After the Battle by redshoes7

Rating: PG13
Genres: Romance, Action & Adventure
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 7
Published: 23/07/2008
Last Updated: 17/06/2010
Status: In Progress

Takes place directly after the end of DH, when Harry wakes up from his nap. Voldemort's
death did not lift all the Death-Eater curses, and Harry has just three days to prevent another
tragedy--and learn who he really loves. **Knowledge of alchemy is NOT required for this, but
readers are welcome to discuss this fic's alchemy here:
http://talk.portkey.org/index.php?act=findpost&pid=400853




1. The First Day - Part 1
-------------------------



**After the Battle**

Author note: J.K. Rowling is the creator of Harry Potter and owns all the characters and
settings that the reader will recognize. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story is based on the traditions of literary alchemy.




**The First Day - Part 1**

The evening sky was a dark purple as Harry left the castle behind and walked silently toward the
lake. The warmth of the day had passed but the air was still heavy and damp. The wind was silent
and the water's surface was smooth, inviting. Harry ripped off his shirt, unlaced his trainers,
and ran across the grass, smelling the fresh earth still muddy from an earlier rain. He reached the
edge of the lake and threw himself into the water, crying out as the cool water pricked his skin
with needles of fire.

He swam vigorously away from the castle, toward the Forbidden Forest. After a few minutes he
reached the deepest part of the lake. He stopped, leaned back, stretched out his arms, and floated.
He let the water surround him, carry him, strip him of the thoughts and terrors that had consumed
him in the past year. He felt his mind, his body dissolving into the water. He closed his eyes and
emptied his mind.

A single thought pushed insistently into his consciousness. Ron didn't fancy Hermione. How
could that be? Harry had watched them for years—years!—and had seen all the signs. But Ron's
answer to Harry's nervous question that afternoon was clear: “Do I fancy Hermione? No, well
yes, I did, or I *thought* I did and I *definitely* thought she fancied me. But yeah,
she's a great friend, and I do care for her as a friend—a lot!—but as a girlfriend, no. Really,
Harry, could you see us together? I don't know what I was thinking.” He paused. “One thing I
know: I wanted her respect. I wanted her to say just once `Well done, Ron, that was amazing!'
And she did, when we went to the Chamber. That's what I wanted.” A slight smile creased
Harry's face as he remembered Ron's earnest expression.

Harry blinked, then opened his eyes. A golden moon was rising over the lake and to his right, a
channel of moonlight lit a path across the water to the opposite bank. Seized by a sudden impulse
he couldn't explain, Harry swam to the narrow band of moonlit water and followed it toward the
shore. He was tired now and starting to shiver, so his motions were sluggish and his progress slow.
He was a few yards from the shore when a mysterious floating light near the first row of trees
caught his attention.

Alarmed, Harry stopped and planted his feet on the soft lake bottom. He ducked his head down and
moved slightly to his left, out of the ribbon of moonlight. The small circle of light hovered in
place, pulsing slightly, growing, expanding. A strange, silvery, ill-defined shape—some kind of
ghostly animal—leapt from the circle of light. The shape twisted and reared. Harry saw four legs
and a powerful body: Was it a thestral? A horse? The animal turned its head to the side and Harry
gasped, as saw a single, pointed horn on its forehead.

The unicorn pawed the ground in impatience. It was waiting. As Harry crept silently forward, his
eyes picked out movement just outside the circle of light. Gradually the band of moonlight shifted
and Harry saw, first long silvery hair, then the pale white face of a young witch. Dressed in robes
with a long silver scarf twisted around her neck, she was firmly grasping her wand and speaking to
her Patronus.

The unicorn nodded, turned, and began to skim over the water toward the castle. Harry,
irrationally, ducked down into the water again and moved to the side, as he was directly in the
animal's path. To his amazement, the unicorn mirrored his movement and, seconds later, stopped
directly in front of him. The message was for *him*, though no one Harry knew had a unicorn
Patronus.

But the voice of the message was as familiar to him as his own:

*Harry, I just wanted you to know that I can't face the Feast in the Great Hall tonight.
I'm sorry to let you down. Forgive me.*

The unicorn dissipated into a cold gray mist that had Harry shuddering. He strode across the
last few yards of the lake to the wet grass of the verge.

Hermione was sitting at the base of an enormous oak tree, reading an old book by wandlight, her
fingers raking through the earth and leaves among its roots. Totally absorbed, she had not noticed
the quick dispatch of her message. Harry shook himself and chuckled when he realized that his shirt
and shoes were on the other side of the lake. Hermione would take care of him, though, he knew.

“So when did your Patronus change, Hermione?” Harry asked.

Startled, Hermione looked up from her book. “Harry, what are you doing here? Did you swim across
the lake? Why aren't you at the Feast? Look at you—you're practically blue! Do you have a
towel, a shirt, anything?

“If you're skivving off, why can't I?” Harry replied. “And yes, I swam across the lake.
My shirt is on the other bank there, see? Didn't think about a towel, though.”

“Honestly, Harry.” Hermione stood, took out her wand, and Summoned Harry's shirt. Tying the
silvery scarf more tightly around her neck, she slipped her school robe off her shoulders and
transfigured it into a huge red towel with a golden Gryffindor lion rampant in the center.
Harry's jaw dropped in open admiration as she wrapped him in it and rubbed his arms. “Just like
after the Second Task in Fourth Year, remember, Hermione?”

Hermione smiled. “I remember.” She grasped his arm and pulled him toward the tree. “Come here,
Harry. We need to warm you up.” She pushed aside the loose earth and leaves between two large roots
to make a small hollow, and there she conjured a small fire of bluebell flames. Harry sat down,
stretched out his hands and felt the warmth spread up his arms to his face and chest.

Hermione sat down against the tree and stretched out her legs next to the flames. “Harry, you
know you could still make it to the Feast if you hurry.”

“I can't face it, Hermione. Can you?”

“No,” Hermione said quietly, looking toward the castle. “But did you tell anyone? Professor
McGonagall?”

