent, Hermione could not long resist her natural curiosity. “Mister…Ivanóv.” Aleksandr titled his head ever so slightly in her direction. “I’ve been wondering, how did Harry manage to survive the Kiss?” Leave it to Hermione to want to know the mechanics behind Harry not getting killed, or worse.

The Russian was silent for a long time. “He knew love.” He finally replied. Hermione made a noise that indicated her dissatisfaction with that answer, but he did not continue.

“Love.” Harry whispered, remembering Professor Slughorn telling them in class that love was the most powerful force in the world. He was starting to understand the magnitude of that power.

Aleksandr nodded. “You should feel very fortunate Potter, you have achieved what few others have ever dreamed of.” No matter what they asked, Aleksandr Ivanóv would not say another word for the duration of the trip. He seemed lost in his own thoughts.

Soon enough he pulled up before 12 Grimmauld Place. After letting them out, Aleksandr rolled down his window. “This is where I leave you. I will be watching, but there are other ways to protect you now. Until our next meeting.” The Russian inclined his head at each of them, then rolled up his window and disappeared into the fog. Harry and Hermione shared a brief glance, neither wanting to face the people who would endeavour to keep them apart. Eventually they had to relent, knowing if they did not go in that a mass panic would follow. In the kitchen, their immediate destination, were Remus Tonks and Sirius enjoying a light lunch. Moody was there too, the wand in his outstretched arm levitating food into his mouth.

At the sound of their footsteps, Remus looked up. “Well, how did it go?” the sound of his ever-weary voice caused Tonks and Sirius to perceive their presence. Moody, of course, had likely known they were there the moment they had stepped through the door.

Harry glanced at Hermione. She motioned that he should recount the tale. “The bartender from the Hogs Head was there, apparently he’s Dumbledore’s brother Aberforth.” No one seemed particularly surprised by this news. “He left Mad-Eye something called a Deluminator, which Aleksandr picked up.” He dropped the cylinder, which had been given to him on the drive over, in front of the incapacitated ex-Auror. “Mum and Dad left me an enormous amount of money, among other things.” Remus smiled slightly and Sirius snorted, obviously they would have known about the Potters’ extreme wealth. “And Professor McGonagall is Dumbledore’s widow.” This piece of news caused Remus to drop his glass, and Tonks to choke on a mouthful of sandwich. The only occupant of the room not to react, save Harry and Hermione, was Mad-Eye.

This did not go unremarked. “You knew?” Tonks asked the crippled retiree with an incredulous tone to her voice.

Moody nodded morosely. “I gave away the bride.” He responded simply. What else was there to say?

Plenty, as far as Sirius was concerned. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

“It was Albus Dumbledore for Christ’s sake,” Moody snapped. “Can you possibly conceive the danger in being the wife of the only person Voldemort ever feared?” Oddly there was something about the conversation causing Mad-Eye an enormous amount of anguish.

Seeing the man’s stress, and the worried glances Hermione was shooting him, Harry intervened. “Remus, Tonks, I’ve really enjoyed staying with you two these past few weeks, but I think I should move out on my own.”

Remus and Sirius shared a knowing glance. “They left you the Manor.” Sirius stated, a grin splitting his features. Harry nodded. “Well how about I help you move in?” he asked, clearly excited to visit the Potter ancestral home once again.

Harry smiled in gratitude. “Thanks Sirius, that would be great.” He looked at Hermione, eyebrows raised in question. She flashed a smile that clearly said ‘how could you even ask?’

“Don’t forget about Bill’s wedding next Sunday. I think Fleur will flame-grill you if you do.” Remus called after the three retreating backs. The idea brought a slight smile to Harry’s face, though he was fully aware that Fleur was capable of doing it. What a month it was going to be.

Anyways, ребёнк is still Russian for 'child,' and де́вушку is Russian for 'female between puberty and womanhood'

For those of you who have read Infamous Marauder's fic Against the Odds on ff.net, or similar fics where Harry is descended from Gryffindor, I do not plan to make this a SuperP00nage!Harry fic. His being Gryffindor's heir is just my way of justifying him getting to keep the sword.

6. Of which reason knows nothing

Chapter title attributed to French theologian and mathematician Blaise Pascal: "The heart has its reasons, of which reason knows nothing

Chapter 6: Of Which Reason Knows Nothing

With the combined efforts of three of-age wizards (and witch), though it was hardly necessary, Harry’s trunk was packed within moments. Of course it was getting late by this time, so Harry decided to move his belongings the following day. That morning he got up bright and early (key word in that sentence: early) and went downstairs, only to find Hermione waiting for him. “What are you doing up at this hour?” he asked. Whether or not he was actually asking her, as opposed to himself, is a mystery that may never be solved.

She looked at him like he had grown a couple of extra heads. “I’m coming with you of course.” She stated matter-of-factly. Harry smiled, that stubbornness was why he…loved her. Did he love her? A question for another time.

He shrugged. “Alright then, the form gave an address, but there are some kind of security wards up. You’ll have to side-along for now.” Note to self: get those damn things changed. Or at least make some people able to get through them.

Hermione frowned. “Are you sure you should be apparating over such a large distance? You did only get your licence two days ago, and you haven’t practiced once since then.” Typical Hermione, always trying to look out for him.

Harry shrugged again. “Any way we go, you have to be with me. Floo’s out just for that, and I don’t think the Ministry will be pleased if I set up an unauthorized portkey. We could fly there though, it’s up to you.” He extended his arm to her, an open invitation.

She considered it. Damn manipulative boyfriends. She took his hand. “Alright, you win. But this had better not be an excuse to feel me up.” She warned grumpily, much to Harry’s amusement.

“You wound me.” He wailed dramatically. “If I had wanted to feel you up I would have done it much more subtly.” With that he spun her into his arms and disapparated. The two of them found themselves in front of a rather large manor house. It was more or less square, two stories, and built out of dark grey stones. A tower on the rear-facing side added another few levels. A glass conservatory was visible just below, and slightly in front of, said tower. A square stone pergola covered the main entrance, high double doors made of polished mahogany. The doors were emblazoned with the Potter family crest: two horizontal black bars, the upper bearing two five-pointed flowers and the lower bearing one, cushioning a white bar with a pattern of black three-headed flags. Atop the shield was perched a blue helmet, bearing a black and white mantling, bearing aloft a golden hippocampus. Beneath the whole kit and caboodle was a banner reading ‘Cautus Rare Erro’ Harry and Hermione glanced at each other with raised eyebrows. It certainly was an impressive affair. “Shall we?” he gestured towards the door.

The inside was even more impressive than the outside. An enormous white hall greeted the duo, a marble staircase to the right of the entrance (their right). Harry glances at Hermione, both of them in states of mild shock. “Home, sweet home.” He joked, deriving no small pleasure from the smile that threatened to creep through her wide-eyed amazement. They spent no small amount of time exploring the house (okay, castle), and discovered an underground swimming pool, many extravagant bedrooms, a second tower, and secret passages from the first-floor study to the wine cellar in the basement and the second-floor hallway. Most important, as far as Hermione was concerned, was the enormous library just off the main hall. All that, and it was only the tip of the iceberg.

“Maybe we should leave the exploring for later.” Hermione suggested, a tendril of mirth creeping into her voice. He only nodded. Together they levitated Harry’s single trunk up the grand staircase, down the oak-walled corridor, and into the largest of the bedrooms.

Midway through depositing the piece of luggage onto his new bed a brilliant thought struck his mind. “You know we’re all alone in a massive house, and almost nobody knows where it is.” He hinted suggestively. Subtle, at least for a seventeen year-old male.

She flashed a flirtatious smile. “So we are.” She closed the small gap between them. “And what exactly did you have in mind?” her voice was practically a purr, layered in desire as it was.

Harry’s only reply was a contented grumble before pulling close to his no-longer-platonic best friend. Moments before their lips met a loud crack echoed through the cavernous manor, followed by the crashing noise of running footsteps. The two only just had enough time to reluctantly pull apart before Sirius appeared in the doorway. “So here’s where you two went off to. Molly’s been working herself into a frenzy looking for you.” Harry and Hermione exchanged guilty looks, but Sirius was still wearing his ever-present grin. “Well you aren’t dead, so no harm done. Come on, Hogwarts letters just arrived.” With no further words Sirius apparated out. Harry and Hermione shared another look, Harry shrugged, and the two of them simultaneously apparated back to The Burrow.

***

The Hogwarts letters contained little new information. They contained little, in fact, besides a book list and class transcript. Harry, Ron, and Hermione were each taking Transfiguration, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Charms, Potions and Herbology. Mad-Eye, or Professor Moody as they were beginning to call him, had called for a new textbook, as had the mysterious Transfiguration professor. After much pleading on Ginny’s part, a rather odd occurrence in Harry’s opinion, Mrs Weasley had agreed that the four could go to Diagon Alley, provided they were under heavy guard. Remus and Tonks were walking with them, while Mad-Eye and various other members of the Order had disguised themselves as innocuous passers-by. Harry was even sure he had seen the glow of a cigarette in one of the alleys, but it may just have been his imagination.

At some point during the sextet’s visit to the Apothecary, Ginny approached Harry. It did not escape his notice that she was acting even more nervous than usual. “Harry, can I uh…talk to you for a minute?” she jerked her head towards a deserted aisle, making it clear that she wanted to discuss whatever it was in private. He cast a questioning glance at Remus, who was examining some dittany nearby. Not getting any sort of reinforcement, save a slight smile curling the werewolf’s lips, Harry followed his one-time girlfriend into the aisle.

“So, how can I help you Gin?” he asked politely, upon reaching a relatively secluded spot, despite dreading that she was going to try and rekindle whatever had occurred between them the previous year.

The fact that she was nervously shifting her weight from foot to foot certainly lent credence to his disquiet. After a moment of uneasy silence Ginny grew some inner strength. “I’ve been thinking, about what you said back in June.” Harry stifled a groan. Here it comes. “I was mad at you for a long time for pushing me away to go and fight Voldemort, but then I realized why you did it.” Harry’s eyebrows shot skyward. This was not what he had expected at all. “I was only a fifth-year, I hadn’t even taken my O.W.L.S. yet. What use could I have possibly have been? But now, with the three of you coming back to school, I figured, well…” Shit, here it comes. “Well you may not want to take the risk, but I’m not going to give you the choice.” And then, without warning, she kissed him, hard. For a split-second Harry was going to react, push her off of him, but the longer his lips were pressed against hers the more he questioned how he could have ever loved anyone else, how he could allow himself to have such contact with another woman, especially someone he had known for seven years.

And then Hermione’s face appeared in his mind’s eye, and that was all it took for him to remember everything. Everything he had ever wondered about Ginny, and everything he loved about Hermione. Then something happened, something that had not happened for almost a decade: Harry lost control of his magic. A powerful shockwave spread from him, having no effect on the surrounding area but to force Ginny from his face. “No. No Ginny, I need to be honest with you. You probably would have been able to help fight Voldemort, but I stopped our relationship because I wasn’t sure about us. In the five or six years I’ve known you, I couldn’t remember ever feeling attracted to you until last year.” He knelt next to where she had landed on the floor, her shocked and fearful eyes following him down. “I just need time, can you give me that?” Silently she nodded, eyes wide and mouth gaping. Without another word he rose and strode out of the Apothecary.

What had happened to him? He couldn’t remember the last time he had released that much magic. What had Ginny done to him? As usual Harry had no time to ponder the day’s latest mysteries, he remarked on the irony of this as he went in search of Hermione.

He finally found her, on the muggle side of the Leaky Cauldron of all places, talking to a hunched-over man in a hooded brown robe. “May I ask who you are?” he queried during a lull in the chatter. The man looked up at him. He was an old fellow; he wore small round glasses over his dark brown eyes. Much of his face was obscured by an enormous bushy white moustache, though Harry could see plenty of laugh lines around his eyes. His robe was the simple garment of a holy man, tied around the waist with a length of rope, a small golden crucifix hanging from his neck. On his feet he wore only a pair of simple wooden sandals, and he leaned heavily upon a tall pine staff in his left hand.

“Of course child. I am Father Rhys Llwyd, you must be the mysterious Mister Potter I’ve heard so much about.” His eyes darted to Hermione, who blushed, and his moustache quivered. The Welsh holy man extended a heavily lined hand to Harry, who took it. “I was the minister who married Miss Granger’s parents. Now if you will excuse me, I have some business to attend to. It was nice to meet you Mister Potter.” The monk bowed, Harry and Hermione returned the gesture, and he hobbled off.

“What a strange man.” Harry remarked. Hermione silenced him with a good-natured jab in the ribs.

“Yes he is, but he is a monk after all. He hardly ever has contact with humans, in fact…” Harry was never permitted to find out any more about Father Rhys, since a very sallow-coloured hand protruding from a black robe grasped Hermione’s hand.

“Miss Granger, for all your alleged intelligence I should have thought that you would have enough sense not to wander off on your own.” Harry and Hermione turned to come face-to-face with the hook-nosed, greasy haired countenance of Severus Snape. Harry made to lunge at him, but he was grabbed from behind by a second Death Eater.

“I still owe you for the Ministry you little runt.” His captor hissed in his ear, identifying himself as Avery. Harry felt a hand closing around his throat, but a sharp word from Snape made it stop.

“Enough Avery. The Dark Lord wants Potter unharmed. But that doesn’t mean we can’t have some fun with his mudblood whore first.” The evil man’s dark eyes landed with a leer on Hermione, who began to struggle against his grip. The whole thing seemed like a terrible nightmare to Harry until…

“Severus? Is that you?” a familiar Welsh accent called out from an alley behind them. Shortly thereafter, the bent figure of Father Rhys emerged from the shadows. Snape seemed frozen in shock, and Avery wouldn’t do anything without orders first. “I’ve been reading about you Severus.” The priest’s voice had acquired a tinge of anger. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

Apparently nothing; the greasy-haired potions master was frozen in shock, hand halfway to his wand.

Father Rhys looked over the scene with clear disapproval. “Looks to me like you were planning on hurting these two children. Is that right Severus?” Snape didn’t respond, but Avery released Harry to jump the old man. Father Rhys swept the Death Eater’s feet out from under him with the end of his staff, then brought it down hard where Avery’s neck and shoulder met. The Death Eater instantly slumped to the ground. Snape didn’t spare a glance backwards, he simply ran for it. Unfortunately for him, Mad-Eye Moody chose that moment to pull off an invisibility cloak. The two men collided, with Snape rebounding off Moody’s solid build. The ageing Auror busied himself with transporting the unconscious body to the Ministry, but Harry saw little of that. His eyes were looking at the priest, now innocently leaning on his staff, with respect and shock.

“You hit him? Aren’t holy men forbidden from violence?” he managed to sputter out.

Father Rhys shrugged. “I’m a monk, not a saint. God bless.” The monk winked at harry, his moustache quivering with a smile, and then he was gone again, replaced with Mad-Eye’s frowning face.

“What in the hell were you two thinking? Wandering off alone, and fraternizing with strangers no less. Didn’t my doppelganger teach you anything? CONSTANT VIGILANCE!” he barked.

Hermione was not swayed. “Mad-Eye, the ‘stranger’ we were talking to is an old friend of my family, and a priest. Besides, he saved us from Snape and incapacitated Avery.” The aforementioned Death Eater began to stir, but Mad-Eye kicked him in the side of the head.

“Could have been a ploy for all we know. If I hadn’t shown up when I did he could easily have whisked you two off to God-knows-where.” The duo were spared the losing battle of arguing with Mad-Eye by the timely appearance of Tonks.

“Come on you two, time to go. Remus has already got Ron and Ginny back to the Burrow. Mad-Eye, I guess you can take care of things here?” Moody made a dismissive gesture with his hand, before stumping off down the street with Avery’s body floating behind him. “Just let him be. He does care, in his own way.” Tonks advised. “Now let’s go. I don’t know if there are any more priests to save you from Death Eaters.” She joked, leading the two of them in the opposite direction.

“I saw you talking to Ginny you know.” Hermione whispered in his ear. Had he been eating or drinking anything, Harry would have choked on it. As it was, his jaw slackened and eyes widened. “Don’t worry.” She soothed, “I saw everything, everything.” She stressed that last word strongly, and Harry relaxed. “That was quite some accidental magic though.”

Harry nodded. “I don’t know what happened, when she kissed me it was like nothing else existed, until I thought of you. It was like…like the sun breaking through the clouds after a heavy rainstorm.”

Hermione looked thoughtful. “Maybe she…no, Ginny wouldn’t do that. But it would explain a lot.” She trailed off without explaining her mind.

“You know it’s really annoying when you do that right?” Harry remarked with a grin.

Hermione flushed. “Sorry, but I’d rather not say anything until I’m sure.” Harry just shook his head. She would never change, and he never wanted her to.

Potter Manor is based on Casa Loma in Toronto, Canada. The crest is a real Potter family crest, but the motto is all mine.

cautus rare erro is Latin for 'the cautious seldom err', a quote from Chinese philosopher K'ung-fu-tzu (commonly known as Confucius)

7. All hope abandon ye who enter here

Chapter title dually attributed to Italian poet Dante Alighieri and Lithuanian-born feminist Emma Goldman. The line is part of an inscription on the gates of Inferno in Dante’s ‘Divine Comedy:’

"Through me you pass into the city of woe:

Through me you pass into eternal pain:

Through me among the people lost for aye.

Justice the founder of my fabric mov'd:

To rear me was the task of power divine,

Supremest wisdom, and primeval love.

Before me things create were none, save things

Eternal, and eternal I endure.

All hope abandon ye who enter here."

Emma Goldman adapted the line in one of her quotes on marriage: ‘Thus Dante's motto over Inferno applies with equal force to marriage: Ye who enter here leave all hope behind’

Chapter 7: All Hope Abandon Ye Who Enter Here

Even though it was only a week, it still passed extremely swiftly. It seemed to Harry that the days between August second and August tenth passed in the blink of an eye, or quicker. So before one could say ‘Jack Robinson,’ the joyous day of Bill and Fleur’s wedding dawned. And it was by the light of the morning sun that Harry found himself on one end of a string of white clovers, Ron was on the other, being directed by Hermione to place it in a nice arch over the altar. Various other members of the Weasley family and the Order were dotted about in The Burrow’s orchard setting up. Remus, for example, was off conjuring and placing tables for the reception dinner, where Tonks and Ginny were collaborating on the dance floor. An elderly man, oddly enough the same one who had presided over Dumbledore’s funeral, was deep in Conversation with Bill over what Harry assumed was the protocol for the ceremony.

“And there, that’s good!” Hermione finally called out, after nigh on twenty minutes of straightening. Ron stuck his end to the trellis and collapsed with a sigh.