“No,” Harry said sheepishly. “Did you?”

“Sort of. Well, not really. All right, fine.” Hermione turned to look at him. “Can you cast a
Patronus with my wand?”

“I expect so. But I want to see your unicorn again too. We can send a double message.”

Harry took the wand from Hermione, stood, and closed his eyes. Finding a happy memory was easy:
he simply had to remember his joy at seeing Hermione and Ron well and safe after Voldemort was
finally gone. A dazzling thick mist exploded from the wandtip and formed into a magnificent stag,
the twelve points of its antlers clearly distinguishable as it raised and lowered its head and
pawed the ground. Harry silently conveyed his message while Hermione took back her wand: “Expecto
Patronum.” The unicorn reappeared, silvery white, shimmering. It joined the stag waiting on the
edge of the lake, and the two animals soared gracefully across the surface of the water
together.

Side by side, they moved farther and farther away until the two shapes blurred into one.
Suddenly a powerful flash of light filled the sky and lit the lake and the shore with the
brightness of day.

Hermione gasped and stumbled backward; Harry grabbed her arm to keep her from falling against
the tree. “I've seen sheet lightning like this, Harry, but that was gone in a moment. What is
it?”

“I don't know. It reminds me a little of the Patronus I cast against the dementors that
attacked Sirius. But it did not light up the sky. Not like this. I don't know what's
happened. It's beautiful!”

A few seconds later the light began to fade. The purple night returned. In the distance, on the
far bank of the lake, Harry and Hermione could now see two small points of light and they watched
as the silvery lights moved slowly through the open door and up the great marble staircase of
Hogwarts.

“I don't think we have to worry about Professor McGonagall getting the message. Something
tells me people will notice when the two of them saunter into the Great Hall,” Harry said.“And
since when is your Patronus a unicorn, Hermione?”

“Actually, this was the first time. I could hardly believe it. It's always been an otter
before—even last night, well this morning I guess, when we were attacked by the Dementors. It
didn't last long, but it was definitely an otter. I know your Patronus can change, but-“

“Yeah, oh--did I tell you? Remember the silver doe I saw in the woods the night Ron came
back?—that was Snape's. His Patronus changed to be the same as my Mum's. Apparently he was
in love with her for years.”

Hermione gasped.

“I know—disturbing.” Harry looked out again toward the castle. He shook himself, then pulled off
the towel and handed it to Hermione. “I think I'm dry enough for my shirt now.”

Hermione picked it up and handed it to Harry. The moon had fully risen and he was standing in a
pool of light.

“Harry,” Hermione cried out. “Your scar!”

Harry automatically raised his hand to his forehead.

“No, no. The burn on your chest. From the Horcrux. Over your heart, there.” Hermione reached out
and touched his chest gently with her fingertips. “It's gone. There's nothing there. Not a
trace.”

“Can't be,” Harry replied. “The skin was still bright red last week, painful to touch.”

“But look, Harry. There's no sign at all now.” She reached and grabbed his right hand,
turning his palm down. “This is the hand, right Harry? With Umbridge?” For almost three years the
words `I must not tell lies' had been etched in spindly white letters on the back of his hand.
Hermione took his hand in both of hers and stretched the skin taut with her thumbs. “It's gone
too,” she exclaimed.“Harry, where did Wormtail cut your arm?”

Harry stretched out his right arm and turned it palm side up. “On the inside there, above my
wrist.” Hermione tugged Harry closer to her. They stared at the thin blue-veined skin. The gash had
healed long ago, leaving a three-inch scar, but there was nothing there now.

Harry watched Hermione as her eyes flitted back and forth between his hand, his arm, and his
chest. When she looked up at him again, he knew she had made a decision.

“Are you going to examine me, Miss Granger?” he teased.

“I think I'd better, don't you?”

“As you wish.” He stretched out his arms and nodded, giving her permission to proceed. She
reached out again for his right hand. She looked at it much more carefully this time, turning over
each finger, his palm and wrist, and the inside and outside of his arm. Satisfied, he took his left
hand and repeated the process.

“There's nothing, Harry. Nothing.”

“You'd better check the locket mark again though. And there are scars from old Quidditch
injuries here, near my shoulder, and here.” Harry took her hand and placed it low on his chest, to
the right of his navel.

Harry heard her sharp intake of breath as she jerked her hand back as if she'd touched a hot
iron.

“All right,” Hermione said. “Stand still and let me see.” Using both hands, Hermione started
with his shoulders and worked down to his collarbone, to his chest, touching him gently with the
pads of her fingers, feeling constantly for the raised skin of a scar, a blemish, any imperfection.
Harry closed his eyes at her touch, so soft, so determined.

“You're getting into dangerous territory now,” Harry said, as Hermione's hands
approached his stomach. She looked up in alarm.

Harry grinned: “I'm ticklish.”

“Oh, OK. I don't see anything there anyway. What about that Quidditch scar—can you feel
anything there?”

Harry touched a patch of skin to the right of his navel. “No, there's nothing. That makes no
sense. Try my back then. You should see some old dragon burns.”

Harry turned around and Hermione began again, stroking her fingers across his shoulders and down
his back, rubbing his spine in small circles wherever she felt an odd indentation. Harry felt the
tension slowly leave his body. He closed his eyes, his shoulders sagged, and he let his head drop
forward.

“Harry.” Hermione took his hand and turned him around to face her. She looked confused,
surprised, uncertain. “Harry,” she said, her voice just above a whisper, “Your body is
perfect.”

“Thank you.” Harry composed his face in the smuggest expression he could muster.

“No, you prat. Not like that.” Hermione swatted his arm. “I mean there are no scars, no burn
marks, no rough skin, nothing. What's happened to you?” She raised her eyes to his but then
looked farther up, where his forehead was covered by his fringe, still wet and matted from his
swim.

Harry answered her unspoken question. “I haven't looked. Haven't been near a mirror for
a while,” Harry said. “Just do it.”

Trembling, Hermione reached out her hand and pushed Harry's fringe back. Her involuntary cry
gave him the answer: the scar that had defined him for almost all his life was gone.

A wave of relief swept through Harry so powerful that he lost his balance and stumbled forward.
He grasped Hermione's arms to steady himself. Her eyes were wide and shining and he saw himself
reflected there. Without dropping his gaze, he lifted her hands, first her left, then her right,
and pressed his lips to the inside of her wrist in joy and gratitude.

He felt his knees about to buckle so his sat down awkwardly next to the blue flames that were
still burning brightly. Silently, he pulled on his shirt as Hermione joined him by the tree.

“What do you think it means?” Harry asked.

“I don't know. But Harry—your hair has changed too. It's straight and flat and not
tangled. I didn't notice until I touched your fringe just now.”

Harry's mind was suddenly flooded with the memories he didn't want to face, memories of
his two meetings with Voldemort—and of the time in between. He refused to think of that. He closed
his mind. He changed the subject.

“So now you know that Ginny was wrong about the tattoo,” he ventured. “No dragon, no hippogriff,
not even a toad.”

“I knew already. I tended the burn from the ring Horcrux when I brought you back from
Bathilda's, remember?” Hermione's voice was formal, distant.

“I talked to Ginny,” Harry said before he realized what he was saying.

“Oh.”

Harry ploughed on. “Do you know that it's been almost a year since I spoke to her? At the
wedding. She's a stranger to me, Hermione. It's like I don't know her any more. I never
loved her, I know that now. I know what love is. I know what it feels like. I know the joy and
wonder I felt when my parents and Sirius and Remus came out of the Stone and walked with me in the
Forest. Their love for me filled my heart and gave me the courage to do what I had to do.”

Hermione nodded but then shook her head. “But Harry, that's a different kind of love.”

“Yes, but shouldn't my feelings for the girl I love be stronger than what I feel for my
parents? Hermione, when I went to talk to Ginny in the Common Room, she just grabbed onto me and
sobbed. I've never seen Ginny cry before. She was crying for Fred and for Bill and for Remus
and Tonks--and for me, I suppose. I was glad I could comfort her. But all I felt for her was pity.
And guilt--because after a while, as she clung to me and talked about all she had suffered, I just
wanted to get away. And she knew. I think she knew it even before, when I passed her by and went to
you and Ron after…after it was all over.”

An enormous toad chose that moment to leap toward Harry's foot that was nearest the fire. It
fixed its huge eyes on Harry and croaked with great conviction.

“Well hello there. Looking for company?” Harry asked.

“Harry, it's Trevor. Trevor—Neville's toad. He must be ancient now.”

“Should we try to catch him and bring him back then?”

“I don't think so. Neville told me that he had set him free a few months ago, when they
began their resistance campaign.”

“So Trevor is free now.”

“Yes, Harry, he is.” As if in confirmation, Trevor croaked, turned, and hopped back to the edge
of the lake.

[End of Part 1]

-->



2. The First Day - Part 2
-------------------------



**After the Battle**

Author Note: I owe a debt of thanks to many people. To catwork, for insisting that I write this
story. To DelusionalReality, for Hermione's unicorn and many other ideas. To Nobody, for
canon-compliance nitpicking extraordinaire. To the readers of the earlier versions, for their
comments and critiques. And to the wonderful theorists of Portkey, for introducing me to literary
alchemy and for their visions of a very different meaning of HBP.

**The First Day - Part 2**

Harry and Hermione apparated together back to the courtyard of the castle and walked toward the
marble staircase. Hermione stopped. “I'm just going along to the hospital wing,” she said.

“Why? We just—“

Hermione held up her hand to stop Harry's protest. “Madam Pomfrey agreed to give me an
excuse for missing the Feast, but I had to promise to check in with her when I came back from my
walk.” Hermione smiled and tugged nervously at her scarf, tightening it around her neck.

“Right then. I'll see you back in the Common Room, okay?” Harry asked.

“Yes, in a little bit.” Harry watched her make her way down the corridor then he walked to the
staircase. Giving rein to the feeling of freedom that surged through his body, he bounded up the
stairs two steps at a time. He darted through groups of straggling students and past the clutter of
debris remaining from the battle. He heard the noise of celebration well before he reached the
portrait hole of the Gryffindor Common Room. At least sixty students were crammed into a space
designed to accommodate twenty at most. He saw not just Gryffindors, but Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs
too.

Neville was surrounded by a tight group of admiring girls. Seamus and Dean had set up a
makeshift bar on a long wooden table. They were serving up butterbeers and firewhiskey that they
had found who knows where.

“Where's Ron?” Harry asked Seamus. Seamus' face fell. “He and Ginny left right with
their parents right after the Feast. They took Fred home.”

“That's right. He told me. I forgot,” Harry said.

“Ron told me to say goodbye and that he'd see you at the funeral. We're all planning to
go,” Seamus said fervently. “And where were you, mate? Professor McGonagall was not happy you
weren't there.”

Harry was surprised. “Didn't she get my message? I sent my Patronus to the Great Hall. She
could hardly miss it.”

“Yeah, that was wicked,” Seamus said. “All of us in the DA knew it was yours, but everyone else
got a big surprise. You should have heard all the whispering and speculation.”

“It walked in bold as brass and went all the way up to the head table,” Dean chimed in. “But we
couldn't hear what it said.”

“So what did you think of the unicorn?” Harry asked.

“What unicorn?” said Dean and Seamus.

“*Hermione's* unicorn. She has a unicorn as a Patronus now. We sent them together. You
must have seen it,” Harry insisted.

“I dunno where it went then. The stag came on its own, Harry,” Dean replied. “But listen, we
have to tell you what happened. McGonagall has gone nutters. Everything is turned topsy turvy.”

“Everyone is going to change House every year,” Seamus explained. “All the Common Rooms will be
open to everyone. Even the Ghosts are being sent to different Houses. And get this: Guess who's
going to be Head Boy?”