“When this thing is over I’m going to sleep for a week.” He announced. Hermione huffed, but Harry figured he had a point. Mrs Weasley had hauled all their asses out of bed, literally, at somewhere in the neighbourhood of four in the morning to get ready for a noon ceremony. The team, which consisted of Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Tonks, Remus, Sirius, Mr Weasley, Charlie, Bill, Gabrielle Delacour, Fred, George, Mrs Weasley, Hagrid, Dung Fletcher, Mad-Eye and an assortment of people Harry didn’t recognize, had managed to transform the Weasley’s garden into one fine spot for a wedding. There was a large open spot for the ceremony, complete with trellis and rows upon rows of chairs for guests. Two large tents concealed the dance floor and dining area, respectively, and the whole affair was topped off with an enormous assortment of flowers.

By now it was nearly time to get started, so the workers scrambled off to their various homes to change. Gradually they all began to file back in, where Fred and George directed them to their seats. All the Weasley men where wearing matching black dress robes. Harry himself was in a royal blue set. He noticed many Order members wandering in. Mad-Eye and Professor McGonagall entered together, he looking highly uncomfortable in a black robe and tie, she resplendent in a flowing green dress. Aberforth Dumbledore arrived in a set of robes made of fine white fur. Finally, Fleur’s family began to appear. Curiously the elder males were generally overweight, and the elder females had sharp but aesthetically attractive features. At long last all of the guests had taken their seats, Bill had taken his place at the altar with the elderly wizard, and a variation on the traditional Wedding March began to play. Looking around, Harry saw the back of a tall man with short black hair ‘conducting’ with his wand. However he never was able to identify the strange man.

The music seemed to be a cue, as it was at this point that the groomsmen and bridesmaids began to enter. First up was Ginny with one of Fleur’s male cousins, but he looked right past them to Hermione. She, along with the rest of the bridesmaids, was dressed in a multi-layered blue toga. She had tamed her hair for the occasion, and looked simply angelic. Years later he would read a book, which would contain a line that defined his feelings perfectly: “at this high moment, ability failed my capacity to describe.” She was paired with Ron, the latter of whom alone looked pleased with the arrangement. Following them Fred, George, and Charlie marched down, accompanied each by one of Fleur’s other relations. As each pair reached the altar they would split, the males going to stand behind Bill, the females forming a line on the other side where Fleur would stand. When the five pairs had reached their respective positions, the music changed to the well-known Wedding March. As one, the crowd turned their heads back to see Fleur being led down the aisle by her father. She wore a simple white gown, veiled of course. When she reached her position next to her husband-to-be, who was grinning like a maniac and beginning to tear, the elderly wizard began to speak.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to bear witness to the union of William Walter Weasley and Fleur Joséphine Delacour in holy matrimony. If any here today can give any reason why these two should not be wed, let them speak now or forever hold their peace.” There wasn’t a sound to be heard, except for a loud sniffle from Mrs Weasley that garnered a few chuckles. “May I have the rings, please?” Charlie produced two golden rings from his pocket, one plain and the other inlaid with pearl, and handed them to the elderly wizard. He, in turn, passed the pearl band to Bill and the plain to Fleur. “William and Fleur have opted for their own vows for the exchange of rings. William?”

As Bill spoke, his eyes never wavered from Fleur’s. “Because this ring is perfectly symmetrical, it signifies the perfection of true love. As I place it on your finger, I give you all that I am and ever hope to be.” He placed the ring on the third finger of Fleur’s left hand.

“Becuzz this ring ‘as no end or beginning, it signifies ze continuation of true love. As I place eet on your finger, I give you all that I am and ever hope to be.” Fleur placed the plain band on Bill’s third finger.

Here the old wizard took over again. “Do you, William, take Fleur to be your lawfully wedded wife; to love, honour, and cherish; to have and to hold; in sickness and in health; for as long as you both shall live?”

Bill nodded. “I do.”

“And do you, Fleur, take William to be your lawfully wedded husband; to love, honour and cherish; to have and to hold; in sickness and in health; for as long as you both shall live?”

Fleur smiled. “I most zertainly do.”

The old wizard smiled. “Then, by the power vested in me by the Ministry of Magic, I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride.” Slowly, reverently, Bill lifted the veil from his wife’s face and planted a deep, passionate kiss on her lips, which she returned with vigour. More quietly, the elderly wizard directed them to the book on the altar behind them. They both signed, then faced the audience again. “Ladies and gentlemen, let me be the first to introduce you to Mister and Missus William Weasley.” The young couple blushed at the monumental applause that rang out from the assembled crowd, the elderly wizard, the groomsmen and the bridesmaids. The wizard stepped back and Charlie took center stage.

“Folks, I’m going to go ahead and ask you to make your way over to the dining area so we can get this show on the road. The bride and groom have a very busy night ahead of them, so we don’t want to keep them too long.” He nudged his older brother gently in the ribs, eliciting a good deal of laughter from the crowd. As Harry rose and turned to go, he spotted the conductor again. The man was tall, with short, immaculate black hair with just a tinge of grey around the sides. The oddest thing about him was his clothing. He wore a black tailcoat and bowtie, but below the waist he was clad in a black-and-white checked kilt, with a large fur sack hanging over the front of it. Harry only caught a glimpse of him before he turned and left the garden. Mulling over the man’s identity, Harry followed the hoard of guests to the dinner pavilion.

***

Grudgingly, Harry would admit that the pavilion orientation was ingenious. Instead of each family sitting on opposite sides, and one head table for the ‘altar crew’ (namely the bride, groom, bridesmaids, and groomsmen), the head table was comprised of Bill, Fleur, Charlie (Bill’s best man), Fleur’s maid of honour, Mr and Mrs Weasley, and Fleur’s parents. The rest of the guests were more or less evenly spread amongst the tables. Evidently Mrs Weasley had had her share of input regarding the seating arrangements. Something about how he was sitting next to Ginny, and Ron was next to Hermione on the other side of the marquee, made him believe that she had finally given up on subtlety.

The members of Fleur’s family at his table were yammering away in French, and Ginny was doing little but stare at him, so Harry ate his dinner in relative silence. Shortly after assembling the decorating crew Mrs Weasley had barricaded herself in the kitchen, and it showed. He vaguely heard Ginny say something about Fleur’s mother giving plenty of French recipes to the Weasley matriarch. Decades later, when he had become something of a connoisseur, Harry would identify the meal as an exquisite Beef Bourguignon. Served with the meal was the very first example of wine he had ever tasted, called Château d’Yquem 1900. Though he had no prior experience to base the experience on, it was an incredible beverage. Once the main course had been taken away, Charlie rose once more.

“Can I get everyone’s attention please? We’ll be getting to desert in just a minute folks, but first I’d like to thank Mrs Rose-Claire Delacour for the recipes, my own mother Mrs Molly Weasley for making the food, and the anonymous Hogwarts Transfiguration professor for donating the contents of his wine cellar for the occasion.” There was a round of scattered applause at each name, though the wine got the loudest reception. “Now, bring on the cake!”

Bill and Fleur did the ceremonial cutting of the cake, which proceeded to slice itself into exactly the right number of pieces and distribute itself amongst the guests. It was a quite simple desert, compared to the extravagant dinner, comprising of a plain white cake coated in white icing. It was still one of the most delicious things Harry had ever eaten. Soon enough dessert was finished, and everyone was making their way to the dance floor. Harry had been near the back of the dining area, so he was one of the last to reach the second tent. During his weaving attempts to find Ron and Hermione he spotted Mad-Eye and McGonagall in a very elegant looking slow dance, the old Auror looking much more graceful than the last time Harry and seen him dance. He reminded himself that it was not surprising, since he had only seen the fake Mad-Eye dance before now.

Finally he found his friends sitting alone at a corner table, one of several that had been set up as a place for people to sit down with their drinks. Hermione was looking extremely irritated with the red head who was, literally, hanging off of her arm. “Am I interrupting anything?” Harry asked, attempting to sound amused by the situation when in actuality he was being torn to pieces by the scene before him.

Hermione turned to him, her eyes clearly begging him for help. She looked like she was going to speak, but Ron beat her to it. “Oh, hey Harry!” he shouted, maybe a little too loud even with the volume of the music. “Herm…Her…Hern-ninne was jush doin’ thish reeaaaallll funny thing. C’mon, show ‘im Hermsh!”

Ignoring his highly inebriated best friend, Harry looked at Hermione. “How much of that wine did he have?”

Hermione winced as Ron began caterwauling some unintelligible tune at the top of his lungs. “I stopped counting when he finished the first bottle.” She responded over their friend’s off-key wailing. “I can’t shake the feeling that this was a bad idea.”

“What was your first clue Herms?” Shockingly enough Fred and George had been drawn magnetically to the sound of their drunken brother. Taking no notice of Hermione’s protests to the hated nickname, the twins simultaneously smacked their brother in the back of the head. His knees folded faster than a poker player dealt a three high, and he was contentedly snoring on the ground. “Finally, some peace and quiet.”

“Thanks you two,” Hermione, of all people, voiced her gratitude. “He was starting to become a bit off a problem.”

“Starting, Herms?” one of the twins parroted mischievously. He winced in pain as Hermione smacked him, hard. “That ship has sailed sweetheart. Ta.” The other finished, then both were gone.

“As long as I live I will never understand those two.” Hermione grumbled. Harry nodded his assent. He didn’t speak because he was gathering his courage for to ask what he really wanted to do. “Harry, is anything wrong?” she asked, genuinely distressed that something could be seriously wrong. With Harry Potter, one never knew.

“Will you dance with me?” he asked suddenly. Shocked, but glad, Hermione silently nodded. As soon as they stepped on the dance floor, the band started a Viennese Waltz. As they revolved, Harry was again struck by how simply divine his partner looked, and decided to tell her as much. “You look…Well…frankly, I don’t know how to describe you.”

“Oh my word, do I really look that bad? I tried to tell Fleur that blue makes me look ugly, but would she listen?” Though her tone was serious Harry could tell that she was teasing him. It was in her eyes.

“Stop it, I meant that in a good way.” He maintained, feigning irritation.

“I know.” She soothed, resting her head against his chest. As far as he was concerned the entire world could shove off, he was dancing with the love of his life. Naturally, the world was none too pleased with his rebuttal.

“Excusez-moi.” A French voice accompanied a hard tap on his shoulder. Harry grudgingly turned to be faced with one of Fleur’s distant relations, Jean he believed. Jean had sharp features, and shimmering blue eyes. His long blond hair hung loose around his shoulders. If he was female, Harry suspected that he would have found this man attractive. “May I cut in?” Not waiting for an answer, Jean spun off with Hermione far away from the black-haired teen. Dejectedly, Harry wandered over to where Aberforth had displaced the inept bartender and was serving drinks himself.

“Can I help you lad?” the younger Dumbledore brother asked kindly. Harry was very much reminded of his old headmaster, which did little to improve his mood.

“My dance partner was just spun away by a French Casanova, what would you recommend?” he asked scathingly.

Aberforth was not deterred. Years as a bartender had obviously hardened him against all verbal abuse. “Beer.” The bartender replied, plopping an unlabeled bottle of it before the forlorn teenager. “On the house.” Harry was rebuked upon reaching for his moneybag. He greedily sucked down the bottle, which was soon replaced. An hour and seven bottle later, Harry was suspecting that Aberforth was cheating him out of alcohol. Everything he knew about excessive drinking was telling him that he shouldn’t be able to see anything that didn’t have breasts or was made out of glass. Needless to say he was in full control of his faculties by the time Hermione finally found him.

“Oh lord, don’t tell me you drank all of these?” she asked sternly, eyeing Harry’s bottle collection suspiciously.

Aberforth grinned. “Don’t worry, non-alcoholic. I figured you’d need him sober.” He assured the irate young woman.

“Thanks a lot Dumbledore.” Harry glared at the bartender. So much for his plan to drown his troubles in booze.

“Yes, thank you.” Hermione repeated, much more sincerely. “Come on, we need to have a little talk.” She ordered, dragging Harry off by the arm. Not even bothering to resist, he allowed himself to be dragged of to a secluded alcove in the woods surrounding The Burrow. Once they were both safely out of site of the general wedding Hermione slapped him hard. Harry was vaguely aware of his hand rising to rub the spot she had hit him, but couldn’t be sure.

“What was that for?” he asked wearily, once the stars had cleared from his vision.

“For moping around like an idiot.” Hermione responded simply, albeit quite angrily. “Honestly, I practically proclaim my love for you and you expect me to go drooling off after the first French Don Juan I meet? Honestly, of all the stupid....” her hand rose to hit him again, but he was ready for her this time.

“Would you please stop doing that?” he requested ever so humbly, with her wrist caught in his hand. She glared, but wrenched her arm from his grip. She did not move to hit him again that night.

“Do you want to know exactly what happened between me and Jean?” she asked him, annoyance with the way he was carrying on evident in her voice.

“Not particularly.”

“We had one dance, then he suggested we go somewhere ‘more private.’” She carried on, oblivious to Harry’s refusal. “He came on to me, made it painfully clear what he wanted.” Harry was, at this point, staring high into the upper branches of the trees they stood under. He really didn’t want to hear this. Clearly Hermione had other ideas, as she grabbed his chin and forced their eyes to meet. “I kicked him in the balls.” She enunciated clearly, making sure he didn’t miss a word of it.

Harry blinked once. “Come again?” he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“You heard me the first time. And I have to say, I didn’t feel much cushioning between my foot and his hips.” Harry couldn’t help but smile at that, even though he knew it was probably a lie.

“I’m sorry I ever doubted you.” He spread his arms wide. Hermione pretended to consider it, but ultimately found herself wrapped in Harry’s arms.

“I know.” She purred into his shoulder. “We should probably get back now.” She reluctantly pulled away, and Harry nodded. He was definitely getting tired of this sneaking around thing.

So the two of them wandered back into the crowd, which had thinned significantly. From what Harry could piece together, from numerous sources of varying reliability, Most of Fleur’s family had early-morning portkeys home. Ron was still unconscious, though he had been moved to a chair, and assorted members of the remaining crew were beginning to pack up. There was scarcely a second glance in their direction, and certainly no asking where they had been, when they joined the work. In the true spirit of weddings they hadn’t started clearing the orchard until it was very late, and by the time they finished it had passed from late into tomorrow.

Harry and Hermione, both being tired and more than slightly intoxicated from the wine served at dinner, were invited to spend the night at the Burrow. Naturally they accepted, resulting in Harry’s current position of lying in the topmost room of the rickety structure (not counting the ghoul-infested attic of course) next to a snoring Ron. Why was he not following his friend’s lead and descending into the depths of his subconscious is a multi-layered affair. Boiled down it amounted to the fact that Harry Potter had a lot on his mind. Besides his burgeoning relationship with one of his best friends, which was an ever-present subject, his primary concerns revolved around both keeping aforementioned relationship secret from those who would exploit it and on surviving his inevitable bout with Voldemort. Inexorably Harry did eventually begin to drowse, but his dreams were scarcely better than his waking thoughts.

***

Grey fog. That was the only, solitary thing that Harry could see. In every direction it stretched, endlessly filling the deepest corners of that place…wherever ‘that place’ was. No, there was something else. A distant light, like the lone star that peeks through a canopy of clouds. Harry went to it, what else was there to do? As he approached, the faint light became a roaring fire, then a room around the fire. Before he knew it, Harry was looking at one wall of what might have been a comfortable country home.

“Hello Mister Potter.”

Harry spun around. He was no longer in an inescapable prison of fog, but in the very country home he had just imagined. It was sparsely decorated, drawing attention to the plain wood-slat walls. A fireplace crackled behind him. Facing him, holding a highball glass filled with a honey-brown liquid, was the man from the wedding. He was sitting in a rocking chair, rocking back and forth slowly. His kilt was longer than Harry had originally guessed, and it covered his knees quite comfortably even in a sitting position. His brown eyes were regarding Harry with intensity. The emotion was one Harry could not quite place, somewhere between curiosity and awe. It was unmistakeably from him that the greeting had come from. The man’s head cocked to the side slightly.

“You know, it is very rude to ignore a greeting Mister Potter.”

When he spoke this time Harry was better able to analyze his voice. He bore a Scottish accent, strong but not overtly so. It sounded like the voice of a man who would laugh with you one minute, and be a comforting presence the next. Above all however, it sounded familiar. Finally regaining his voice, Harry inquired curiously about the man’s identity.

“I would return the greeting, but I’m afraid I don’t know who you are.” He told the interloper matter-of-factly.

The stranger gave an odd half-smile. “That doesn’t surprise me. My name is not important at this time, but you may call me Teacher.” The stranger requested.

The name, sounding more like a title, struck Harry as a little odd, but alas. “Alright then Mister Teacher, why exactly are you here?”

He smiled that little half-smile again. “What else would a teacher be here for, Mister Potter? To teach.” The Scotsman sounded almost pitying. “Speaking of which, I believe it’s time to begin.” He drained the glass in his hand and grimaced. “What a shame, you evidently don’t know what good Scotch tastes like. Ah well, c’est la vie.” Before Harry could react to the odd comments, he was falling. The room, and the mysterious Teacher, had dissolved into blackness. Harry wasn’t actually aware of falling, but he had no support beneath his feet so what else would he be doing?

As he ‘fell’ the darkness began to distort. Where once was nothing but emptiness, he could now see swirling colours. Then it all stopped. He was simply floating in one spot, the swirling colours around him frozen in place. A voice spoke in his head. “One feels them first at the back of one’s eyes.” It sounded like an old man. The back of his eyeballs began to itch. He was dimly aware of movement in the infinite abyss below him. It was getting closer and closer. He saw the darkness, but it wasn’t darkness anymore. It was like a blur of everything that ever was, is, and will be, all spinning on the point of an immense Tower of Darkness. As he watched, the spinning became more defined. The itching became almost unbearable for a moment, then the scene changed and the feeling was back to an undercurrent.

He could see things clearly now, but the itching had not gone away. Faintly he saw two people, a man and a woman. The man had long black hair, pulled back in a ponytail. He wore heavy brown glasses, a black eye patch over his right eye. His nose, set above a neatly trimmed goatee surrounding his mouth, was quite bent. His exposed arms were interlaced with scars. The woman had just as many scars as the man did, but no facial disfigurement. Her hair was long and brown. She was holding a small object wrapped in blue fabric. They were both smiling at it.

The Tower spun again, the itching increased, and the scene changed. Now there was an old man lying in bed. His beard was long, broad, white. His hair began growing just above his ears, and came down to his shoulders, white as snow. He wore red pyjamas. His right eye was screwed shut against some unknown force. His withered lips were moving, but Harry could hear no sound.

The Tower spun, the itching increased, the scene changed again. Harry could see a cozy sitting room. Two people sat on a couch, looking at an open book. One, a man, had medium-length brown hair and oval glasses. The other, a woman, had longer brown hair. The room mutated. A few moments of distortion and Harry could plainly see what was left of the couple. Body parts were scattered about the room, some protruding from walls. Blood everywhere. Grey lumps of brain matter everywhere. Two heads, the man and woman’s, decapitated, rolling around on the floor. Pain. Harry could feel the pain. The man’s head was changing. The glasses disappeared, the hair shortened and turned red, the vacant brown eyes turned to blue. It was Ron. Harry tried to call out, but nothing happened. His body convulsed, feeling a thousand invisible pins pricking it over and over. He heard a voice in his head, the Scotsman’s. “Memor Harry…Harry…Harry.” The Scottish voice changed to a familiar British. “Harry…Harry.” His body was shaking. “Harry.” Iron grips on his shoulders. “Harry…Harry.” He couldn’t breath. “Harry…”

“Harry!” Ron Weasley called again, shaking his best friend. Harry’s eyes flung open. A strangled cry escaped his lips as he leapt in the air.

***

“Harry!” The agonized gasp lurched Harry back into full consciousness. He was standing near a wall. Ron was in front of him, with his face slowly turning blue. Harry’s fingers were closing around his throat.

It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real, could it? ‘What was it I had heard in the Abyss? One feels them first at the back of one’s eyes. Feels what? Doesn’t matter, have to check.’ Whatever ‘they’ were, Ron was not one of them; the itching of Harry’s eyeballs had entirely vanished. He felt his fingers loosen, and saw his friend’s face slowly return to its natural colour.

“Merlin Harry, what was that about?” Ron gasped, short of breath.

Harry’s own breath was coming in gasps. He couldn’t believe what he had done, or had it been him? It felt like the dreams he used to have, where he had been Voldemort and he had tortured Death Eaters. Like it was him doing it, but at the same time it wasn’t. “I’m so sorry Ron, I…I don’t know what came over me. I’ve always gotten startled when people wake me up from nightmares, but nothing like that before.”

Ron was looking at him with half-disguised fear, and Harry hated himself. “Well, I just came to tell you that Mum has breakfast and hangover potions, if you want to stick around.” His manner suggests that he wasn’t as excited about the prospect as he had been upon first mounting the stairs to deliver the news.

Harry shook his head. “No thanks, I should go and figure this out. Maybe my library has some good advice.” He chuckled automatically at the irony of his plan.

Ron grinned nervously. “Usually it’d be Hermione offering to hit the books. She’s been a bad influence on you, I swear.”

Harry grinned, but added nothing. There was no more to add. He gathered, and clad himself in, the rumpled dress robes he had arrived in the previous night and left the house, giving Mrs Weasley a cursory “Good morning” on his way out the door. Upon crossing the boundary of the Weasley property, also the borderline for the extensive security wards erected there, he apparated back to Potter Manor. It would take him some time to think of it as home.

An in-depth expedition into his expansive library had yielded no results, even with Hermione turning up around noon to help. Unfortunately the Potter family did not have any great interest in psychoanalysis, or in the human body in general. Certainly he and she had each found their share of reading material of questionable morals (put simply: porn), and each received quite a bit of amusement from seeing what passed for ‘raunchy’ in the early 1900’s. An entire day later, with absolutely no results in any one of the books Harry owned, they mutually decided that they would have to ask someone. Later, as Hermione so aptly put. He offered her a room, which she accepted, and was set up just down the hall from him.

It was a cruel torture, being only a few feet from her with no one else in the building. They had decided that it would be better if they didn’t get used to sleeping together, especially since it was possible for anyone in the Order to enter the house at any time. It would not do for Mrs Weasley, or anyone really, to catch the two of them in the same bed. What a cruel, cruel fate.

The book that Harry will read, where the line 'at this high moment, ability failed my capacity to describe' is the third part of Dante's Divine Comedy, Paradiso. It is in actuality Dante's sentiments upon beholding God, or as close to an approximation to him that Dante's human mind can process.

I am aware that pearl is not a very precious material, so it would be out of place at such an event. Allow me to explain. It all stems from my choice for Fleur's middle name: Joséphine. Joséphine was the first wife of Napolean I Bonaparte of France. She was born in June of 1763. The birthstone for June is (drumroll) Pearl.

Château d’Yquem is in fact a real brand of wine. In the Bordeaux Wine Official Classification of 1855, Château d’Yquem was the only wine to receive the 'Great First Vintage' ranking (the highest offerable)

C'est la vie, for all of the about six of you who don't know, is French for that's life.

The dream is, of course, the kind of thing you might find in a Stephen King novel. Many elements of it (namely the worlds spinning on the Dark Tower, the itchy eyeballs, and the line 'one feels them first at the back of ones eyes') are lifted almost directly from Hearts in Atlantis. The post-murder scene of the young couple on the couch has elements from The Shining in it.

8. Making good, noble men

Chapter title attributed to Greek philosopher Plato “But if you ask what is the good of education in general, the answer is easy: that education makes good men, and that good men act nobly.”

Chapter 8: Making Good, Noble Men

For the remainder of August Harry spent his days, for the most part, simply enjoying free life and spending some of his considerable wealth in the process. His years of servitude, used for want of a better term, under the tyrannical Dursleys had gifted him with extraordinary household skills, which served now him well in his freedom. One of his favourite pastimes was expanding on the enormous garden he had inherited. Under his care the grounds of Potter Manor, already a treasure trove of beautiful fauna, flourished into a veritable rainbow of plant life.

His second, and arguably more important, task during his semi self-imposed exile (Mad-Eye had sent him a very vocal letter all but forbidding him to leave his property. This floated fine with Harry as it gave him time to work on his gardening) was fulfilling his heavily revised list of Head Boy duties. Every day at around 2 PM Hermione dropped by, they spent a few hours touring the garden, and they sat down to organize patrols for the twenty-two Hogwarts prefects. They had already been instructed not to include themselves, and double-checked with McGonagall about exempting Ron. The students were expected to patrol the halls each night, from curfew at nine until the start of breakfast at seven the next morning. Each individual prefect was paired with another, not necessarily from the same house or year, for a couple of two-hour shifts on Mondays through Fridays inclusive. On weekends, since there were obviously surpluses on patrol hours during the week, the prefects with the least number of overall patrol hours logged for that week took turns on the ten weekend patrols.

In previous years each prefect had taken an assigned slot that never changed by week. This year Harry and Hermione decided to simply make a schedule for the entire year excluding holidays, which were covered by the teachers, in the interests of ensuring everyone logged more or less equal hours. It sounded like a complicated system, but it really wasn’t. The most difficult part was splitting twenty-two students (or eleven teams) evenly among five shifts a day, thirty-five shifts a week, for a total of just below forty-two weeks, 290 days, or 1450 shifts. Beyond the obvious organizational benefits of the new system, in his truly honest moments Harry had no trouble admitting to himself that they had really decided to reconstruct the schedule as a front to spend more time together.

But Harry hardly spent all his time working and gardening. Every Saturday Ron would join his best friends at Potter Manor, and the three of them would do any number of things over the weekend that they all stayed. Some days Harry and Hermione spent trying to introduce Ron to a world without magic, mostly through the rather impressive home entertainment unit Harry discovered in one of the many rooms. Ron was quite amused by the portrayal of magic in such classics as Cinderella and Wizard of Oz, was positively captivated by Star Wars and Braveheart, and scared shitless (literally. Don’t ask) by The Shining and Dracula. They considered introducing him to literature, but ultimately decided not to push their luck. The rest of the days were spent researching in Harry’s sizeable library. They had established a list, charmed by Hermione against unwelcome eyes, of what they considered to be potential horcruxes. The locket, the cup, and Nagini were all definite, but the Ravenclaw spot could possibly be several things. Harry’s great-great-great grandmother had been a historian, and so had appropriated an impressive collection of history books for the Potter shelves.

In total they discovered records of only three artefacts of Ravenclaw’s. The most prominently described was the diadem, which allegedly had the power to amplify natural intelligence. Although it was the easiest one to find records of, it had disappeared several years before its owner’s death making it unlikely that Voldemort had stolen it. The second possibility was Ravenclaw’s wand, which they had traced back to Ollivander’s wand shop. Some searching through the Ministry’s public archives revealed no records of how Mr Ollivander acquired the wand, only that it had seemingly evaporated after his disappearance. The final artefact was some sort of ring. No historical records the three pseudo investigators could turn up revealed anything about the nature of the ring, only an illustration depicting a silver Celtic knot inlaid with a large sapphire. The ring hadn’t been seen since the private collector who owned it died of natural causes about thirty years before. In total this gave them six of the seven Dumbledore had guessed at. For the last they were absolutely stumped. The only artefacts of Gryffindor’s they could find record of were the Sorting Hat and the sword. The hat hadn’t been anywhere but the Headmaster’s office or the Great Hall in almost a thousand years, and all records of the sword indicated that it had been under Gringotts security since Gryffindor’s death.

On August 31, the last day before school started again, the Weasleys, the Lupins, Hermione and Sirius all came around for dinner. Harry cooked a beef and pasta dish, Remus selected a wine from the cellar, and they all had a wonderful evening. The next morning Harry rose early to pack before meeting his guard, comprised of Mad-Eye and an unexpected appearance by Aleksandr Ivanóv. Aleksandr made no reference to the last time he and Harry had spoken, and Harry decided it was in his best interests to do the same. At the Russian’s insistence they travelled in Ivanóv’s Charger, rather than the portkey that Mad-Eye had prepared. Thanks to the mercenary’s near-suicidal driving, and probably a few enchantments on the car, they arrived at the station with plenty of time to spare. Harry and Mad-Eye, the latter grumbling most of the way, followed Aleksandr in a roundabout path to the barrier. He directed their attention to the washroom as they passed at a safe distance, evidently the place that Moody’s portkey would have taken them, where a number of people Harry recognized as Death Eaters were lounging. Needless to say that shut Mad-Eye up. In only a few minutes Aleksandr’s cold efficiency had succeeded at establishing Harry and his luggage on the train and thoroughly impressing Moody.

On the way down to the compartment that traditionally held Harry, Hermione, Ron, Ginny, Luna and Neville, Harry bumped into Hermione and Ron, the former of whom alerted him to the fact that they had to meet with the prefects. The meeting basically amounted to Harry and Hermione bringing the new prefects up to speed on their duties and colleagues. They told the collective group of prefects of the new patrol system, and that a schedule for the entire year would be posted on the bulletin board in each of the house common rooms. Then they set the group of them loose on the train, with strict instructions to get up and patrol every once and a while. The three of them met up with Ginny, Neville and Luna in ‘their’ compartment, and generally spent the trip in comfortable company.

At only one point during the many hour trip was the relative peace disturbed. Luna and Hermione were lost to the world, noses buried in The Quibbler and a thirty-pound Arithmancy textbook respectively, Ron was unceremoniously thrashing Neville at chess and Harry was firmly ignoring Ginny’s amorous stares with a game of solitaire. However all of them looked up when the compartment door flew open to reveal Crabbe and Goyle flanking Blaise Zabini. Somehow Harry was not surprised. “Hello Zabini, you missed the meeting.” He commented nonchalantly after letting out a yelp of triumph; he just uncovered his missing ace.

“Must have slipped my mind.” The average-height black teen responded sarcastically. Evidently the young man who had been appointed to replace Malfoy as seventh-year male Slytherin prefect had equal respect for the position as his predecessor.

Hermione called him on it. “Careful Zabini, you aren’t making a very good impression.” If Harry didn’t know her better, he’d swear that Hermione had just taunted someone.

Guess who was not impressed? You got it. Zabini pushed past his gorilla bodyguards to stand menacingly in the compartment. “Did you just threaten me?” he breathed warningly.

Hermione feigned wide-eyed innocence. “Who, me? I wouldn’t dream of it.” She replied coyly.

Zabini snorted. “Damn right. I don’t need to take that kind of treatment from anyone. Especially not a filthy mudblood.” Momentarily, before instinct took over, Harry noted that almost everyone attacked Hermione in that way. It was an overused cliché, but what was that proverb he had heard once? ‘Great minds think alike. Fools seldom differ.’

But that thought was quickly swept away by cold fury. Harry rose, knocking his game to the floor and not caring. He faced the shorter, but rather more muscular, youth. “Take my advice, get out before one of us does something they’ll regret.” He advised coldly.

Zabini, who had been turning to go anyway, stopped and stepped closer to Harry. He raised himself up so that their two noses were barely an inch apart. “Let’s get one thing straight Potter,” he spat the name with as much venom as Malfoy had. A brief wave of nostalgia swept over Harry. “I do what I want, when I want to, and no worthless lying halfblood is going to tell me any different.” Perhaps it was Harry’s imagination, but it seemed like the temperature of the compartment had dropped ten degrees.

Harry searched his new enemy’s dull green eyes, then inclined his head to the side in a gesture of acquiescence. He turned to go back to his seat, but instead pivoted rapidly and clouted Zabini right in the jaw. He dropped like a ton of bricks. Harry raised his fists to take on Crabbe and Goyle, who had realized that they should probably be backing up their leader, but the two man-gorillas stopped cold. Looking behind them Harry could see that Mad-Eye was pushing his wand into Crabbe’s neck, and Aleksandr had the barrel of his pistol in Goyle’s.

“Get your friend and get out lads.” Mad-Eye suggested threateningly, digging his wand further into the fleshy neck.

“Quickly.” The Russian added, his voice alone making the mercury drop another eight or nine points. The burly boys lifted Zabini’s limp body and hurried out of the compartment. Harry didn’t blame them. If he had been subject to the fury of Mad-Eye Moody and Aleksandr Ivanóv he would have run too. Ivanóv vanished without a second glance, but Mad-Eye indicated that he wanted to talk to Harry and the rest of the ‘golden trio’ upon arriving at Hogwarts before following the mercenary into the compartment across from theirs.

“You’re crazy, both of you.” Ron declared, returning to the seat he had vacated after Zabini’s slur. “I don’t like Zabini much either, but he’s a lot more dangerous than Malfoy was.”

Luna hadn’t reacted to anything yet, not even the appearance of the Slytherin trio, but she piped up at this. “A matter of opinion, Ronald.” Her dreamy voice floated over the magazine she was still reading.

“Yea, did you see Harry’s punch? Knocked the bastard flat!” Ginny exclaimed proudly, and shot her hero a flirtatious smile that was systematically ignored.

Harry snorted, cradling his knuckles. “Maybe, but he’s got a face like a brick wall. Jeez-us that hurts.” Hermione swooped in with a light peck on his bruising knuckles, eliciting an objecting yelp from Ron.

“Oh get over yourself Ronald.” She scolded irritably. “Maybe I’d kiss you too if you defended my honor once in a while.” Ron had no reply for this, so he simply fell silent for the remnant of the trip.

***

Once the scarlet train finally pulled into Hogsmede station, and the thestral-powered carriages carried the upper six years to the immense castle that had become a second home, Harry, Hermione and Ron followed Mad-Eye into an unused classroom just off the Entrance Hall.

“Right. As you better damn well know by now, me, McGonagall and the new Transfiguration professor know exactly what you three need to be doing in your spare time.” The retired Irishman told them gruffly. “I’ve been talking to above mentioned professor, who wants me to keep his identity a surprise, and we’ve more or less equally divided training. He’ll want to talk to you after the feast about his part, but I’ll be putting you through basic Auror training and some of the more advanced remedies to more powerful dark magic.” He summarized.

“I take it that means how to destroy Horcruxes?” Hermione guessed.

Moody nodded. “Aye Potter, got it in one. I’ve got to warn you, the Auror training is intense. I’ve had students lose consciousness during the obstacle course, and I’ve even had fatalities in the combat training. So for the first two months before we begin standard training, all three of you are going to get up at four o’clock every morning. We will run, we will stretch, and most importantly, we will gradually build up your physical and magical abilities to the point where you will not embarrass yourselves on the course. Any questions?” he barked.

Ron timidly raised his hand, apparently also noting the similarities. “What happens if we can’t wake up at four o’clock in the morning?” he asked nervously.

Moody took a deep breath. “Then I will personally tear you from your bed like the healer tore you from your mother’s womb.” The analogy made all present cringe. “Anyone else?” Harry could feel Moody’s magical eye on him for a moment, when his normal one was fixed on Hermione. When no one had any other pressing questions, they were dismissed to the feast.

McGonagall had, after the fashion of her husband, began the feast almost immediately after the sorting, with no announcements. They had, evidently, missed the sorting, but Neville and Ginny had saved three spots for them close to the head table. Harry took the one next to Neville, to the obvious disappointment of Ginny. Harry loaded his plate with roast beef and began to eat, his mind on the training Mad-Eye had mentioned. He didn’t know an enormous amount about Auror training, but he was reasonably sure it was similar to that of muggle national law enforcement. He was personally expecting an extremely demanding obstacle course, rapid-fire spell casting, and assorted investigation techniques. He catalogued his expectations for the program tirelessly, pausing only briefly to fill his plate with treacle tart. Finally the food vanished, and roughly two hundred and eighty contented faces turned to the front as McGonagall rose once more.

“Now that we have the feast under our belts, pun intended, I regretfully must ask you to stay awake for a few announcements.” McGonagall declared, her joke eliciting some chuckles from the student body. “First the Forbidden Forest is so named for a very good reason. Students caught within, who are not in the legitimate company of a professor at the time, will be turned over to our esteemed caretaker, Mr Filch, for punishment. For those unfamiliar with Mr Filch, allow me to assure you that your punishment will not be pleasant.” Harry noted with dry amusement that some of the first years gave Filch, who was standing off to the side looking even more menacing than usual, a frightened glance.

“Second, while we are on the subject of our caretaker, he has asked me to remind all of you that the list of items banned in the halls grows every day, an updated copy may be found pinned to his office door, and that magic in the hallways is strictly forbidden. Also, we have some new staff appointments. As many of you know our former headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, was murdered last June by our Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, Severus Snape.” If she felt any particular way about delivering that news, it didn’t show. “ For obvious reasons professor Snape will not be joining us again this year. In his place I would like to introduce a good friend of mine, Alastor Moody.” McGonagall gestured towards the scarred, hunched figure at her right and led the applause. Mad-Eye rose to his feet (or foot, depending on how you look at it) briefly in acknowledgment. “Unfortunately my successor as Transfiguration professor has not yet arrived, and he has asked me not to reveal his identity without him being present, so you will meet him at your first Transfiguration class of the year.” She took a deep breath in order to continue with the announcements, but the giant double-doors burst open on some unseen cue.