Harry went over all the Sixth year Prefects in his mind. “Rodney Finch-Fletchley?” he suggested.
Justin's younger brother seemed like the obvious candidate.

“No, no. Not a Sixth Year. All the Seventh Years are coming back to do the year over again—since
we didn't really learn anything, did we? So who d'ya think?” Seamus was grinning
manically.

“Well Ron then. He deserves it. Although he did tell me he was planning to go work with George,
so—“

“That's right; not Ron. Come on, Harry.” Seamus was bouncing up and down on the balls of his
feet.

“I dunno. Draco Malfoy. Ha!” Harry grinned.

Just then Luna joined them, wearing her old Lion hat, which now seemed completely appropriate.
“No, Harry,” she said. “Draco is going to be a Gryffindor Prefect. Neville is Head Boy—and a new
Slytherin.”

Shocked, Harry turned to Dean and Seamus for confirmation. They nodded.

“Told `ya McGonagall had gone nutters,” Dean said. “It's all about trying to promote unity
and cooperation. It'll never work.”

“But shouldn't we at least try?” Harry asked.

“Yeah, I s'pose,” Dean responded doubtfully. “And there are new House passwords too.
You'll never guess. One I already said—Hufflepuff is *Unity*.”

“Ravenclaw is *Respect*,” Luna added.

“Slytherin is *Reconciliation*,” Seamus said. “Like that'll ever happen.*”*

“And Gryffindor--What's our new password?” Harry asked, as Neville eased his way through the
crowd to reach them.

“Don't worry, Harry, it's easy to remember,” Neville said, a huge grin on his face. He
had never looked happier or more at ease. “It's *Harmony.*”

“Yes, well, I could do with a little Harmony in my life,” Harry said.

“Anyway, what I came to say is that Professor McGonagall needs to talk to you,” Neville said.
“She told me to ask you to go to her office as soon as you got back.”

“All right,” Harry replied. “But will you do one thing for me? Ask Hermione to wait for me to
come back. She should be getting here any minute now.”

“Sure, Harry,” Neville said.

~ ~ ~

Harry retraced his steps and reached the Headmaster's office easily, as the students were
all celebrating in their common rooms and the corridors were empty except for scattered debris. The
gargoyle guarding the spiral staircase had still not been righted, so Harry passed unchallenged up
the stairs.

He heard voices through the slightly open door.

"But surely something can be done, Horace," Professor McGonagall said anxiously.�
"No one else has suffered from, from..."

"The poultice may yet bring amelioration, Minerva," Slughorn replied.� "And I am
continuing to search through the Slytherin archive for an antidote.� But we must find out what
potion was on the knife."

"Carry on then.� Go.� But keep me informed.� Night or day, makes no difference.”

Slughorn inclined his head in a slight nod, then turned and walked toward the door, where he saw
Harry waiting.

“Harry, my boy. Splendid, splendid what you did. You must come by later—would tomorrow morning
suit?—and tell me exactly how you did it.” Slughorn clasped Harry's right hand tightly and
slapped him on the back. But Harry could tell his jollity was forced. The Head of Slytherin House
walked on to the staircase as fast as his overstuffed body could carry him.

“Please come in, Harry. Take a seat, would you?” All the chairs were covered in books and papers
awaiting return to their proper places. Harry scooped up an armful of scrolls and parchments from a
stout oak chair and sat down. “Lemon drop? I saved a few after Professor Dumbledore…died.”
McGonagall fumbled in the top drawer of the desk and pulled out a handful of the sour candy. Harry
noticed that the portrait of Albus Dumbledore was empty again.

“No thanks,” Harry replied, anxious to know why McGonagall had summoned him.

“Everything is going to change now at Hogwarts, Harry,” she stated firmly. “We have been divided
too long. Lord Voldemort was able to prey on those divisions in his rise to power. We must not let
that happen again.” She looked behind her at the portraits of Hogwarts' four Founders, pausing
an extra moment on Salazar Slytherin and Godric Gryffindor.”

“I know,” Harry said. “Dean told me. It's going to be hard, but it's the right thing to
do.”

“And Hogwarts is just the beginning. The Ministry of Magic must be overturned completely.
Kingsley is calling a meeting of all the Aurors and the Order of the Phoenix and a few like-minded
people from Rufus Scrimageour's staff and the old Wizengamot to reconstitute the government—and
write new laws. It is time for equality among the peoples and creatures of the Wizarding World. Our
society will be rebuilt. There will be a new statue in the Ministry of Magic, one where wizard and
witch and house elf and goblin and centaur work together—and house elves are no longer enslaved.
Hermione Granger was right, Harry.”

“She usually is,” Harry said with a smile.

“And in time I believe you will play your own part in rebuilding our world, Harry,” Professor
McGonagall looked at him very earnestly through her square glasses, then looked down to rifle
through some papers on her desk.

“Have you thought about what you will do now?” she asked.

“I dunno.” Harry replied honestly. “I haven't really thought about it. I suppose it depends
on what Hermione does—and Ron, of course. Although Ron is probably going to go work with
George.”

“I see. Well then this is what I propose. You don't need to give me an answer now, but
promise me you'll think about it.” She looked searchingly at Harry.

“As you know there are a number of vacancies in the Hogwarts staff due to the… recent
unpleasantness. I expect you have no interest in a full-time teaching post but there is a special
position for which you are supremely qualified. Many of your fellow Seventh Years are returning
next year to receive proper instruction and take their NEWTs. Whether or not you are one of them,
would you consider teaching a class in Defense Against the Dark Arts for just this group of
students? It would probably be quite similar to the clandestine course you organized in Fifth Year,
although this time I could promise you a proper classroom—and no disruptions.”

Harry was dumbstruck. Returning to Hogwarts, taking classes again, teaching again—his heart
yearned for a return to familiar routine and, for the first time, a normal life. But he hesitated:
perhaps there was something else he should do.

“I am honored—staggered really—by your offer. And I promise I *will* think about it,
carefully,” Harry replied. “I want to do whatever I can to help make the changes Professor
Dumbledore spoke of so often.”

~ ~ ~

Harry walked slowly back to the Common Room with a host of new questions swirling in his head.
Did he want to become a teacher again, at least for a year? Or was his heart still set on becoming
on Auror? What was Hermione going to do?

A few stragglers were still singing unrecognizable versions of the school song when he reached
the Common Room. Seamus was making desultory efforts to pick up empty bottles while Dean tried to
capture a few stray phoenix streamers that were circling their heads.

“Hi guys,” Harry said. “Cool party. I'm sorry I missed most of it. Has Hermione come back?
Did she go up to sleep already?”

“Hi Harry,” Seamus replied, pulling out an empty bottle from under the sofa cushion. “No.
She's not been here.”

“Parvati gave me a message for you from her, though,” Dean said, handing Harry a small folded
square of paper.

“Thanks,” Harry said, trying to keep the anxiety out of his voice. He walked up the stairs,
plopped down on his bed and drew the hangings before opening the note. It was short and not at all
reassuring.

*Madam Pomfrey insists on keeping me here overnight, “for observation,” she says. It's
silly, really, but I expect the infirmary will be quieter than Gryffindor Tower, so I didn't
protest too hard. I'll see you at breakfast.*

*Love from Hermione.*

Harry had barely read the note once before he decided he was not going to wait until morning. He
had to find out what was going on now.

-->



3. The First Day - Part 3
-------------------------



**The First Day - Part 3**

The door to the infirmary was wide open but the room was almost completely dark. In the light
from the hall Harry could see Lavender, heavily bandaged from her encounter with Fenrir Greyback,
sitting in a chair and talking quietly with her parents. At the far end a few candles illuminated a
single bed, whose occupant was surrounded by several shadowy figures, including the unmistakable
girth of Horace Slughorn, Madam Pomfrey in her white uniform, Madam Sprout, and Neville, holding
what looked like a large potted plant.

“Thanks to Professor Sprout and Neville here, I have finally assembled all the ingredients for the
Potion of Life: saffron, red rose-leaves, sandal-wood, aloes, and amber, liquefied in oil of roses
and the finest white wax,” Slughorn said, handing a small golden container to Madam Pomfrey. “You
must take this mixture and apply it to the wound as a poultice every night for three nights. That
should heal the cut and purge your system of the poison, Hermione. It is unfortunate that you did
not come to me sooner, before the effects could take hold.”

“We were in hiding, Professor,” Hermione replied quietly. “And the wound did not reopen until this
morning.”

Harry strode across the room. To his surprise, he saw Professor McGonagall was part of the group
surrounding Hermione. “What's going on?” he asked. “What's wrong with Hermione?”

Professors McGonagall looked over at the Potions Master and nodded for him to answer.

“When you were at Malfoy Manor, Harry, Hermione was tortured by Bellatrix Lestrange. She withstood
the indescribable pain of the Cruciatus Curse over and over, and without permanent harm. However,
when you and the others escaped from the cellar and tried to rescue her, Bellatrix threatened to
cut Hermione's throat and actually pricked her neck with a knife.”

“Yes, yes, I know all that. I saw the blood.” Harry said impatiently. “But that was weeks ago.
She's been fine for ages now.”

“That's true. However, after the battle was over this morning, the wound reopened and began
suppurating a most unpleasant substance. We assume the knife was cursed or poisoned—we don't
know with what. Hermione told us you buried the knife with Dobby.”

“But why was she fine until today?” Harry asked, pushing Neville aside so he could stand next to
the head of the bed. “Hermione, you've been OK, right? You never complained to me of feeling
ill. How are you feeling now?”

“Not bad at all, really. Don't worry, Harry. I'm sure the poultice will work,” Hermione
said reassuringly, laying her hand on his.

Slughorn cleared his throat. “As to what happened this morning? We're not sure, but it's
possible that Bellatrix' death somehow activated the venom of the poison. We're also
wondering whether Hermione Polyjuicing as Bellatrix inadvertently counteracted the effect of the
poison for a time. Without knowing what poison Bellatrix actually used, we can't know for
sure.”

“But what's this treatment, then?”

Slughorn gave Harry a confident smile. “The Potion of Life is the universal medicine. Some have
called it the Panacea. It can combat all the Dark Potions ever known. The ingredients are hard to
assemble: saffron from Asia, amber from the Baltic, roses from Cornwall. The proportions and steps
are known to very few. One may brew the Potion of Life only once in a lifetime. Professor
McGonagall instructed me to make it for Hermione, and there is no one else I would have been
happier to serve in this way.” Slughorn inclined his head toward Hermione, the closest he could
manage to a formal bow.

Harry could barely speak through the lump that had risen in his throat. “Yes. Hermione deserves it.
Hermione deserves *everything*,” he said fiercely, glowering at the professors for not already
having effected a cure.

Neville quietly placed the plant he was holding on the table next to the bed. He turned to Harry.
“This is a cutting from the thousand-year-old oak across the lake, Harry.”

“Is that the oak you were sitting under last night, Hermione?” Harry asked.

“Yes, that's the one. It has healing properties. Neville was researching trees and plants all
year while we were gone,” Hermione said.

“I'm sure the Potion will work fine,” Neville said nervously. “But I thought—why not try this
too? Maybe it'll speed things up, you know? No stone left unturned and all that.”

“Indeed, Neville. We need to use every bit of knowledge and skill we have,” Slughorn replied. “If
we just had that knife….”

“I can get it,” Harry said eagerly, relieved that there was something that *he* could do.
“Just give me a few hours. I can go to Shell Cottage and dig it up. I know exactly where it
is.”

“That would be very helpful, Harry,” Professor McGonagall said. “But you can't go now. You must
not disturb a grave at night. Go get some rest. You can leave at dawn.”

“Could I speak to Hermione for a bit?” Harry asked.