“So sorry I’m late, I had an appointment I simply couldn’t miss.” A familiar Scottish accent cut through the shocked silence. Harry turned in his seat for confirmation, and got it. It was the same Scotsman from his ‘dream’ the night of Bill and Fleur’s wedding. As he passed the Gryffindor table, Harry could get a good look at him.

The man wore tongue-less black shoes laced above his ankles, and high white socks sporting red and white flags. The handle and outline of a small dagger could be seen in his left sock. He still wore the kilt, through now in red and white and the bag that hung before it was considerably less expensive-looking than the one he wore when Harry last saw him. Next to the bag hung a leather sleeve, the end of a pine wand peeking from the top end of it. Strangest of all he was sporting a velvet purple vest over his white shirt, and a hot pink tie. Above that were a fine brown blazer and a long grey overcoat. Clutched in his hand was a wool bonnet about twice the diameter of his head, in the same pattern as his kilt, topped with a fluffy sphere, which had evidently just been removed from his immaculately combed black hair. His head stood well over six feet above the ground. He had a pleasant rounded face, warm brown eyes, and a sharp nose. Curiously he seemed to be favouring his left leg, though the limp was not very pronounced. Upon laying eyes on the man, Hermione let out a startled gasp that went more or less unheard over the widespread chuckling at the man’s vest and tie.

The new professor took his seat at McGonagall’s left, and motioned for the headmistress to continue. She obliged him. “Since he seems to have arrived, allow me to introduce another old friend: Dr Iain Menzies.” Professor Menzies rose to his feet and bowed low. Harry could hardly miss the man’s eyes flitting over to his place, though he didn’t seem to be looking at him, and winking. “Professor Menzies has an extensive psychological background, and has offered to become Hogwarts’ first ever school counsellor. Students who need help getting through the day are encouraged to seek him out. Finally, before I turn you loose and to bed, allow me to introduce our Head Boy and Girl, Mr Harry Potter and Ms Hermione Granger.” The two stood up, but Harry could see Hermione’s eyes still trained on Professor Menzies. “And now, at long last, I wish you well in your classes. First years, your fifth year prefects will lead you to your dorms. Older students, see one of your house prefects for the password. Good night.” There was chaos in the Great Hall as every single student attempted to file through the doors. Somehow Professor Menzies had managed to appear beside them almost immediately.

A faint Scottish brogue whispered against Harry’s ear. “Don’t come to my office right away. I’ll call when I’m ready for you. Good night.” Harry was immensely curious as to how the professor had pierced the crowds, but by the time he was able to turn and ask, it was too late. He looked back towards the head table. Menzies was there sipping from a glass full of honey-brown liquid, what he had called Scotch in his ‘dream,’ having a conversation with McGonagall and Mad-Eye. He made no physical display of it, but Harry had a peculiar feeling that he knew he was being watched.

“Hey, mate!” he heard Ron call. “C’mon, let’s go.” Harry turned. The crowds had entirely vanished. Only Ron and Hermione still stood in the Hall, beckoning to him. He followed at last. “Hey Hermione, I’ve been meaning to ask you. What’s up with you and that new Transfiguration professor?” Ron finally broke the silence, on about the third floor.

Hermione, having been startled from a reverie of something, didn’t really seem to know what he meant, and said so.

“Well from the time he came in to the time we left, you couldn’t keep your eyes off him. And I’m sure he winked at you when McGonagall introduced you as Head Girl.” Unusually perceptive. Well not really, but it was Ron.

Dawning comprehension lit up Hermione’s face. “Oh, that. It was nothing, he just reminded me of someone I used to know. A long time ago.” She trailed off, and neither male could get another word out of her for some time. Not that Harry had tried, he had other things on his mind. Like: how Professor Menzies had appeared in his dream, as what appeared to be a sentient force. Ron, continuing his streak of uncharacteristically insightful behaviour, realized that his friends were deep in thought and didn’t distract them.

However, when they had split off at the Seventh floor, heading in a different direction than the portrait of the Fat Lady and the entrance to Gryffindor tower, he couldn’t hold it in any longer. “Hey, where are you two going? The Tower’s still back there.” He gestured over his shoulder towards the familiar portrait, which had opened to admit students.

Harry and Hermione shared guilty looks. They had never intended to keep Ron in the dark about their private tower, but somehow it had happened. The secret couple had a brief battle with their eyes, which Harry lost. “Ron, there won’t be enough beds for us in the Tower.” Ron was either uncomprehending or back to his usual inattentive self, however you want to look at it. Harry took a deep breath. “What I’m trying to tell you is that mine and Hermione’s beds aren’t in Gryffindor Tower anymore. We’ve been moved to a private Tower.” As soon as he said it, he regretted using the word ‘private.’ He knew exactly what Ron would read into it, and he was neither disappointed nor surprised when his friend’s blue eyes narrowed.

“Oh I get it, now I know it seems so obvious. I should have seen it coming for miles. A ‘private’ Tower, nice. A perfect excuse for you two to go off and shag behind my back.” He sneered. Harry was wounded deeply. Even though he had expected a bad reaction, he hadn’t anticipated the raw venom in his friend’s voice.

Hermione gasped. “Ronald Weasley!” she thundered. “How dare you!” she probably would have done the whole bit about how ‘Harry is like a brother to me’ and ‘I can’t believe you would think so little of us,’ but Ron didn’t wait for it.

“Oh sure, you can act all horrified about it. Face it ‘Herms,’ you know exactly what you’re going to be doing in that ‘Tower.’ And Harry if I were you, I wouldn’t try sneaking back in when you’re finished.” It was a sign of how far gone he was that he deliberately used the nickname his best female friend hated above all others, and he didn’t even realize how much trouble he’d gotten himself into.

If Hermione had flushed because she really was considering the things Ron had accused her of, it was indistinguishable from her angry red hue. She sputtered incoherently for a moment, while Harry was simply frozen in place by the nightmare scene unfolding, but Ron’s half self-satisfied half ‘woe-is-me’ face made her lose control. She closed the few feet between them in long strides, and slapped him so hard he spun in place. He must have kept going under his own power, because he had pivoted ninety degrees and stalked off towards the Fat Lady without another word; not even Hermione could hit that hard.

She just stood looking after him, fuming, so Harry was very cautious approaching her. He gingerly placed his hand on her shoulder, and tightened his grip when she didn’t snap at him. “Come on, you need to sleep. I promise, everything will be better in the morning.” He soothed, and he could feel her shoulder muscles relaxing and quivering under his touch. But she wouldn’t cry. Not until Harry had led her to the door, muttered the password, and brought her inside.

It was basically the same as the Gryffindor common room, albeit smaller. A roaring fire, lots of red and gold everywhere, a couch and two comfortable looking chairs. But Hermione didn’t see any of that as she immediately buried her face in Harry’s chest. “I can’t believe he could be so cruel.” She told him through her sobs. “After all these years, after everything we’ve been through together, how can he stand there and make those horrible accusations?”

Harry couldn’t answer her. He was thinking the same thing. All he could do was try to console her. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, I really was thinking of what Ron was accusing us of doing.” He admitted with a shy grin. Hermione looked up from his chest, her face splotched with red from pushing herself against him and crying, and snorted with amusement. He started to chuckle, and before long they were standing there laughing. It wasn’t that what Harry had said was particularly funny, just that they both needed to let some things go. It was what they would both hear Professor Menzies call ‘jocular therapy,’ and by God if it didn’t work wonders.

“Thank you, I needed that.” She told him when they finally composed themselves. Her face was no longer so blotchy, the redness spread out into more of a flush, but her eyes were still shining. Harry wiped them with a thumb.

“I was serious you know.” He told her, in his best serious expression. They couldn’t help but chuckle some more at that, but it subsided quickly.

“I know.” She responded simply, delivering a suggestive peck on his lips. But he ultimately pulled away toward the staircase marked ‘Head Girl.’ “But I also know that we’re both really tired, and we both need to sleep off all this anger. Good night Harry.” Harry barely had time to stammer out a reply before she was gone.

Harry’s own room looked a lot like the Gryffindor dorm, with some obvious exceptions. There was a door in one wall that seemed to lead to the bathroom that had been specified in the letter. He had a rather suspiciously large four-poster bed, red and gold trimmings naturally, and a large chest-of-drawers. His clothes had already been put away, apparently, so he just changed into his pyjamas and laid down in his bed. Things were getting complicated quickly, but he hoped that the fight with Ron was just a temporary thing. He didn’t know if just he and Hermione would be able to find and destroy all the Horcruxes. His last thought before drifting off was that it must have been some kind of record: Hermione and Ron had fought, seriously and not just well deserved shouting, on the very first day of school.

He had another strange dream that night, but the mysterious Tower showed him even more unusual things. He himself and Hermione as teenagers, the latter wearing Ravenclaw robes, shouting at each other in the halls. He saw himself as a teen joking around with Ron, Neville, and Malfoy (who was wearing Gryffindor robes). He saw himself, Neville, Ron, Malfoy, Ginny, and another red head Harry didn’t know in the Department of Mysteries, facing down Death Eaters. He didn’t see Professor Menzies, but that wasn’t the strangest thing. The strangest thing of all was that in every one of his ‘visions’ he saw the lightning bolt scar that had become synonymous with the name Harry Potter on Neville’s forehead. Then a more familiar scene, or at least one that seemed ‘right’ to him somehow. It was a dark room. A brown-haired woman was chained by the wrists and ankles in the middle, spread-eagle. Her head was bowed, preventing him a look at her face, but something about the scene terrified him. It was the last scene that finally woke him. Fortunately there was no one in the vicinity for him to attack in his confusion, and he quickly sank into fresh dreamless sleep.

So there you have it. Familiar Trio/Malfoy tension, without the Malfoy. Some jealousy from Ron, not that we didn't all see it coming. And of course, the pièce de resistance: Dr Iain Menzies. Hope you appreciate the various movies, they are all chronologically accurate; that is to say that they actually did exist in the year 1981, when the Manor was last occupied. Dracula is the 1931 version, if it makes a difference.

9. As the twig is bent, the tree's inclined

Chapter title attributed to English poet Alexander Pope. “Tis education forms the common mind. Just as the twig is bent, the tree’s inclined.”

Chapter 9: As the Twig is Bent, the Tree’s Inclined

Harry awoke at a good time in the morning. After his nightmares, which were steadily becoming stranger and stranger, he had had one of the best sleeps of his life. Not having a psychotic megalomaniac attempting to flame-grill your mind will do that to a person. He pulled on a bathrobe ad entered the bathroom he shared with Hermione. She wasn’t using it right now, unfortunately for him and his morning wood, but given that the shower was still coated with water droplets, she couldn’t have been in there long ago.

Harry showered, changed into his robes, and headed downstairs. There was a heavy book on the coffee table in the common room. Perhaps Hermione had come down in the middle of the night to read. He cautiously exited the tower, wary of violent reprisal from Ron. It didn’t come, which was either a good thing or a very bad thing. In the Great Hall he was treated to near-total anonymity, since most students would be sleeping late on the first day after the summer break. He did see Hermione, near the far end of the Gryffindor table, and Ron, closer to the middle talking to Ginny about something. Harry skirted the duo on his way up. “Good morning.” He greeted semi-cheerfully as he sat, grabbing a few pieces of toast.

Hermione looked up at him, then glanced down at Ron. “Debatable.” She muttered. A few feet down the table Parvati and Lavender were hailed over by Ginny. Hermione scowled. “Now the entire school will think I’m Harry Potter’s personal whore.” She took a long draft from the mug of coffee at her elbow.

Harry, who had seen what she had seen, grinned sympathetically. “Somehow I don’t think so.” Hermione glanced up at him, obviously confused. “You’ve helped so many people with their homework over the years, the only ones who will think anything bad about you are the ones who already think you’re…who are already of that opinion of you.” He couldn’t bring himself to say it, not when he had been doing such a good job of cheering his best friend up. It worked. They ate their breakfasts in silence, until Hermione noted the schedules that had appeared in front of all the students.

“Defence, Transfiguration, lunch. Transfiguration again, study period, Potions.” Harry recited, a slight frown creasing his face. A tiring day, but then the whole year promised to be tiring. Hermione told him that she had the same thing, and he noticed her eyes flick towards a certain professor wearing a bright pink tie. “You aren’t taking Runes, or Arithmancy this year?” he asked conversationally.

She shook her head. “No, there just isn’t time. On top of the training Mad-Eye wants us to do, and our own private project, we need all the free time we can get.” Harry felt bad about it, seeing as she had given up two of her favourite classes, but she reassured him. “Don’t worry about it. The way I see it if Voldemort takes over, none of it will matter anyway.” The sentiment was oddly comforting. The two friends simultaneously went for their watches, which was worth a chuckle, and discovered they should probably get up to Defence.

***

Mad-Eye, or Professor Moody as he must now be known, had set up his room in a most peculiar way. Correction: if it had been anyone else, it would have been most peculiar. The bulk of the room was simply empty space. A fine layer of dust covered the blackboards at the front, and the desks were arranged in a wide semicircle. Harry and Hermione took two seats at the end of one ‘arm’ of the shape, nearest the front. Several others were already seated, and many more were filing in. Ron entered last, noted with apparent distaste the seats of his former friends, and sat at the last available seat, directly across from them.

There were several minutes of confused silence, until the uneven footsteps of Alastor Moody carried him into the room. He looked over every one of them, snorted, and began. “Alastor Moody.” He jerked a thumb towards himself. “Sometimes called Mad-Eye,” he jabbed the thumb towards his magical eye. “Formerly head Auror, and your Defence Against the Dark Arts professor.” He surveyed the class again, evidently satisfied with what he found.

Moody began to pace, turning his back on them to face the blackboard before he spoke again. “Most of you probably think you know me, because some two-bit death eater acted like me for an entire year. YOU’RE WRONG!” Moody spun around forcefully and shouted his final words. The entire class jumped. Mad-Eye clomped up to the desks rapidly, removing his dark leather cloak and throwing it over to his desk. He was wearing Dragonhide armour over a plain white shirt and dark trousers. A quick movement of his left arm found a yew wand drawn from its holster on his belt. He pointed it straight out, panning it over the students. Each one of them flinched away when it pointed at them, except for Harry Hermione and Ron. The tip finally came to rest on Harry. “Potter, front and center!” Mad-Eye barked. Harry complied, drawing his wand in the process. “Mock duel. No Unforgiveables, or physical combat, and fire at me only, no other objects.” Harry agreed to the terms. In accordance with the ancient duelling customs, according to Gilderoy Lockhart, Harry bowed low. A fraction of a second later he had to roll to the side in order to dodge a reductor, and another, and another. It was all Harry could do to keep weaving away from an endless barrage of curses. When his stamina gave out, he switched to the shield charm.

After endless deflecting there was a brief pause. With no such hesitation, Harry sent out a spray of severing charms. They had no visible effect, but the empty desk that Harry had previously occupied flew towards him. A quick blasting curse made short work of it. By that time Mad-Eye was nowhere to be seen. A cursory glance around revealed nothing, until he felt a blunt object crumple his legs. He fell back to see Mad-Eye Moody, a wand pointing at his face. “Take your seat Potter.” He was instructed, a wand flick conjuring a new desk for him. Moody pulled his cloak back on and addressed the class. “Three things wrong with that scenario. What are they?” he demanded. There was absolute silence for a moment, until Ernie Macmillan timidly raised his hand. “Macmillan.”

Ernie took a deep breath, presumably to steady himself. “First you broke the Duelling code, by attacking your opponent before it was time.” Mad-Eye nodded, which gave the oft-pompous Hufflepuff new heart. “The other two are when you broke your own rules twice. First by launching a desk at Harry, and again when you tripped him with your wooden leg.”

Moody grunted, sounding genuinely disappointed that anyone had gotten it right. “Got it. Fifteen to Hufflepuff.” He admitted grudgingly. “Yes, I broke the rules. And that is exactly why I’m here.” He glanced over the class’ generally confused faces and sighed. “I am here, because Death Eaters do not play by the rules. They do not duel, they fight. So the only way to defend yourself against a Death Eater is to fight.” He explained slowly, stressing the last word. “CONSTANT VIGILANCE!” the class jumped again. Moody began to pace around the inside of the ring of desks. “This year you will learn three things from me. First you will learn offensive magic. Nott, can you tell me number two?” he barked.

The weedy student, who had been engaged in low conversation with Zabini, looked up and blinked stupidly. He looked at Moody with genuine fear, and shook his head silently.

Mad-Eye grunted again, this time satisfied. “Didn’t think so. Ten from Slytherin for not paying attention. Now shut up, both of you, unless you want to be in the next demonstration.” Nott quieted immediately, but Zabini just looked irritated. “Longbottom, number two.”

“Uh…how to fight?” Neville answered timidly. After the experience with the fake Mad-Eye, he was understandably frightened of the former Auror.

The real Mad-Eye almost smiled, but not quite. “Exactly lad.” Harry noticed that the professor’s voice was slightly more kindly when he spoke to Neville, probably because his parents had fought with Mad-Eye in the first war. The almost sentimental moment passed. “And third: CONSTANT. NEVER. CEASING. VIGILANCE!” Each word was punctuated by the clomping noise of Alastor Moody banging his wooden leg on the floor, hard.

What was left of the period was spent discussing tactics, advantages of crushing, cutting, and blasting spells, and various other details about magical combat. Mad-Eye proved to be an extremely competent teacher, though he was more than a bit intimidating. As the class filed out after the bell, he promised to show them a real fight as soon as he could. As expected, Ron didn’t spare his friends a glance as he left. Slightly dejected, though not surprised, they headed for the Transfiguration classroom.

The class, somewhat less sizeable than the Defence class, filed into the room. The desks were arranged in a grid, as was usual, but the front wall was a floor-to-ceiling blackboard. Harry at first thought the room was empty, until everyone had taken their seats. As soon as that had happened, a tall and thin portion of wall on the left-hand side of the classroom slowly solidified, growing in definition, until it turned around and transformed from dead stone and mortar into the very-much-alive Dr. Iain Menzies.

“Good morning. I would like to start by taking a roll, if you don’t mind.” Menzies glanced over the class with a look of polite curiosity, and smiled when he saw no objections. On the desk by the door was a long roll of parchment, which was picked up. “Abbott, Hannah? Brown, Lavender? Brocklehurst, Amanda? Bones, Susan? Boot, Terrence?”

“Terry.” The Ravenclaw’s voice called from the middle of the room.

“I do apologize.” The Scotsman sounded genuinely apologetic, which was very unusual. “Corner, Michael? Finnegan, Seamus?” he paused, and Harry saw a slow smile grow on his face. “Granger, Hermione?” For the first time since starting the list he looked up, and Harry saw his and Hermione’s eyes connect. He could have sworn he saw the Scot wink. “Greengrass, Daphne? Nott, Theodore? Parkinson, Pansy? Patil, Parvati? Potter, Harry?” When Harry didn’t answer, being used to professors knowing who he was, Menzies looked up. “Harry Potter? Is he here?” the rest of the class were regarding their new professor as though he were insane, which he quite possibly was. Harry finally raised his hand. “Thank you Mr Potter. Thomas, Dean? Weasley, Ronald? Zabini, Blaise?” Having completed his primary task, he sat on the corner of his desk. His kilt mercifully fell between his legs.

“Now that we have that behind us, I thought we could just spend this period as an ice breaking session. So, how about we go around the room and everyone will stand up and tell a bit about themselves.” He gestured at Dean, and they began. The class was once again astonished when he insisted on Harry standing and telling his story. A flicker in the back of Menzies’ brown eyes indicated to Harry that the professor was not nearly as ignorant as he acted, but Harry appreciated the gesture. There was little interesting said during the exchanges, so they will not be recorded. “Now, it’s my turn.” Menzies rose, and stood perfectly still with his hands clasped behind his back. “I am Dr Iain Menzies, with a great many degrees following that name. I am Scottish, as many of you have no doubt surmised, but I’ve been travelling for the last several years. I am muggleborn,” Zabini and Nott snickered, and Menzies smiled politely at them. “Mr Zabini, Mr Nott. Would you care to share your source of amusement with the class?” He asked them genially. Nott shook his head, but Zabini stood up.

“Why yes sir, I would. I was just commenting on how likely it was that a mudblood could actually teach us anything.” He sat down again. Nott hid his sniggering behind a hand, but Pansy had no such qualms. She openly laughed, causing Daphne Greengrass beside her to hide her face in embarrassment.

For his part Menzies took the barb extremely well, and his expression of polite amusement never wavered for an instant. “Mr Zabini, I would like you and Ms Parkinson to come see me after classes today. Mr Nott, you will join them I think.” He turned to scribble a note to himself, so missed Zabini’s non-verbal suggestion that he was not likely to do any such thing. “And Mr Zabini? If you fail to come I will personally drag you to my office.” He added. Turning to face the class again, he opened his arms wide. “Any questions?” No one raised their hands.

Menzies never stopped smiling politely, but the ringing of the bell interrupted any further interrogation. “I’ll see you all after lunch. Until then.” He bowed, formally but not stiffly, as his class fled the room. Ron in particular was near the forefront, but he hit an invisible wall and stopped. “Mr Weasley, I’m sorry for cutting into your lunch but I’d like to speak to you in my office.” Harry and Hermione were similarly stopped on their ways out. “Mr Potter and Ms Granger as well, if you don’t mind.” They were finally allowed to leave the room, and headed for what was formerly Professor McGonagall’s office.

Harry’s first impression of the office was that it was the kind of place Hermione would love. Every square inch of wall space was filled with bookshelves, each one overflowing with literature in a variety of languages. Harry saw English, French, Italian, Latin, and many types of runes. An entire shelf of the English section was devoted to a man named Stephen King. The back wall was the only one to break that trend. It was adorned with a large segment of a tree, engraved with something Harry’s couldn’t make out. Two black and white muggle photographs flanked the wood. The first showed a man crawling down a field, many more men piled on top of him. The second was another man, on ice skates, firing a black disk into a kind of sports net with a long wooden stick. A slow, beautifully written harpsichord piece was playing from a corner, beside the desk at the far end, where Harry could see a vinyl recording disk spinning in midair.

The desk was cluttered with papers in foreign languages, but Harry noticed a few unusual objects. There was a picture of a tall male teen with messy black hair and brown eyes, another with long rust-coloured hair and dark eyes, and a young woman with dark brown hair and green eyes. The first wore the blue and bronze robes of Ravenclaw, whereas the other two wore Gryffindor colours. Also on the desk were three books. One was a well-thumbed paperback depicting the main street of a typical 60’s small town. At the end of the street was a large Ferris wheel, a depiction of the sparrow-track peace sign enclosed within. The title bore the legend Hearts in Atlantis by the author Harry had seen earlier, Stephen King. The second book was by a man named William Golding. The cover art was a simple jungle sketch, with some crudely drawn humans at the bottom. The title at the top was Lord of the Flies. The final was unmarked, bound in handsome red leather. Harry flipped it open, only to find that it was written in Italian.

“It is the Divine Comedy, by Dante Alighieri. You have never been to Florence?” Harry turned around quickly, and saw the upside down head of Professor Menzies smiling at him. The professor was literally standing on the ceiling. By some unusual, and merciful magic, his kilt stood straight, as though he had been standing on perfectly flat ground. He glanced around at the walls covered by bookshelves and frowned slightly. “Alas, I could have designed this room a bit better. No matter.” To Harry, Hermione, and Ron’s immense surprise the professor dissolved into a fine powder, his dust floating down and reforming back into the shape of a man. “Now then, let us have a chat.” A flick of his eyes in the right direction and the volume of the music lowered significantly. He strolled over to his desk, in no large hurry, and sat down.

“First off, I would like you to call me Iain. If we’re going to work together I don’t want you to have to bother with this Professor nonsense. I’m a doctor, not a teacher.” All three of them agreed to this. “Second, there seem to be some unresolved tensions between you three.” Harry and Hermione glanced at Ron, who was pointedly examining the floating record. Iain sighed. “Mr Weasley, Ron if I may, I would like you to look deep into my eyes. Thank you. Now, You have had two brothers be Head Boy, is that correct? Good. Think hard now; did either William or Percival brag about having a separate dormitory? No? Well I didn’t expect William to, but focus hard on Percival.” Iain’s eyes sharpened and lightened in colour, even as Ron’s dulled and darkened. It was as though the elder Scot’s browns were leeching colour from the younger teen’s blues. It only lasted a moment, and when it was over Ron faced his friends slowly.

“I’m… I’m sorry.” It was hard for him, Harry could understand that. “I don’t know what I was thinking when I called you…when I said what I said. It was heartless, thoughtless, and I didn’t really mean it. Forgive me?” he spread his arms with a lopsided grin. Harry was ready to forgive him, sensing honesty, but Hermione had one thing to do first.

She closed the distance between the redhead and herself, as she had the night before, and punched him in the jaw. He dropped like a ton of bricks. “Apology accepted.” she told his unconscious form primly. Iain looked on with a light smile.

“He means well, you know. He just need to think more before he reacts.” Hermione snorted. “Whatever happened to the sweet little girl who would bounce on my knee, tried to tie my shoelaces together, and called me ‘Uncle Iain?’ Is she still in there somewhere?” he asked with light amusement, an edge of weariness creeping into his voice. Two firm, but comfortable armchairs appeared and Harry and Hermione sat.

“She lost her favourite uncle, found out she was a witch, and began fighting the forces of evil with a teen celebrity and a moron.” She responded scathingly. “What happened, and why didn’t you say anything?”

Iain held his hands up in a placating gesture. “All good things to those who wait. I do believe we owe poor Mr Potter a brief summary of our history.” Harry was indeed more than somewhat confused by the exchange between the two. “I met Hermione’s parents in medical school, in fact I was the one who introduced them. They made me their daughter’s godfather, and I knew right away that she had one hell of a future before her. I helped raise her, but I didn’t think I should be around to draw attention to myself when she found out she was a witch. So, I left. I’ve always been watching, though.” He addressed Hermione at the last. “Now while your friend is passed out on the floor, excellent punch by the way, we need to have a very serious talk. If I were you I would be very careful. There are those who would do a great deal to harm either of you, and public displays of affection are a sure-fire way to attract them. Be careful.” Harry did not really want to know how Iain had know the details, but Hermione didn’t question him so neither did he.

“As for the lesser things, I’m sure Alastor has already spoken to you. My task will be teaching you wandless magic, leglimency, and occlumency. Be forewarned however, for it takes an enormous amount of magical power to even attempt the first. Also on my list of tasks is teaching you non-magical combat. Any questions?”

Harry glanced over the back wall, and Iain understood. “The engraving is of a poem by American poet Robert Frost. It reads: I shall be telling this with a sigh, somewhere ages and ages hence; Two roads diverged in the woods, and I- I took the one less traveled by. And it has made all the difference.” He gestured to one of the pictures, the one of the pile of human bodies. “That one is of Bronko Nagurski’s comeback game. The other is Paul Henderson’s final goal of the 1972 Summit Series” Iain’s eyes took on a distant quality, as though he was somewhere long ago. It only lasted a moment, and then he was back. “But neither of those stories are appropriate at the moment.”

He pulled a polished brass pocket watch from his vest and snapped it shut quickly. “Now, I wouldn’t want to keep you from lunch. Ron should be waking shortly. See you this afternoon.” Ron stirred, the music swelled, and none of the three could get a single reaction out of the Scotsman. Eventually they simply gave up and left for a late lunch.

The meal passed uneventfully, and soon enough the three of them were back in Iain’s classroom. This time however they were greeted by a man-sized stone statue of an angel, his wings drawn before him like a cloak. A message on the blackboard, written in an elegant hand that was machine like in its regularity, instructed them to take their seats, and that Professor Menzies would be arriving shortly. Unsurprisingly Nott, Zabini, and Parkinson did not turn up, leaving Daphne Greengrass to chivalrously stand alone for Slytherin.

When the students who did come to class had settled in their seats the door closed eerily, and the blackboard erased itself. A low, rolling mist spread from the base of the statue to cover the room. The statue itself, well. It wouldn’t be fair to say it glowed, because it didn’t. In fact, no words that Harry knew could accurately describe what happened to it. The closest he ever came was that it grew. Not physically, but its very presence increased dramatically. And then it began to move. The bowed head rose up, the wings spread and became arms, and the entire figure stepped lightly off its pedestal. Once more Harry was struck with a loss for words. Suffice it to say that the figure simply changed, flakes of stone falling, becoming Dr Iain Menzies in his entirety. He brushed a bit of dust off the shoulder of his jacket, and smiled benignly at the class.

“Good afternoon. Can anyone tell me what I just did, beyond the obvious wandless magic of course.” His smile widened as a great many hands went down. Surprisingly the three that were still in the air belonged to Hermione Granger, Terry Boot, and Harry Potter. “Mr Potter, could you tell us.”

Harry cleared his throat, this being a new experience for him. “You transfigured yourself. Literally.”

Iain frowned slightly. “Continue.” He requested slowly.

Harry took a deep breath. “Well, what we learn is just changing what something looks like, or what it does. If we transfigure a match into a needle, it’s still a match. It’s thin, shiny, sharp, and can’t light anything, but it’s still a match.” He took another deep breath. Something about Iain’s gaze was vaguely troubling. “But you, you actually turned yourself to stone. You really were a statue.”

Iain smiled broadly. “That’s it exactly. Ten points to Gryffindor.” Hermione beamed at him. Terry just looked sour. “For many of you this is an unusual concept. I offer no fault to Professor McGonagall, she is extremely competent and I have a great deal of respect for her, but she has her way and I have mine. There are differences between the two, and I could fill this entire wall,” He gestured at the wall of blackboards behind him. “with equations to show you how and why. However, I feel that the best way is simply learning by doing. If you would all pair off please.” Parvati instantly appeared beside Ron, which was a little startling. Ron didn’t seem to mind. Iain produced a box of small mice from nowhere in particular, and one floated around to every pair. “Your task is to turn this mouse into a kitten. And I don’t mean a mouse that looks, thinks, and acts like a kitten, I mean a real kitten. Like I said the differences are subtle, but I find the easiest way is to just stretch out with my perceptions, and change the mouse in that way.” He considered his words for a moment and shrugged with a half-smile dancing on his lips. “I apologize if that doesn’t make much sense, but try it and see.”

Harry personally was quite sure that the professor was insane, but he tried it. Amazingly it was easier than Iain had made it sound, and he could actually feel the mouse. A tap at the door interrupted the powerful flow of magic he was feeling. Iain opened it a crack, then flung it wide.

“Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to present my teaching assistant for the year. She is a Hogwarts graduate who needs no introduction, and I believe she hopes to one day supplant me.” Some scattered chuckles. Whether they were laughing at the joke or at the professor may never be determined. “Allow me to present, Miss Cho Chang.” He stepped back, and the Asian beauty who Harry had been briefly infatuated with strode into the room. Harry felt his jaw drop, and Hermione stiffen next to him.

“What is she doing here?” she breathed down his neck. Harry shrugged. The way her brown eyes immediately sought him out did not make him feel particularly comfortable. She smiled broadly, her gaze never leaving Harry.

“I don’t know, but I have a very bad feeling about this.”

A serious comment, if I may: I am aware of some large parallels between my Iain and JKR's Dumbledore. I want to assure you that it is purely coincidental. Iain is actually an amalgamation of several characters from other books and movies. Top three are Dr Hannibal Lecter, voted by the American Film Institute as the most memorable villain in a hundred years of film history, Ted Brautigan from Stephen King's Hearts in Atlantis, which influences a lot of what I write, and Simon Dermott, Peter O'Toole's character from the 1966 heist film How to Steal a Million.

For you die hards out there, I am aware that Hearts in Atlantis hadn't been writted in 1997. That is not a mistake, but it is intentional that a piece of the future should be there. It adds to the mystique of Iain's character.

You can look up the two sports stars on Iain’s wall, but for an accurate description of what I was trying to accomplish with Bronko Nagurski, I suggest you check out the film version of Hearts in Atlantis. I’m sure it’s on YouTube.

10. Whatever he does, whoever he is

Chapter title attributed to Clive Staples (C.S.) Lewis: “The future is something that everyone reaches at a rate of sixty minutes an hour…whatever he does, whoever he is.”

Chapter 10: Whatever He Does, Whoever He Is

Surprisingly Cho did not make a move towards Harry for the duration of the lesson, though he could keenly feel her eyes on him. However she wasn’t the only one. Although there were none in the Transfiguration class, Harry remembered vaguely how Padma and Lavender had been staring at him through Defence class and breakfast respectively. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. No good would come of that attention, of that he was certain. Morbid feelings aside, both Harry and Hermione managed to transform their mice to Iain’s satisfaction. They were the first, but far from the last. In fact, by the time the bell rang to signify the end of the period, every single student except for the three absent Slytherins had managed the feat; it was the highest percentage of successful transfigurations in Harry’s memory. Maybe there was something to this insanity after all.

On their way to the Common room, during the study break the three of them shared, Harry and Hermione gave Ron a good-natured ribbing concerning Parvati, which he took with uncharacteristic aplomb. Somewhere on the sixth floor Harry was accosted by fifth-year Gryffindor Romilda Vane, and her miniature posse of giggling fifteen-year old girls. “Hello Harry!” she greeted excitedly.

Harry was apprehensive, but had no reason to distrust the girl. The one good thing that had come out of his mysterious relationship with Ginny: Romilda had apparently given up trying to drug him. “Hello Romilda, girls.” Surely he wasn’t expected to remember all their names, right? There were twelve of them after all! “How can I help you?”

This elicited another bout of giggling from all the girls, which Harry did not even try to understand. He didn’t even comprehend girls his own age, what hope did he have with those years younger than him? Curiously Romilda was incredibly solemn now. “I just wanted to apologize for trying to drug you last year.” She told him sombrely.

Harry was taken aback. He didn’t know what he had expected, but that was not it. “It’s alright, nobody was permanently hurt.” He shot Ron a quick glance. “To be honest, it all kind of worked out well.” Considering that Romilda’s love potion was indirectly responsible for Ron getting poisoned, which in turn was indirectly responsible for his escape from the clutches of Lavender Brown, it really had all worked out.

Romilda shrugged, and pulled two boxes bearing the legend of ‘Hotel Chocolat.’ Hermione gasped and Harry stared wide-eyed. He remembered Dudley occasionally receiving a box of those chocolates for his birthday, or for Christmas, and every time he got one he would be singing their praises for weeks. Admittedly it did not take much for food to impress his overweight cousin, but he was so enamoured by them he even forgot to beat up Harry when he had a box. Naturally that was the reason they were given so infrequently. A rather depressing thought, but there you go. “I still feel bad about trying to make you love me, and about your friend getting poisoned. Here.” He handed one box to Harry and another to Ron, and scurried off with her friends.

Hermione looked thoughtfully after her. “Something isn’t right about this. I was the one who heard her plotting after all, and I can’t believe she’d have a change of heart so quickly.” Harry figured she probably had a point, but he wouldn’t refuse a peace offering. What were they if they couldn’t trust each other? He slipped the box into his bag.

Ron had no such qualms. “C’mon Hermione, now you’re being paranoid. They’re just chocolates, and chocolates never hurt anyone.” He commented, having wisely swallowed the candies he had stuffed into his mouth before speaking. Hermione ignored him, and Harry figured that the only reason she didn’t retaliate was because he had spoken out of ignorance rather than malice.

The rest of the Study Period had been spent by the trio in different ways. Hermione read partway through the textbook Iain had assigned, which turned out to be a muggle novel called Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland by a muggle named Lewis Carroll. The novel had been rebound, with the cover bearing the title Elementary Transfiguration Through Psychokinesis by Charles Lutwidge Dodgson. Ron had engaged Neville in a game of chess, had moved on to Seamus a few wins later, and ended on Dean with a total of sixteen wins zero losses. Harry had spent the time going through one of books on Rowena Ravenclaw he had brought with him from his library. He was no closer to finding a clue about the Horcrux’s location at four thirty, when Hermione interrupted him for Potions, than he had been when he had started an hour and a half before.

Potions class was generally disinteresting. Slughorn still had his cauldrons of potions, and the only change was that there was no longer a supply of Polyjuice at the front of the room. They worked on a relatively easy potion, following Slughorn’s predisposition towards the whimsical: a hair-raising potion. Thankfully Harry actually had learnt a few things from Snape’s book, though he was nowhere near the level of Hermione, and managed to produce a rather good one. Ron, on the other hand, had somehow managed to blow his up. He spent the rest of the day looking like he was ‘hooked up to a Van der Graaf generator,’ according to Hermione. Neither Harry nor Ron knew what a Van der Graaf generator was, so they kept silent about it. Whatever it was looked like, the result was extremely amusing (for Harry and Hermione) and extremely embarrassing. (for Ron) Hermione finally took pity on him and conjured a hat for him to wear to dinner.