“Of course,” the Headmistress replied, motioning to the others to follow her and leave the
room.

“But not too long, Harry. *You* may have slept all day, but the rest of us didn't.”
McGonagall's fond smile took the sting out of her words. She squeezed Harry's arm and led
the others away from the bed and out of the room.

2

2

-->



4. The First Day - Part 4
-------------------------



**The First Day - Part 4**

Harry watched them walk the length of the infirmary, shuffling quietly past Lavender's bed.
Her parents were gone and she had already fallen asleep. He turned back to Hermione.

“So what's this about then? Why didn't you say anything? And what happened to you this
morning?”

“Well today's been a bit busy, don't you think?” Hermione replied. “And it's not
bad—it doesn't hurt at all.”

“But you still haven't said: what happened to you this morning? Why would the wound reopen
after all this time?” Harry was desperate to know, although he was beginning to be afraid of the
answers.

Hermione spoke quietly. “Well, for one thing, Bellatrix died.”

“Yes, but shouldn't that make things better? Her spells and curses should all die with her,
shouldn't they?” Harry asked.

“You would think so.” Hermione gazed across the room at the wall of windows overlooking the lawn
that led to the lake. “Listen Harry. I don't need to stay in bed like an invalid. Can we sit
over there next to the window, by the fire?”

“Sure,” Harry replied. He gave her his hand as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and
slipped her feet into a pair of well-worn slippers.

Two straightback chairs and a long, low chesterfield framed the huge stone fireplace in the back
corner of the infirmary. Hermione chose one end of the chesterfield, facing the fire, and Harry sat
beside her. She was wearing her hair down, and the soft brown curls partly hid her face as she
leaned forward, kneading her hands and staring at the floor.

“They've been asking me about all the times I've had contact with Death Eaters or Dark
Magic or even just ordinary Slytherins,” Hermione said. “It's quite a long list.”

“The Slytherin cat in Second Year—does that count?” Harry asked.

“I don't know. Maybe. Then there was the Death Eater curse at the Department of Mysteries.
And then this year….”

“Being Crucioed and cut by Bellatrix,” Harry said bitterly. “And then you Polyjuiced as
Bellatrix, even used her wand. Maybe that wasn't such a good idea.” Harry tapped his fingers
nervously on the arm of the sofa.

“There was no other way, Harry,” Hermione said firmly. “It had to be done. Don't beat
yourself up about it. In any case, while I was posing as Bellatrix the cut was healing fine. So I
don't think it was that. But then last night—or early this morning, I'm not sure--Ron and I
went to the Chamber of Secrets.”

“Salazar Slytherin's personal chamber of horrors,” Harry flinched and shook his head as he
remember his own encounter with evil there five years before. “I wouldn't be surprised if there
is still some trace of him there.”

Hermione gasped in alarm, so Harry quickly changed the subject. “And how amazing was it that Ron
was able to use Parseltongue to get in!”

Hermione stood up suddenly and took a step toward to the fire, stretching out her arms to warm
her hands. “Actually it wasn't Ron.”

“What?” Harry wondered how many more surprises this day could hold.

Hermione leaned closer to the fire. “Ron *did* say something; he mimicked what he'd
heard you say, as he told you. In fact he tried several times, with different pitches and
intonations. But it was no good. He was just a person imitating a sound. He's not a
Parselmouth—or possessed by the Heir of Slytherin, like Ginny was.”

“But it worked,” Harry insisted. “You got in and destroyed the Horcrux.”

“Yes, we did.” Hermione paused. “I don't know how it happened, but I was standing behind Ron
and thinking “Open” as hard as I could—and it opened.”

“Well that's it then. *You* are the Heir of Slytherin, Hermione,” Harry slapped his
hand on the arm of the sofa. “Hey—why not? It doesn't have to be a bloke.”

Hermione chuckled. “That would have solved a lot of our problems, wouldn't it? No, remember
that Dumbledore said the Gaunts were the last descendants of Slytherin. I know Dumbledore was wrong
about a lot of things, but not this one.”

“Well what then? How could you be a Parselmouth—or even better, a Parsel*mind,* since all
you did was communicate with your thoughts?” Harry said.

“I don't know, Harry. Professor Slughorn thinks it may be linked to my being Petrified by
the basilisk in Second Year—that there was some lingering connection or influence. But Harry, your
must promise me. Don't tell Ron. He was so happy and proud. And maybe it was him after all, we
can't be sure.”

“Don't worry, Hermione. I won't say anything. So you're not mad at him then?”

“Why would I be mad at him?” Hermione asked.

“Ron told me that you, that he, that the two of you…”

“That we're not together?” Hermione finished his thought.

“But you kissed him—right in front of me!” Harry said indignantly.

“I know, I know. I was genuinely proud of him. And it confirmed that he fancied me. Besides,
when you're around someone that long, you get curious.” Hermione looked away.

“Curious?” Harry asked.

“Yes. About what is would be like, you know, to kiss them.” Hermione turned a light shade of
pink.

“So you satisfied your curiosity and that was it?” Harry asked.

“Not exactly.” Hermione turned back to look at him. “Ron and I had a long talk earlier today,
while you were taking your nap actually. We cleared up a lot of things. About time too. For the
longest time I thought he fancied me. And he thought I fancied him. And we did. I love Ron. I do.
He is the brother I never had,” Hermione said. Harry startled at her too familiar choice of
words.

“But, Harry, surely you of all people must see we have little in common, especially now that
he'll be leaving school for good. What would we talk about? How would we spend time together?
You know what we're like.”

“Yeah. I know. Especially this year.”

“Being with someone has to be more than just snogging, Harry,” Hermione said pointedly.

“Oh I know. You don't need to tell me that,” Harry said. “In fact, even if Ron hadn't
said anything to me I would have figured it out.”

“Really?” Hermione said, surprised. “How?”

“Your Patronus tonight. The unicorn, remember? If Ron was…if you were…together, your Patronus
would have changed to match his. That's how it worked with my parents. And Tonks. And Snape,
apparently. There's no way anyone could mistake that unicorn for a little terrier,” Harry said
with a grin.

“Oh, I see. I hadn't thought of that. But then who…” Hermione's voice tailed off.

“Well that's the thing. I've been wracking my brains and I can't think of anyone
else with a unicorn, as a Patronus I mean. I know the centaurs have unicorn herds in the Forbidden
Forest.”

“I can assure you that I am *not* in love with Bane.” Hermione struggled to keep a straight
face but soon gave way to a girlish giggle.

“Ah yes, but perhaps Firenze has taken your fancy. It seems to me that the girls were all
swooning over him in Sixth Year,” Harry teased.

“No, no. No centaurs for me, please, Harry. How is Firenze anyway?” she asked.

“He survived. I saw him in the Great Hall this morning.” Harry looked down at his hands, clasped
together on his lap, as the events of the day broke through all his efforts to keep them at bay.
“We lost so many,” he said quietly. “I still can't take it in. It's not real to me. Remus
and Tonks. Both of them. It's not possible. And Fred. I could have borne almost anyone else but
Fred.”

Hermione's breath caught in her throat and she turned back to him, her eyes glistening.
“Harry, is it terrible of me to be thankful that it wasn't Ron--or you? I couldn't bear it
if anything happened to you.”

She looked directly into his eyes, with a look of relief and sadness and yearning so strong that
Harry stood up, reached out to lift her up, and drew her into his arms. She buried her face in his
shoulder and pressed her hands flat against his chest. Harry could feel her body shake with silent
sobs, the crackling of the fire the only sound in the room. A log in the grate shifted, sending red
and gold sparks into the air. Hermione flinched, but Harry tightened his grip and held her close,
until he felt the tension flow out of her body and she relaxed into his embrace.

Harry felt at peace, a sense of fulfillment and completeness he had never known. When Hermione
lifted her head slightly he leaned forward to rest the side of his face against hers. Her cheek was
wet and soon his own tears flowed, mingling with hers, as they took comfort from each other.

Harry felt something push against his ankles and he recognized a familiar low hum. Crookshanks
was rubbing against their legs, walking in a slow circle around them, purring his feline welcome.
At first Hermione seemed oblivious to the arrival of her beloved friend, but suddenly she drew back
from Harry, squealed in delight, and bent down to pick up her squashed faced cat.

Harry felt the loss of Hermione in his arms as strongly as if one of his own limbs had been
ripped away. He knew now—he finally knew—that he was inextricably bound to her, that he wanted to
be near her always, to be allowed to love her. He loved Hermione, loved her as a man loves a woman.
If she loved him only as a brother, that would have to be enough. He would learn to accept it. But
if--

“Crookshanks, you're here!” Hermione said happily, holding him tightly and stroking the fur
between his ears. “Professor McGonagall kept him for me, Harry. She told me she'd send him down
to stay with me tonight.” Hermione buried her face in his fur. “Oh Crookshanks. I'm so glad to
see you. I missed you so much,” she murmured, kissing him lightly on the forehead. Harry felt a
sharp pang, as he remembered that Hedwig was lost to him forever.

Harry reached out to pet Crookshanks, who was nestled contentedly in Hermione's arms, but
their reunion was interrupted by the sound of muffled voices outside the infirmary. The far door
opened to reveal Professor Slughorn, as well as

the last person Harry expected to see—Draco Malfoy. Slughorn turned and walked back down the
hall, but Draco remained standing in the doorway, hesitant. The old bravado was gone, the insolent
sneer replaced by deep sadness.

“Malfoy,” Harry said, as Draco walked toward them. “What are you doing here?”

“Professor Slughorn sent me,” Draco replied. “I may be able to help with the knife.” He turned
to Hermione. “I hope you're feeling better . . . Hermione.” It was the first time he had ever
used her Christian name.

“Thank you Draco,” she replied cautiously. “I'm feeling perfectly fine actually. Madam
Pomfrey is just being a worrywart as always.”

“Oh, that's great then.” Draco forced a wan smile. “Listen, I won't disturb you but
Professor Slughorn wants me to show Harry some illustrations of knives in the Malfoy collection.
Maybe we can identify it from the book and save some time.”

“There's a book about Malfoy stuff,” Harry said in astonishment.

“Of course,” Draco said. “Dark Arts. It's in the Restricted Section.”

“Well what are we waiting for?” Harry said impatiently. “Let's go have a look.” He turned
back to Hermione. “I'll be back as soon as I can.”

Harry heard the squeak of rubber soles as Madam Pomfrey reappeared from her office. “Oh no you
won't,” she said. “Miss Granger has to sleep now. The potion works best when the patient is
flat on her back and sound asleep.” She crossed her arms and gave Harry her sternest
expression.

“All right. All right,” Harry replied. He turned to Hermione. “Good night, Hermione. I'll
see you tomorrow.” He reached out to take her hand but Hermione stepped forward and placed her arms
around his neck. Harry held her as tightly as he could, shutting his eyes to memorize the feeling
of holding her closely in his arms. He released her slightly, their eyes met for a moment, then he
kissed her goodbye on the cheek, which was still glistening from their moisture of their tears.

-->



5. The Second Day - Part 1
--------------------------



**The Second Day - Part 1**

Harry and Draco walked the length of the infirmary as the clock tolled midnight. At the door Harry
stopped and looked back, watching as Hermione climbed back into bed. Crookshanks jumped up, walked
in a tight circle between her feet, then settled into a furry lump, his yellow eyes reflecting the
smoldering embers of the fire.

“I'm really sorry about …Crabbe,” Harry said, as they shut the door and turned into the
hallway. He realized with chagrin that he couldn't remember Crabbe's first name.

“Thank you,” Draco replied. “It must be a terrible way to die. Give me a quick Avada Kedavra any
day.” Draco paused, debating whether to say anything more. “I'm very sorry about Fred. I
won't say I liked him but he was a damn fine Quidditch player and the show he and George put on
when they left Hogwarts was pure genius.”