On the way down Hermione got involved in a heated, yet surprisingly good-natured, debate about Professor Trelawny with Lavender and Parvati, and actually followed them to their seats in order to continue it over dinner. Harry and Ron followed, despite the glaringly obvious fact that their seats were extremely close to Ginny. He was so intent on avoiding the redhead that he missed the disappointed look that passed her face when he sat down across her and to the left. Somehow the seat directly across from her managed to remain empty. Only twice during the meal did Harry look up. The first time was when he felt several pairs of eyes on him, and turned around to meet the slightly disappointed gazes of Padma Patil and Cho Chang. The Asian girl was sitting with her younger friends at the Ravenclaw table, rather than in the empty seat next to Iain at the head table. Exactly why they were so disappointed was something he probably didn’t want to know.

The second time was when a loud coughing fit from Mad-Eye Moody, near the end of the meal, turned every eye in the hall towards the head table. Moody seemed to be all but going into convulsions, until he actually turned into a frog. Next to him, a banner appeared over McGonagall’s head instructing her to “give him a kiss.” Quite red-cheeked, she did so. An absolutely livid Moody returned to his natural form, and both professors glared at Iain amidst the raucous laughter from the students. Iain was the only teacher who had not reacted to the display, merely continuing to eat his dinner with a polite smile playing around his lips.

With a vague feeling that would mean war, Harry left with the rest of the school to their various dormitories. Both he and Hermione were exhausted by their first day of classes, so they went to bed with nothing untoward passing between them.

***

Surprisingly little of note took place during the weeks between September second and September nineteenth of the year 1997 anno Domini. For Hogwarts School, where unusual happenings were typically a daily occurrence, this was extremely unusual.

The first of the noteworthy events, occurring during their next Transfiguration class on the following Friday, was a rather interesting lecture concerning the nature of magic. As was apparently his custom, Iain had made this class a theoretical study. The subject matter was, quite literally, theory of magic. When the class had filed in, including a rather frightened looking Theodore Nott, they had been greeted by a life-sized drawing of a human on the front blackboard. It wasn’t so much a drawing as an outline, but it was still rather impressive. Iain stepped forward from a patch what had appeared to be empty air, making poor Nott ump about a foot off his seat, and the lesson began.

“Good morning. In continuation of our brief lesson Tuesday, I thought it might be useful if we examined the source of magic.” The entire class looked rather interested by this. It was something covered by no teacher they had ever had. “Now, who can tell me where magic comes from?” he looked over the sparsely raised hands with his usual enthusiasm. “Mister Boot, if you would?”

Terry cleared his throat, looking quite pleased with himself for being selected. “From our magical cores.” He replied primly. His smirk was dripping with self-confidence. It wasn’t as arrogant as Malfoy’s had been, but it was irritating in its own respect. Harry did not miss how the Ravenclaw’s eyes flickered over to Hermione briefly, as though he was seeking for approval or congratulations.

Iain was thoughtful. “Well, yes and no actually. Allow me to explain.” Very kind of him. It was shockingly apparent that not a single person in the class, Ravenclaws and Hermione included, had the faintest notion what he meant. “It is true that your magic comes from within, but does anyone know where the magical core actually is?” most people shook their heads, some placed their hands over their hearts, and even fewer just looked thoughtful. “No, it isn’t your heart. In order to explain this, I will have to refer to some basic muggle biology. I apologize if some of this is new to you.”

The Scot began to pace the front of the room. “Your body has a variety of systems that help it, and indeed cause it, to function. There are no less than a dozen of these, but some of the most basic are the cardiovascular system and the nervous system.” As he named the two systems the drawing on the chalkboard was overlaid with red and white webbings, respectively. “Each of these has a distinct center of activity: the heart for cardiovascular, and the brain for nervous.” A red mass appeared where the drawing’s heart would be; likewise for the brain, but in white. A wavy blue field appeared around the drawing. “Magic, on the other hand, is much harder to locate. Each person has an individual aura, which can be seen quite easily with proper training, but that only indicates the presence and strength of magic in a person.” He gave the class an apologetic smile. “Unfortunately I can’t actually prove this to you, so you’ll just have to trust me that auras come in different colours and intensities, depending on the individual.

“The colour reflects the strength of the magic, and the intensity represents the quantity. Of course these are not set values. Just like the muscular system, your magic can be increased through practice. In theory, with enough practice, anyone could develop the power of Merlin or Dumbledore, God rest his soul.” The class went into titters about that. None of them seemed to realize that accomplishing such a feat would require a large amount of hard work. Still, Harry had to admire the man; he had given them hope in a time when such a thing was a rare commodity.

To no one’s great surprise, Hermione’s hand rose. Iain nodded towards her. “You said that locating the source of magic was difficult, not impossible. Where does magic come from?” From what Harry could hear, the class was rather proud of their classmate for spotting the loophole in the professor’s reasoning. Not too many years ago she would have become a source of ridicule for paying sufficient attention. It just goes to show how much psychological maturing children go through during puberty.

Iain’s own smile grew. “Very good Ms Granger, very good. I could easily tell you, but I’d prefer if all of you would relax for a moment and watch me very carefully.” The professor stood straight, outstretched an arm, and a small ball of fire appeared in the palm of his hand. “Did anyone see anything?”

Dean’s was the only hand in the air. “It looked like something was coming up from the floor, kind of like a shimmer from heat.”

Iain beamed. “Excellent Mister Thomas, ten points to Gryffindor.

“Mister Thomas was absolutely right in his presumption; what he saw was actually my body conducting energy out of the core of the Earth. Magic is derived, specifically, from geothermal energy. We, that is to say human beings, are born with a peculiar parasitic organism in our cells. This organism, which causes no harm to us, feeds on geothermal energy. The waste product it produces is absorbed by our musculature in the form of magic. Those of you who attended muggle school will understand that magic is, therefore, energy. Basic physics: energy cannot be created or destroyed.” Iain’s explanation was complicated, but it made sense with proper thought.

He went on to explain how accidental magic was caused by juvenile organisms’ incapability to process the energy flowing through them. A combination of age and magical training strengthened the organisms to lessen and ultimately eliminate the releases. Of course, he warned, excessive magical stimulation could still cause accidental discharge. In the most extreme cases it could even cause physical damage. It did not escape Harry’s notice that the Scotsman’s eyes never left him for the entire discussion.

Shortly before the end of class, Daphne Greengrass asked the million dollar question: if all humans have this organism, why some are unable to use magic. Unfortunately, according to Iain, this area of thaumaturgical biochemistry was not yet fully understood. His best guess, however, was that it was due to a genetic mutation of some description.

***

The second thing that took place during the weeks immediately following the start of term was the apparent start of Quidditch training. Harry, having been rather engrossed in the research for Horcruxes, had absolutely no idea of the upcoming season until Coote and Peakes tracked him down in the farthest reaches of the Library. “Harry, you do know that Quidditch season is starting, right?” Peakes pointed out to him at the time.

Harry shot Ron a look. He shot Hermione another, and she nodded quickly. “Sorry guys, I have a lot on my plate this year.” Both beaters nodded in understanding. The ‘Chosen One’ story that the Prophet had spread had really caught on. By now everyone in the wizarding world, and their grandmothers, knew (or at least suspected) that he was working on a way to destroy Voldemort. However, it still did not solve the problem at hand. Harry fingered the silver disk that had sporadically appeared in his pocket a few moments ago. It was not his Head Boy badge, which was pinned securely to his robe, which only left one possibility. A crazy plan materialized in his mind. He caught Ron’s eye, and flung the disk over at him. Ron looked at it, then at Harry, then back at the badge. Harry nodded. “Go nuts mate.”

Ron barely had time to profess his gratitude before he all but bolted form the library, presumably heading towards the pitch, with Coote and Peakes in tow. “Are you sure that was wise Harry?” Hermione asked. She had observed the moment with a light frown.

Harry nodded solemnly. “We all need a distraction. For him it’s Quidditch, and for you it’s books.” He commented. “Plus I figured that having him at practice three or four nights a week would leave more time for me to have with my distraction.” He added with a reserved smile. He scooted his chair over to her, making it quite obvious what (or, more accurately, who) his distraction was. Hermione flushed a most impressive colour of scarlet with this semi-public display of affection.

The third and final event of note occurred moments following the second. Harry had lain off embarrassing his friend, and they had both turned back to the books. Specifically they were looking for the orphanage where Voldemort had grown up. It was a long shot, but they didn’t have anything better to go on. Then, out of the blue, Hermione was struck with a mighty thunderclap of inspiration. “Harry? What was in that box Dumbledore left you?” Harry instantly realized two things. First, he didn’t know. Second, immediately following the first, he did. Together they rushed back to their common room, and found the shrunken box buried deep in Harry’s school trunk. He lifted the lid cautiously.

Inside was a familiar stone basin, emptied, and packed with a selection of crystal vials. Harry picked up one of them. The label read ‘Meeting with Tom Riddle – August 1938.’ Just as he had expected, Dumbledore had left him his memories.

How many people can see where this is going?

I apologize to all MMAD shippers reading this. The Minerva/Mad-Eye bit is not exactly me slipping a new pairing under the doorstop. It is simply the result of Iain’s peculiar sense of humour

Anno Domini is the expanded form of the well-known ‘AD’

11. The pretext of base tyrannies

Chapter title attributed to French novelist Honoré de Balzac: “Hatred is the vice of narrow souls; they feed it with all their littleness, and make it the pretext of base tyrannies.”

Chapter 11: The Pretext of Base Tyrannies

The box of memories was by and large disappointing. Even the second or third time through they revealed no more secrets than on the first viewing. In fact the only possibility of any form that the three Gryffindors could justify was that Voldemort had hidden a Horcrux at Hogwarts when he came to meet with Dumbledore, and even that was a long shot. The main problem with that theory was that Hogwarts was such a large place; Voldemort could have hidden it anywhere. So they took it in turns to wander the halls wearing the curse detection ring Harry had obtained from Bill, hidden by a clever glamour charm of Hermione’s to avoid attracting attention. The searches yielded no results.

In the meantime, Mad-Eye and Iain were putting the trio through their paces. Every morning, rain or shine, was started with a number of laps around the lake followed by stretching and endurance spell casting. It took so long, and was so exhausting, that the three of them were usually falling asleep over what little breakfast they had time to eat. Ron in particular was complaining about losing weight, something Hermione commented he could probably stand to do. He didn’t complain as much after that conversation.

And so Friday, September nineteenth dawned. Iain had negotiated a break in training for the day, because of it being Hermione’s eighteenth birthday, and no one complained about the extra sleep, or the extra breakfast.

Speaking of, Harry and Hermione spent breakfast sneaking looks at each other across the table, like the love-struck teenagers they were. The truly amusing part is that no one noticed, despite the obvious lack of subtlety. Ron was eating too much to notice much of anything, and the multitude of girls who usually watched Harry were looking dejectedly at their plates as they ate. About midway through the meal the doors burst open and a woman walked in. She would have been about twenty-five, had long black hair and brown eyes. She was dressed as a muggle, in jeans and a short-sleeved blouse. She ignored everyone in the room, walking determinedly to the head table and stopping in front of one particular person.

“Are you Dr Iain C. A. Menzies?” she asked the man in front of her, who had looked up from his waffle curiously. Her voice had an odd melody to it, it was familiar and yet not.

By now every eye in the hall was looking at the young woman and the professor old enough to be her father. Harry saw Iain’s flick over the scene before he replied, slowly. “Yes, I am.”

She pulled a photograph out of her pocket and put on the table. He glanced at it, and his eyes widened. “Do you remember Amelia Bright?” she asked him. He nodded, eyes still glued to the photo. The blood was slowly draining from his face. “Well, I’m your daughter.” Any colouring left in Iain’s face vanished. The entire student body gasped as one. The poor Scotsman looked like he was having trouble breathing, until his ‘daughter’ simply melted away. He, along with everyone else, looked down the table to see McGonnagall with her wand out. The staff and students began laughing, finally understanding what was going on: payback. None laughed harder than Iain himself, once his face had regained its natural colour.

Beyond that the trio had a rather uninteresting day, at least until their spare period right after lunch. Ron had fallen behind on an essay Mad-Eye had set on offensive magic, so Harry and Hermione left him in the library. Instead they decided to head for a walk around the castle, since it was starting to get too cold to go outside. At some point in one of the third-floor corridors, they were halted by the sudden appearance of Blaise Zabini. And he looked mad. “You and your mudblood humiliated me on the train, Potter.” He spat menacingly.

Harry forced himself to look disinterested, even though inside he was seething at the Slytherin's gall. Obviously he hadn’t learnt his lesson the first time: no one calls Hermione Granger a mudblood in the presence of Harry Potter. “That was two weeks ago Zabini, I can’t believe it took you that long to come up with such a terrible speech.” Hermione returned without hesitation.

Zabini glared at her. “And here I thought Potter and Weasley would have been fucking you so hard you’d have forgotten how to count. How foolish of me.” That was the final straw. Harry’s wand was in his hand instantly, but he felt a blunt object strike him on the back of the head and he knew no more.

***

Harry’s first observation upon regaining consciousness was that he was unable to move. That was no doubt due to the fact that he was quite literally chained to a dungeon wall. Judging by the drafts, and the green carpets, he was in the Slytherin dormitory. A short distance away Hermione was also chained, but she was suspended in the center of the room, and gagged. A small table nearby held their wands. Soft footsteps alerted them to the approach of Zabini. “Welcome back to the land of the living.” He sneered, seeming much more at ease now that he was in control.

Harry found himself wishing that Iain had started teaching them wandless magic. Too late, unfortunately. All he could do was make the best of things. “Dare I ask what it is you want Zabini?” he asked hatefully. He had a ghost of an idea forming in the darkest depths of his mind, but he dearly hoped it was wrong. No such luck.

“Why not?” their new nemesis shrugged. “It’s very simple, the Dark Lord has offered a rather large reward for anyone who brings him the breathing body of Harry Potter.” Harry found himself wondering what this had to do with Hermione, but the dark-skinned Slytherin anticipated him. He moved close enough to his captive that he was breathing on her. She turned her head away in revulsion. “I’m sure he’ll pay extra for your bitch, and then kill her. But that doesn’t mean we can’t have a little fun first.” Hermione turned to look at her captor, and Harry was shocked to see the lack of fear. It must have unnerved Zabini too, because he hesitated a moment before reaching his hand towards her.

A low humming stopped him. Harry looked around to see a tall figure wandering towards them, seemingly aimlessly, one hand trailing on the stone wall. He was humming a traditional Scottish tune as he walked, seemingly having no direction. The truly unusual thing is that his feet made no sound on the floor. As he approached, Harry could see that it was Iain. Zabini turned to glower at the figure, who stopped a few feet away from the scene. He was sporting a disappointed look that Harry had only seen once before, on the face of an elderly Welsh monk. “Now Mr Zabini, you wouldn’t have been planning to do anything untoward with this helpless young lady would you?” the question was obviously rhetorical, and the Scot took another couple of steps forward.

“How did you get past my guards?” Zabini asked, shocked and maybe a little scared. Iain smirked, and gave a dismissive wave with the hand that was not touching the wall. The bound figures of Crabbe and Goyle appeared on the floor behind him. “This doesn’t concern you mudblood. Just turn around, and walk away.” He warned the much older teacher. Harry could have sworn he heard a note of fear in the boy’s voice.

Iain’s look of disappointment vanished, replaced with an unnatural calm. “I will give you one final opportunity to leave this room Blaise Zabini. I suggest you do so.” His voice was as dark and cold as Harry had ever heard it. It brought to mind memories of a particular Russian. The message was clear: get out, or else. Zabini obviously didn’t get the memo, and his wand was quickly drawn. Iain did not move a muscle. The Slytherin shouted a familiar incantation, firing a bolt of green light at his Transfiguration professor. The Scotsman made no movement, until the bolt was scarcely inches from his nose. His mouth dropped open slightly and, though he could hear no sound, Harry’s eardrums began to ache. A portion of the wall burst out, stopping the Killing Curse dead and shattering into a cloud of dust. The scot pointed a single finger at Zabini and flicked it skywards.

The Slytherin’s wand flew up, following the arc of Iain’s finger, and embedded itself in the stone ceiling. A complicated gesture of the professor’s hand, which was now holding a ball of fire, and he was pushed against the far back wall. Unflinchingly, the Slytherin boy leapt forward, pulled a small dagger out of his robe and held it to Hermione’s throat. “One more move and she’s dead.” He warned, citing a vastly overused cliché in the process. The fire in Iain’s hand flickered and died out.

Harry, on the other hand, was filled with an all-encompassing feeling of ultimate rage. He could actually feel his muscles quivering, but barely noticed the lights in the room flicker for a moment. Iain’s head spun to look at Harry, and the Gryffindor hero saw fear in them for the first time. Even Zabini seemed frightened, and he looked around confusedly at the erratic lighting. Then, suddenly, all the lamps in the room exploded in a couple of dozen showers of glass shards. The only remaining source of light was a far-off hallway. At the same time, Harry was released as the portions of wall bearing his shackles gave way with a sickening crunch. The entire room was pulsing, crackling with the sheer power he was exuding. The knife at Hermione’s throat began to smoke, before transforming into a rather large snake. A harsh command in Parsletongue and the python was wrapping itself around the legs of the boy who had just dropped it in shock.

As Harry moved forward he was dimly aware that his feet were not touching the floor, but that he was floating a half-inch above it. He could feel the power within him welling up, knowing without knowing that its intent was to kill Blaise Zabini. Before it could be released, he felt something holding him back. Looking around he could see that portions of the wall had wrapped themselves around his arms, and they were leeching the excess power off of him. He fell to the floor, gasping for air, the snake vanished, and Zabini whistled shrilly. A large number of Slytherins, of varying ages, burst into the room. However they were unable to accomplish anything, as Iain dispatched them very quickly. Harry didn’t see how, but he did look up in time to see a hollow portion of the ceiling descend on the Slytherin prefect and trap him within.

He got up shakily and pulled the ball of cloth out of Hermione’s mouth. “What was that Harry? You looked like you were going to kill him!” How very typical that the first thing out of Hermione’s mouth was a question, and the next was a reprimand. Harry solemnly hoped that she never changed.

“I wanted to, I really did.” He responded hesitantly. His throat was very dry, and his movements still stiff, but he tried fruitlessly to undo her bonds. He looked helplessly at the Transfiguration professor, who picked an imagined piece of lint off of his jacket. His other hand tapped the wall gently, and Hermione fell into Harry’s arms. “How did you do that?” he demanded of the secretive Scotsman.

He shrugged. “The same way I found you two, the same way I blocked the Killing curse, and the same way I trapped Mr Zabini over there.” His hand was idly tracing the mortar of the wall. “The Castle helped me.” He would say no more about it, but approached and knelt down next to Hermione. “I’m not so worried about you Harry, but Ms Granger is a different story. If you would permit me?” The man’s hand stretched out, fingers splayed, and his eyes closed gently. The hand, which was hovering a fraction of an inch over her head, followed her natural lines. Harry heard him mumble something about head trauma under his breath, and the hand moved down. Just as Harry was about to protest how close he was to her breasts, he stopped right between them. Brown eyes flicked open in shock, and Harry saw fear again. “Oh no.” Iain was shaking his head slowly. “No, no, no this is bad.” Both Harry and Hermione were staring at him, not understanding. The professor took a deep breath. “Hermione, I need to operate. Something happened to you once, not that long ago, and I would have done something sooner if I’d known. You might be seriously injured, but if you trust me you will feel no pain.” His eyes were questioning, and Hermione nodded. “Look into my eyes. This is the last of my secrets.” As she did, Harry saw the world go black.

***

When his vision cleared, he was no longer in the Slytherin common room. He was in a white operating room. Through an archway at one end, he could see an expansive and luxurious palace. The air was thick, but clean. On a ceramic operating table nearby, Hermione lay. He could see her chest rise and fall with her breath. Iain walked up from elsewhere in the building, dressed in surgical scrubs. “What is this place?” Harry asked in awe.

Iain smiled. “This is the palace of my memory. Every experience I have ever had, for good or for ill, is catalogued in this palace.” His eyes drifted out the arch, to a sunken pool of shimmering gold. “While I am operating you may wander as you wish, but I advise you not to touch anything. Some of my memories are not pleasant.” Iain did not utter another word, but he moved a tray of instruments over to Hermione and began to work. Harry had never had a stomach for those sorts of things, so he contented himself to roam the palace and admire the many beautiful things in it. He saw many sculptures and paintings he recognized, many frescos and tapestries he didn’t, and a great deal of things he knew no name for. He noticed that, during his explorations, he moved extremely rapidly. It must have had something to do with the fact that the entire experience was a figment of his professor’s imagination. Sort of.

Shortly, a little too shortly in Harry’s opinion, he found himself sitting in Iain’s office. The man was smiling contentedly, and Hermione was sitting nearby. She did not seem to be in any pain. “I have good news.” Iain announced happily. “You have suffered no permanent injuries from the attack a few years ago, Hermione. However if Dolohov’s curse had struck just an inch and a half to the left, we would not be having this conversation.” He added solemnly. Both teens drooped their heads, feeling just how lucky she had been. “On a more practical note, I believe it is time I taught you some basic self-defence techniques.” The professor stood, and the room shifted around the three of them, and they found themselves in a padded practice room. A variety of Japanese swords hung from a rack at one end, and a scabbard with another lay on the floor near them. Iain produced a length of rope from nowhere, and it proceeded to bind his hands tightly behind his back.

“Let’s start with first principles; attack me.” He ordered. Harry, sensing a trick, approached cautiously. When Iain made no motion towards him, he gained confidence. His arm lashed out and, before he even knew what had happened, he was on the ground. He had felt no magic use, so he had to assume that Iain had dodged the blow and tripped him. The man’s hands were still bound. “The first thing you must learn is speed. In any fight, the advantage will always be with the quick over the strong.” His eyes flicked up to the ceiling, and two small holes appeared, each dripping water at a steady rate. “Your task for today is to pass your hand through the drops without getting wet.”

Iain kept them at it until the bell to signal the next class, at which point their robes reappeared. The training had seemed very pointless at first, but the more Harry thought about it, the more he understood; what was the point of learning combat unless you could be quick, as well as strong?

***

After classes Hermione opted out of dinner, disappearing up to the Head’s tower on the excuse of being “A little tired from training.” After a meal he barely picked at, something Ron commented on but wasn’t answered, Harry went up and found her sitting on the couch in their common room. She was resting her chin on her knees, arms wrapped around her shins, as she stared into the fire. The light reflected off her glistening eyes and the tear tracks running down her face. Harry sat down beside her and wrapped her in his arms, wiping her face in the process. “That’s twice.” She mumbled, still staring into the flickering flames. “Twice in just over a month that I’ve almost been...abducted.” She could bring herself to say the word Harry knew she was thinking. She turned and buried her face in the crook of his arm, as fresh sobs racked her frame. “Why is it always me? Am I just that weak?” she choked out.

Harry’s fingers were tracing random patterns on her back as he held her tight. “Of course you aren’t. They always go after you because they’re afraid of you.” He soothed. She sniffed loudly, describing her doubts more effectively than words ever could. “No, it’s true. Do you know why the Sorting Hat put you in Gryffindor rather than Ravenclaw? I do.” He pulled back slightly, just enough to tilt her face up and look her in the eye. “It’s because you have the heart of a lion, and don’t let anybody tell you otherwise.” He smiled at her. A smile broke through, slowly but surely, on her face. She laughed a bit, more like a hiccough.

“How is it you always know exactly what to say to make me feel better?” she asked him, trying and failing to sound annoyed with him. His smile grew, and he just held her tighter. Neither of them went to bed that night; they fell asleep on the couch by the fire, each in the arms of the person they loved most of all.

I hope that wasn’t too awful for everybody, and I hope the little fluff moment at the end evened things out if it was. Zabini’s fate will be decided soon enough.

I know the training exercise seems pointless, but there’s some logic to it. For the interested, the concept is from the movie version of The Count of Monte Cristo, featuring Richard Harris (the original Dumbledore; rest in peace)

12. Who is able to stand before envy?

Chapter title attributed to the Bible: “Wrath is cruel, and anger is outrageous, but who is able to stand before envy?” (Proverbs 27:4 KJV)

Chapter 12: Who is able to stand before envy?

That night, Harry had another dream. This one began the same as the others, with him falling down a dark tunnel and stopping just above a slowly rotating Tower of dark stone. On an unseen cue his eyeballs began to itch terribly, the Tower spun more rapidly, and the blended shadows turned into a different image entirely. He didn’t know why, but the scene he looked upon now terrified him like nothing else ever had.

The entire world was black and white, like the old television programs his cousin and uncle sometimes watched, as though someone had leeched all the colours from the world and left it in various shades of grey. He was standing to the side of a long road, straight as an arrow and seemingly endless. Crowds of people enclosed him on all sides, cheering. Everyone was wearing a dark badge, shaped like a circle. Every few feet, somebody was wearing a badge that was half-dark and half-white. He pushed his way to the edge of the road.

Soldiers were lining it, keeping the crowds at bay. Soldiers and robed figures who could only have been Death Eaters. They were not wearing badges. On the street, marching as though to the gates of Hell itself, were hundreds of people. Their clothes were ragged, their shoes tearing at the seams, and their faces were downcast. Some of them didn’t even look to be alive, but they walked regardless. Each one was wearing an all-white badge. Every so often one of them would stumble. If they could recover, they continued marching. If, however, they fell to the earth, one of the Death Eaters lining the sides of the street would kill them without hesitation. Harry looked back along the road; the bodies littered the streets in a horrific farce of a cobblestone street.

He watched, unable to move or speak, as person after person was slain by Death Eaters. Though, in retrospect, that was rather inaccurate. He was actually incapable of moving himself, though he found himself travelling alongside the rapidly thinning crowd of walkers. As the numbers dwindled, he could see a flash of colour in the midst of the pack; a flash of brown. Finally the rest of the walkers had been killed, leaving only the girl with the brown hair. She was looking resolutely down, so he was unable to see her face. There was a way about her he recognized, but nothing stirred in his memory.

Two Death Eaters strolled onto the street, as carefree as though they had been walking to church. They flanked the girl, forcing her to stop moving. Harry also found himself stopped, unable to look away from the scene. A dark rolling mist filled the air in front of her, and the man who called himself Lord Voldemort stood in the centre of the street. Cheers erupted from the crowds, raucous cries of joy at his appearance. They were quickly silenced with a single raised hand, whiter than snow. “Congratulations to the winner of the Long Walk.” The Dark Lord’s high-pitched voice cut through the air through the air. The crowd booed, throwing assorted junk at the girl. She did not stir. “Her prize: She will be granted death, and release from her disease-ridden body, from the ever-merciful Lord Voldemort.” Harry snorted, but no one heard him. Not that he had expected them to. Voldemort drew a shaft of yew from his robe, and paused. “Unless, of course, someone wishes her to live.” His vile red eyes scanned the crowd, not lingering even for a moment on Harry.

The girl, on the other hand, looked up and directly at him. His blood ran cold; it was Hermione. Her mouth opened, her lips were parched with thirst. “Help me Harry, please!” She screamed at him, her voice hoarse and the effort causing her physical pain. He wanted to speak up more than he had ever wanted anything in his entire life, but he could not. He opened his mouth to yell out, but no sound came from him. She continued to stare at him and cry out for him to help her, her voice growing weaker by the moment, even as Voldemort aimed his wand at her. His eyes were glittering with malice. Harry distantly heard him utter the incantation for the killing curse, but that may as well have happened on another continent for all the attention he paid it. She was still looking at him, tears running unashamedly down her dirty face. Moments before the unblockable curse struck, she whispered one word at him, “Why?"

And then she was gone, just another corpse on an endless street. Her vacant brown eyes continued to bore into him, even as he fell to his knees and crawled to her side. He didn’t even notice that he was now able to move. “I’m so sorry Hermione.” He told her lifeless body, brushing a strand of beautiful brown hair out of her pale face. “I couldn’t do anything about it, I wasn’t strong enough.” He began to weep silently, shoulders shaking violently. “It’s just not fair.” His voice had broken. He didn’t care. “It isn’t fair.” He was shaking his head, as though trying to rid it of impure thoughts. “Why did it have to be you? HERMIONE!”

***

“HERMIONE!” He bolted straight up, admittedly not a long trip. He was still sitting comfortably in the Head’s common room, before the still-roaring fire. He was curiously alone, and was beginning to panic until he heard hurried footsteps coming from the Head Girl’s staircase. She burst into the room, saw him staring into the fire, knew immediately what had happened, and sat down next to him. He reached an arm out and pulled her close, so that she was almost on top of him.

She turned her head up to look at him. His eyes were distant, reflecting the firelight and nothing else. “Harry?” she whispered softly. He did not react. “Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?” his head turned from side to side, imperceptibly. He didn’t want to. “Are you going to anyway?” he nodded, the gesture looking entirely involuntary.

She waited patiently as he explained the dream in great detail, not failing to notice that his hold on her grew steadily tighter around her middle. He sounded defeated, like he was already dead. It was a facet of Harry Potter’s personality that was usually kept hidden, away from prying eyes. Revealing it now showed how much he trusted her. “It was so real; I thought I’d lost you.” He told her in that same voice, the hopeless and sorrowed tone.

She cuddled up closer to him, fully sitting on his lap. “You’ll never lose me.” She whispered. At that moment, warm and safe with his arms wrapped around his girlfriend and holding her close, it sounded true. Despite everything that could happen in the near and not-so-near future, he believed her. They sat there, how long he didn’t know. He had neither the presence of mind nor the inclination to look at the clock. Of the two, he was the only one. “You know, we still have about an hour before training.” She commented cheekily. He looked down to see her eyes boring into him, an unfamiliarly mischievous glint visible right at the forefront. He asked her what she intended to do with that time. In response, she turned to face him and captured his lips with her own.

The kiss was firm, but soft, and very warm. The two sets of lips fought each other for dominance, neither succeeding nor attempting to defeat the other. Harry jumped internally when he felt a warm, moist entity on his lower lip, but he parted his lips to admit Hermione’s tongue nonetheless. Their tongues fought a similar battle, stroking and pulling and surrounding one another for what felt like only minutes.

Out of the blue, someone tapped gently on the door to the Head’s tower. It was soft, but they both heard it and broke the kiss immediately. If whoever that was knew the password, as all the teachers did, they were definitely in a fair bit of trouble. However their fears were quite unfounded. A highly amused Scotsman called through the wood to them. “Come, before I send Alastor in.” Iain chuckled, and the diminishing sound of shoes on stone announced his departure. Unwilling to leave their activities, but equally unwilling to have Mad-Eye catch them in such a position, the duo grudgingly collected and changed into the grey and red track suits they wore for training.

***

Harry’s lungs were on fire. It had been a reasonably cool morning, which actually turned out to be a bad thing. Moody always pushed them harder on colder days. “You know,” Ron had commented on the first of such days, “For a guy with only one leg he can get going at a pretty good clip.” And he really did. Mad-Eye always led the pack, looking exceedingly awkward as he swayed from side to side to compensate for his rigid left leg and shouting encouragements over his shoulder. Harry and Hermione stuck to about the middle, and they both went at around the same pace. Ron tended to start out with them, but always dropped back. He hadn’t gotten as much of a work out as Harry, who was always running from his ‘family,’ or Hermione, whose health-conscious parents had enrolled her in all sorts of aerobic fitness classes, and the mostly stationary position of Keeper did little to improve his physique. Iain typically wove in and around the other four, never keeping the same pace for long, never tiring.

Today, however, he was keeping easy pace with Harry and Hermione as the former told him all about his dreams, from the wedding onward. “Yes, that was me.” The Transfiguration professor confirmed when asked about his appearance in Harry’s first dream. “I had meant to show you only a glimpse of what may happen, I didn’t know it would open you to the Tower.” Both teens could hear the capitalization on ‘Tower.’ Harry asked the Scotsman what he was seeing. The man hesitated for a moment, but only a moment. “The Tower is not of this Earth. It is an immense structure, built ages past, when existence began, by an unknown people. It is connected to many ‘beams,’ invisible chords of energy that tie our world and all other world into the physical structure of the Tower, whose pinnacle is the point upon which all of creation spins.” He waited calmly for his audience to process that information. “Because of this, the Tower has a number of supernatural abilities. It is said that if you look into the rotating summit of the Tower, you will see into other worlds both past, present, and future.”

Harry was in shock. “So all this time, I’ve been seeing the future?” Iain told him that, in his case, yes he had been. “So, everything I’ve seen is going to happen?” he asked, slightly confused and more than a little irritated. It was his understanding that the future was based on the actions of the present, and learning that this was not true was reminding him of the prophecy that started all of this mess.

Iain smiled ruefully at him. “They have already happened.” He dropped back to keep company with Ron. Hermione explained the theory that everything that ever did happen or ever will happen is occurring at precisely the same instant, and that time is an illusion created by witnessing each action in sequence. Unsurprisingly, the explanation was little comfort.

Finally, up ahead, Mad-Eye pulled off of the ‘track.’ Harry and Hermione followed suit, and Iain and Ron came up behind them a short while later. They broke apart to do various exercises, push-ups, sit-ups, and the like. That completed, they normally began practicing endurance spell casting. Today Iain waved them down, and they sat around him. The Scot had his legs folded beneath him, and his eyes closed. He swayed slightly, as though listening to a music none but he could hear.

“It is time for your special lessons.” He told them, not opening his eyes. If it had been anyone else it would have been insulting. Not with Iain. “Each of you will be learning a specific skill unique to your talents. Ron, you will learn languages.” Ron opened his mouth, likely to demand explanation, but Iain beat him to it. The old Scot emitted a series of soft whistles growing steadily in pitch and speed. The grass around their feet began to grow rapidly, twisting into all manner of shapes. Some slower tunes, and the flora shrunk back to its former size.

“Hermione, you will learn to organize your mind in a memory palace.” No further explanation was asked, and none was given. “And finally Harry, you will learn the method to destroy a horcrux. This is not something I can teach you, so you will be spending your lessons with Alastor.” He stood up quite suddenly, and the three teenagers followed suit. Mad-Eye, who had not sat down for obvious reasons, came forward.

“But for now, wandless magic.” The ex-Auror grunted at them. Iain made a sweeping motion with his hand, and was immediately clutching the holly, vine, and yew wands of Harry, Hermione, and Ron. Another gesture, and there were three stone slabs floating beside him. “I have already explained that magic is created biologically, but the key to accessing it is emotion. Anger is greatest among these, and many of you will remember that many of your bouts with accidental magic occurred when you were very upset,” Harry’s mind flashed back to summer before third year, and blowing up Aunt Marge. “Now, wandless magic requires an immense amount of power. I have no doubt that all three of you have the potential, but you need to unleash it. If you will, try to conjure up feelings of anger and unleash the result upon one of these stones.” He took several steps to the side, a good idea as it happened. Scarcely a moment after the instructions had finished a look of determination came upon Hermione’s face, and one of the stones crumbled into dust.

Iain asked her how she had released her magic. “Anger, like you said. I remembered… well I remembered Zabini.” Everyone was satisfied by that, and if they weren’t then they did a good job of hiding it. Ron was the next to perform, his rock breaking up into pebble-sized pieces and falling earthward. He had remembered hearing that Ginny was locked in the Chamber of Secrets. Iain conjured several more stones, and both Hermione and Ron were able to reproduce the effect. Harry, however, was having trouble.

No one bothered him, because they all knew his dilemma. There were many memories he could use to produce feelings of anger, but none of them were thing he particularly wanted to relive. Instead he cast his eyes around to see how his friends were doing. Hermione had just disintegrated her fifth stone, and Harry looked up just in time to see Ron give her a congratulatory hug and peck on the cheek. Although he knew that it was just a friendly gesture and nothing more, a wave of jealousy and possessiveness rose up within him. Without even realising it, he pushed the power of that emotion out of his body. When he looked up a moment later, it was to stunned expressions. Subconsciously, without meaning to at all, he had completely wiped the three stones he, Ron, and Hermione were practicing on from existence. Not a piece of shattered rubble, nor even a single speck of dust was left to show they had ever been there. “That’s enough for today lads.” Mad-Eye growled from his corner. None of the three protested; it had been an exhausting morning.

***

That was how they continued. Every morning they would do their training as usual, classes would progress, and either McGonagall, Moody, or Iain would pull some practical joke on the other two during a meal. Every so often, Iain would show up and pull Hermione or Ron away and return with them a couple of hours later. Harry and Ron took advantage of Hermione’s lessons to do some Horcrux research. Harry and Hermione attempted the same during Ron’s, but more often than not regressed into passionate necking. Curiously, Mad-Eye never approached Harry for his lessons. No one commented on it; it was after all his prerogative to assist in trying to locate the pieces of Voldemort’s fractured soul.

During one of these study sessions, one of the few times in which Harry and Hermione were actually able to keep their hands off of each other long enough to crack open a book, Hermione, to Harry’s surprise, dropped the weighty tome she had been reading onto the table and huffed in exasperation. “I can’t shake the feeling that there’s one in the castle, and somehow we missed it.” She responded, upon being asked what the matter was.

“Hermione, we’ve been all over the castle with Bill’s ring.” Harry reminded her gently. “If there was one here, we’d have found it.”

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose between her fingers, clearly frustrated. “I know that, but there must have been something we missed; it makes too much sense. Voldemort’s horcruxes were always related to something he had a connection to, and there’s no place he was more connected to than Hogwarts.” Harry had no response to that; he knew it was true. “If there was only some way...” Suddenly, she looked up. “Harry do you have the ring on you?”

He did, as it happened; he carried it everywhere he went, just in case. She turned the ring over in her hand, examining it carefully, then placed it on the desk and made a complicated motion over it with her wand. Tiny strings pulsed to life, surrounding the ring. Strings of blue and green light coiled around the band, pulsating with energy, and the diamond was covered with a bright red net. Not taking her eyes off the ring, Hermione pulled out a piece of parchment and a quill and began scribbling down long lines of strange runic characters. After filling the entire sheet, and turning the ring over several times, she handed it back to him. She explained that she had an idea, she’d rather not say anything until she was sure, and that she would need to get the Marauder’s Map from her later in the evening. Perplexed, but trusting her, he agreed.

***

Later that day, Harry and Hermione were instructed to report to McGonagall’s office. When they arrived, they found Iain and Slughorn in attendance with a released, but heavily restrained, Blaise Zabini. The topic of the conversation was what his punishment should be. All in attendance were aware that the proposed charges were assault, battery, kidnapping, assault with a deadly weapon, attempted murder, and use of an Unforgivable curse.

“The problem,” Iain explained, “Is that we have no actual proof. The word of two muggleborns, I’m sorry to say, will have little weight before the Wizengamot.” Once again, all present knew this was true. It was a regrettable fact that bigotry was still rampant in wizarding Britain, especially in the government.

“Couldn’t we submit our memories as evidence?” Harry suggested.

McGonagall shook her head, the barest hint of frustration evident on her well-schooled features, but Hermione answered him. “Unfortunately, Magical Statute 24-08-04-10 forbids the use of extracted memories in court proceedings.”

This flabbergasted Harry. “Why the hell would they pass a law like that?”

“The reasoning at the time was that memories are unreliable; they could be affected by the emotional state of the witness, or tampered with magically.” Slughorn offered, moustache twitching slightly.

“Of course, it also made it a lot more difficult to prosecute accused Death Eaters.” McGonagall added dryly, clearly reminiscing back to the days of the war.

Harry was beginning to get desperate; this was ridiculous! It was looking very much like Zabini would go free and after what he had done (or nearly done), Harry would not allow that to happen. He would kill Zabini himself, Azkaban or no Azkaban, before he let him walk away from this. “What if we checked his wand? Surely it would have a record of the last spell he cast.” By no coincidence, this happened to be the Killing curse.

Iain shook his head sadly. “It won’t work, and I’m afraid it’s my fault. The prior incanto charm’s effect is highly misunderstood; it doesn’t actually reveal the last spell that was cast, it reveals the last magic that affected the wand, ignoring the expelliarmus charm. In normal circumstances this would mean the same thing, but unfortunately the magic I used to disarm Mister Zabini was not quite the usual method of disarmament. As such, that effect would override the Killing curse under examination.”

“There’s one other way.” Hermione mentioned quietly, before Harry could blow his top at how ludicrous this entire situation was.

As it turns out, the very first code of law in the western magical world contained an article pertaining to an antiquated form of trial: trial by combat. This law, laughably outdated in muggle society, had never been repealed in the wizarding world, although the last known case of its use had been over three hundred years ago. According to the law, both parties must represent themselves on the field of honour, with the terms of the duel barring the use of seconds and lethal force. Under the ancient laws, women, the elderly, children, and the infirm would be obligated to name a champion to fight in their stead.

The duel was set for the next afternoon, and Hermione chose Harry to be her champion. Zabini, who had remained curiously silent throughout the discussion, looked very smug when he heard that, which filled Harry with hope. It would be much easier for him to win if his opponent was underestimating him.

It may have been a morbid thought, Harry remarked as he lay in bed that night, but he couldn’t wait.

So, for everyone who wanted something awful to happen to Zabini, there it is: he’s going to have to fight a very pissed off Harry. You almost have to feel sorry for him.

Some of you may recall, in an earlier chapter, that this was not going to become a super!Harry fic. Harry obliterating those stones is not me reneging on that, it is rather a demonstration of fallibility and the use of magic to a higher potential.

The number of the magical statute (24-08-04-10) is a reference to the UK Digital Economy Act (chapter 24 of the statute book, which received Royal assent on April 8, 2010), a Big Brother-ish law that requires ISPs to turn over the IP addresses of P2P users, and gives Parliament the authority to restrict internet access as it sees fit.

14. Power

Chapter title inspired by Oskar Schindler (Liam Neeson) in the 1995 film Schindler’s List: “Power is when we have every justification to kill, but we do not.” One of my favourite quotes from that movie, incidentally.

Chapter 13: Power

The sun dawned on the morning of 28 September to find Harry Potter pushing everything he had into training that morning. The duel had been scheduled for midday, and Harry was making it his single-minded goal to learn enough at the last minute to destroy Zabini. Whether he meant that literally or metaphorically, not even he knew any longer. This drive had so consumed him for the past hour-and-a-half that he had allowed no one to penetrate him; not even Hermione, the woman he loved more than life itself. Not once did he stop to think how that was hurting her, how she was in a fragile state and needed security he was not providing. He did not do this on purpose, but it was an unavoidable side-effect of ensuring that the thing that has caused her pain never did so again.

If anyone else noticed his unusual resolve, be it through intense focus during magical stamina training or practicing wand movements at breakfast or muttering incantations under his breath in the corridors, they did not comment.

A very small voice in the back of Harry’s mind wondered what was wrong with him. It was not like him to do this, to cut himself off from his friends; and it certainly wasn’t like him to ignore Hermione. And what about all this anger? It was almost obscene how angry he was. Not even wandless magic practice, which was normally excellent for dealing with such things, failed to calm him. Had this little voice been just a little bit stronger, Harry might have woken up to smell the roses. So to speak. Unfortunately, the voice of reason was greatly overshadowed by the voice that declared this was for Hermione’s benefit. He was protecting the woman he loved from that monster, Zabini. The question, the little voice asked, is whether or not he could protect her form himself.

***

McGonagall had made the announcement the previous night at dinner. In front of the entire congregation of young wizards that there was to be a duel of honour on the Quidditch pitch between Harry Potter and Blaise Zabini. This duel, she stressed, was a result of a very old law that could only be enacted on the direst of circumstances. “Any student,” she had surveyed the students with a severe look that brooked no argument. “Requesting a duel for frivolous reasons will be severely disciplined.” She wasn’t joking.

For Harry, this announcement had meant little, other than the vast majority of students giving him a wide berth. It didn’t bother him, he was well used to it. Honestly, it suited him just fine to be left alone. He had barricaded himself in the Room of Requirement, where he was logging some last-minute practice on conjured dummies. After one particularly intense session, which had ended with him incapacitating a ring of seven dummies in a matter of seconds, he became aware of Hermione standing at the door, watching him. Sparing only a second to wipe the sweat from his brow, he reconfigured the room to produce some moving targets for accuracy training.

“You should take a break.” A small voice behind him; Hermione. “You’re going to wear yourself out.”

He turned to face her; she didn’t look good. There were dark circles under her eyes, and she was looking at him with something approaching fear. “I’ll be fine.” He responded gruffly, turning back to the target.

Her voice stopped him. “What’s gotten into you?” He turned back. “You’ve said barely ten words to Ron and me since the meeting with McGonagall yesterday.” Her arms snaked around his waist. He revelled in her touch, remembering how much he had missed it, even for a few short hours. “Talk to me.”

He sighed heavily. “I just need to win this. For your sake. It would kill me if that bastard went free, after what he did.” His jaw was clenched angrily. Just thinking about it was enough to set him off.

“What he almost did.” She stressed the implication, trying to sooth with her words. “But I know.” She pulled away, moving towards the door. “You do what you need to do. But don’t shut me out Harry, okay?” He nodded. So did she. “If you want to talk, you know where to find me.” And she was gone. Harry turned back to the target. He had a lot of practicing to do.

***

Mid-day found Harry, accompanied by Mad-Eye, on one end of the Quidditch pitch, with Zabini and Slughorn at the other. Harry had pulled out the dragonhide armour given to him by Charlie, and for the first time noticed the rusted fastenings, and the blood stains. He tried hard not to think about where they had come from. Special bleacher had been erected on one side of the pitch so that the staff and students could watch from a safe distance. Closer to the action, a dais had been constructed on which Hermione sat, flanked by McGonagall and Iain, as well as Scrimgeour, a few select members of the Wizengamot, and a contingent of Magical Law Enforcement agents. Professor Flitwick, looking even shorter than usual in the enormous surroundings, stood at the center of the pitch.

“LADIES AND GENTLEMAN,” His magically-enhanced voice squeaked. “YOU ARE HERE TO WITNESS THE TRIAL-BY-COMBAT OF BLAISE ZABINI,” The chorus of boos from the non-Slytherin students was immediately silenced with a sharp look from McGonagall, “FOR THE CRIMES OF ASSAULT, BATTERY, AND USE OF AN UNFORGIVEABLE CURSE. DEFENDING THE VICTIM IS HARRY POTTER,” The boos from the Sytherin section were silenced in kind. “WOULD THE DUELLISTS PLEASE JOIN ME AT THE CENTER OF THE PITCH.” Harry did so, striding forward from his end, and Zabini did the same. As the neared each other, he noticed that his opponent had also donned dragonhide armour: black, with glistening silver clasps. It made Harry feel more than slightly self-conscious.

“Okay boys, make it a clean duel,” Flitwick instructed, in an unamplified voice, when the teens were standing on either side of him, glaring at one another. “No Unforgivables, and do try not to kill each other.” The diminutive professor gave each duellist a pointed look. Harry made no promises, and he knew that neither did Zabini. Flitwick sighed. “Well, it was worth a try. Not much point in having you bow, I suppose. To your corners, then, and may the best wizard win.”

Harry only turned when he saw that his opponent was turning as well, and stalked back to his corner. As he turned back to face Zabini, on the other end of the pitch, he felt a weight on his shoulder and the low voice of Moody growling in his ear. “Don’t worry about words, lad, the words aren’t worth shit. Visualize, and let your magic take care of the rest.” Harry nodded his understanding and, after a highly uncharacteristic pat and a whispered “Good luck,” Moody was gone, and Flitwick had fired blue sparks into the air. The duel had begun.

Harry immediately had to spin out of the way of a powerful curse, but he was quick in counter-attacking. At no point was his mind conscious of what spell he was casting, or what he was defending against; his one thought, the one that he held above all others at this moment, was his desire to inflict as much pain on Blaise Zabini as he possibly could.

Both of them were casting as fast as they were able, trading jets of light at lightning speeds, with little regard for defence. Harry was dimly aware of an injury on his arm where some manner of curse had grazed him, but he paid no attention. Only when a particularly dark curse was flung his way did he summon the presence of mind to throw up his shield, but he was forced to dive out of the way when the curse shattered his shield and kept going. He dove just in time, as it happened, for the curse to connect with the weak spot of his armour at the knee joint. Harry went down, to the collective gasp of the audience, as the sharp bolt of white-hot pain penetrated his mind.

His leg was on fire. Whatever Zabini had hit him with, it certainly wasn’t a curse he learnt at Hogwarts. He was going to have to step up his game, but right now his first priority was getting back on his feet. His first attempt sent another bolt of pain shooting through his body, and found him on the ground again. His second attempt, not much better. On his third attempt, however, setting his jaw against the pain, only to find himself on his back a second later, to another mass gasp from the direction of the bleachers.

While Harry had been struggling to his feet, Zabini had closed the gap between them and, right as he had finally managed to stand under his own power, had tripped him. Harry looked up to a smug-looking Zabini with his wand pointed at him, but Zabini took his time to revel in the moment instead of finishing it, and Harry took advantage. His hand shot out and grabbed Zabini’s outstretched arm, as his leg came from behind and took out his knees. He pulled hard on Zabini’s arm, dragging his enemy to the ground even as he pulled himself up and brought his wand around.

In the span of five seconds between pointing his wand directly at Zabini’s face and uttering the last incantation of the duel, one large and crucial thought passed through his head, glowing and flashing as though it was a bright neon sign: Kill The Bastard. The words of the fatal curse were on the tip of his tongue when he remembered what exactly he was fighting for. The miserable slime beneath him, held in pace with Harry’s boot on his chest, deserved to die. There was no doubt about that. But he, Harry, was fighting for a higher purpose: a woman. Her face flashed through his mind and he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he would be letting her down if he did it.

“Expelliarmus.” He spoke the word softly, so only Zabini could hear, and know that he had been beaten by the most basic spell in the book. Harry stepped back as the MLE agents came forward to arrest the officially guilty Zabini, and he turned his back on the scene as he limped towards the dais where Hermione sat as he holstered his wand. As such, he didn’t see Zabini pull a second wand out of a hidden pocket and cast one last curse at his retreating back, before the magical police would wrestle it away from him.

He didn’t see it, or hear it, but he felt it. He felt the shadow of a whisper of a disturbance in the air, the suggestion of a ripple in the magical equilibrium. There was no time to think, only to react. With no opportunity to draw his wand, Harry spun around and, acting on the most basic instincts, held out his hand to defend himself. As the adrenaline kicked in, Harry felt time slow down. He was dimly aware of a female voice, probably Hermione, crying out his name, and equally dimly aware of a masculine voice, Iain, demanding that she stop. But all that was his imagination; the only real thing in the universe was the jet of pure energy, darkly purplish-black, streaking towards him. As his hand stretched out, as if to catch it, he could see it slowing, drawing into itself as it became less of a jet and more of a sphere. He drew his arm slowly back, feeling the rippling waves of energy, and then launched it forwards again, deflecting the vile curse back at its source.

As time returned to her regular flow, Harry watched the curse speed back at a dumbstruck Zabini, hitting him square in the neck. The Slytherin fell, moving no more, even as Harry turned and was enveloped in a bone-crushing hug from a certain bushy-haired witch. “Harry! Are you alright?” He could practically taste the fear coming off of her.

He nodded dumbly, only barely registering what he had just done. “I’m fine. What just happened?”

“You performed some very advanced wandless magic.” Iain had approached behind Hermione, and he looked extremely pleased. “Excellent duel Mister Potter.”

Harry heard himself mumble his thanks for the compliment but was only barely conscious of it. All of a sudden, the adrenaline rush was gone. He was very tired. Sleep would be good.

Suddenly, Hermione pulled back. He missed her warmth. “Harry!” She screeched, concerned. He looked at her robotically, no energy to do any more. “You’re bleeding!” And so he was. The first curse that Zabini had grazed him with had opened up a nasty gash on his arm, which was quite animatedly oozing blood. She slipped around to his side, supporting him with his arm over her shoulder. “Let’s get you to the hospital wing.” Her soothing voice was doing little to help Harry cling to consciousness, but he appreciated it nonetheless.

“Good idea.” He mumbled, semi-incoherently. He felt another hand grasp his other arm to help in holding him up, which fortunately happened to coincide with his body deciding to shut down and drift off into the sweet bliss of unconsciousness.

***

He dreamt of the Tower again. The steep ebony spire was becoming a freakishly familiar sight to him. The vision it showed him this time was slightly different to the ones it had shown in pervious dreams; instead of some vision of another world, Harry was treated to the riveting view of a stretch of blank stone wall. Judging by the mould creeping into the mortar, it was in a little-visited section of the Hogwarts dungeons. A vague and deeply disturbing hiss was heard from somewhere beyond Harry’s sight and at that cue, two of the bricks melted away. Behind them were two engravings: a lion rampant and an eagle rising, respectively. In the center of the lion was a small, diamond-shaped hole, about two inches long; in the center of the eagle was a round hole of about one inch diameter. Inexplicably, the entire wall shuddered and swung outwards, releasing a dark and malevolent shade rushing towards Harry, shadowy teeth bared and shadowy claws slicing the air.

Harry sat bolt upright in his bed, scaring the living daylights out of poor Hermione, scribbling away beside the hospital bed where, until very recently, Harry had been asleep. After a few second furiously apologizing to each other, Harry described his dream and Hermione filled him in on what had happened since he’d fallen unconscious. Zabini had died instantly when Harry redirected the curse back to him, and a small funeral was planned, although according to the Hogwarts grapevine few people were planning on attending. More importantly, Hermione herself had solved the problem she had started working on in the library that day. Excitedly spreading the Marauder’s Map on Harry’s lap, and activating it with the requisite password, she explained.

“The ring Bill gave you was enchanted with a dark-magic detection charm, but it had limited range; only a few meters,” She explained. “The map is enchanted with a wide-area location-detecting charm, which is how it constantly shows the correct layout of Hogwarts.” Harry thought back to his first year, when it felt like the rooms moved around an awful lot. “The castle’s layout is always changing,” She elaborated, reading his mind, “So the Map has to constantly update to show correct locations. Assuming my arithmancy is right, the detection charm should piggy-back on the location charm, and update the location of any particularly dark objects within the Map’s boundaries.” She hovered her wand over the map. Harry reached for her other hand, clutching it; moment of truth. “Novercalum revelio.” She tapped the map.

Instantly, a small red dot pulsed on the second floor. In a highly uncharacteristic move, Hermione whooped in joy and flung herself at Harry, who happily received her in his arms and kissed her soundly. “How could you ever doubt yourself?” He asked when they came up for air. She coloured faintly, but didn’t respond. Sharing another quick kiss, just for good measure, they turned back to the Map and more closely examined the location of the pulsating dot: Second floor, girl’s bathroom.

“The Chamber of Secrets.”

Shocker, I know.

Some housekeeping things: I haven’t forgotten about how they’re going to destroy the horcruxes; that’ll be coming up. Also, I’m not necessarily sticking to JKR’s list. In fact, I’ll tell you right off the bat that I think her counting is stupid. Tom made five of them when he was “killed” by baby Harry (which somehow made his soul accidentally embed part of itself in him; excuse me, what?), and then he made a sixth one shortly before his reincarnation. So, in all, he had an eight-part soul. I thought making so many was supposed to be dangerous? Apparently not.

Whatever; I’m not going to have that many. And Harry IS NOT a horcrux in my story. Just so we have no misconceptions.

R&R, pl0x

Harry Potter and the Final Adventure