Harry looked down at the stone floor so Draco couldn't see the pain on his face.

“Look,” Draco said, as they walked slowly up the main staircase. “I know you have no reason to
trust me. Who knows why I've been given a second chance? But I have, and I'm going to take
it. I spent most of last year at Malfoy Manor and I've learned a lot that could be useful to
you. I want to help all I can, to make up, a little, for what I did before.” Draco looked past
Harry at the flames of the sconce on the wall just above their heads. His voice was so low that
Harry could hardly hear him. “I could never have killed Professor Dumbledore. He was right about
that. I wonder how he knew.”

“He always saw the best in people. It was his greatest strength--and his greatest weakness,” Harry
answered. Images of his last meeting with Dumbledore flashed through Harry's mind, but he had
no time to ponder the meaning of them now. He had to help Hermione, so he needed to reach an
understanding with a boy he'd always seen as his enemy.

Harry took a deep breath and looked right at Draco. “I should have said this at the time, but
I'm sorry for cursing you last year. I didn't know what the curse did—and I thought you
were about to attack me—but that's no excuse. I should have just disarmed you, I know that now.
I learned my lesson. Who would have thought a little Expelliarmus would finish Voldemort once and
for all?” Harry shook his head and grimaced.

Draco nodded. “Thank you for your apology--although if it hadn't been for Professor Snape's
skill, I don't think I'd be here to accept it. He knew of course that you'd used
Sectumsempra, his own curse. Yes, he told me what it was. It's ironic, isn't it? Our
Potions Master had a longtime fascination with the Dark Arts. The attraction of power is strong,
Harry. My father couldn't resist it. Even *you* felt its power.”

“What do you mean?” Harry said. To his surprise they had come to the door of the Slytherin Common
Room. “Reconciliation,” Draco said firmly, and the stone door concealed in the wall swung open. The
Common Room was undamaged and appeared unchanged since Harry and Ron had paid their unauthorized,
disguised visit in Second Year.

“Why did you bring me here?” Harry asked.

“I have some . . . artifacts . . . that might prove illuminating. I expect you saw my lovely Hand
of Glory when you were staking out the Room of Requirement last year?”

Harry gasped.

“Oh yes, I knew. Let me explain. It will only take a few minutes—and knowing what happened to you
last year might even help with our current task.”

Back in his own Slytherin domain, Draco seemed to regain some of his former confidence. But he was
still wary, as if he feared that Harry would strike him at any moment. He motioned to two black
leather chairs in front of the fire, and Harry sat down, perching on the edge of the seat.
Instinctively he reached out to the fire but the green and silver flames provided no heat.

“Our fireplace is always cold. Perhaps that's why we Slytherins are such a sullen lot,” Draco
said sardonically. “But that doesn't matter now. I promised Professor Slughorn and Professor
McGonagall to tell everything I know, and I mean to keep that promise.”

Draco sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers in front of his face.

“Tom Riddle—he was lord of nothing but fear and agony so I'm not giving him the name he took
for himself,” Draco began bitterly. “Riddle loved to awe and intimidate his followers by boasting
about the people he'd tortured and killed—or controlled. He particularly delighted in
describing how he could control you. My father told me how Riddle planted false images of Sirius
Black in your mind to draw you to the Department of Mysteries two years ago. And this year, at one
of our happy little meetings at the Manor I heard him exult about his complete penetration of your
mind.”

Harry shifted nervously in his chair.

“In Sixth Year then, as I worked furiously on the Vanishing Cabinet, foolishly thinking that I held
the key to his victory in my hands, he had his own campaign against you, about which I knew
nothing. He was very subtle. But did you never wonder where those sudden urges to jinx and hex
people came from? When I found out you had hexed Filch, I strongly suspected that the idea had been
planted by Riddle.”

“But why? What was the point?” Harry asked.

“It amused him to make you dance to his tune. He wanted to prove that Dumbledore's golden boy
could be corrupted like anyone else. But above all he wanted to make sure that you had plenty of
distractions to keep you from discovering his weakness. He even provided a girlfriend for
you.”

Harry wanted to protest, but the words died in his throat. His mind raced through all the months of
Six Year before he and Ginny kissed in the Common Room. Suddenly he was filled with a rage fiercer
than he had ever felt before. He stood up and began walking violently around the room, kicking an
errant backpack left behind in the rush to evacuate the school and sending it flying.

Countless times over the last three years Harry had felt Voldemort's anger—and his
exaltation—but he had always known that they were Voldemort's feelings. This was more sinister
than anything he could ever have imagined—his own feelings had been ruthlessly manipulated, his
mind violated, his heart ripped out.

But almost as suddenly as his rage came another feeling, just as strong. Relief. Utter relief. He
finally understood why he had avoided Ginny after the battle. His feelings for her had disappeared
with Voldemort's death; he hadn't known what to say to her. More important—a small voice
whispered in the back of his mind—he could now offer Hermione his heart free and unfettered and
entirely hers.


“Shall I continue?” Draco asked. “I think you need to know.”


Harry walked to the fireplace, stopped, and turned back to Draco. “So how did he do it—and
why?”

Draco sat forward in his chair and looked not at Harry but at the fire. “Riddle knew—from Snape and
my father and Pettigrew—that most of your success came not from your own abilities but because of
help from Dumbledore—and your friends,” Draco explained. “How better to divide you from your
friends than to give you a girlfriend to occupy your time? Preferably a girl he could control.
Fortunately there was already a girl at Hogwarts who had proved especially susceptible to his
powers.”

“Ginny,” Harry said quietly.

“Yes. Riddle himself was able to possess you for a scant few minutes in the Department of
Mysteries. While his Horcrux, a mere shadow of himself—possessed Ginny for almost a year. But you
had destroyed the diary, so how was he to influence her now?”

Harry tried to think of all the people who had been close to Ginny in his Sixth Year, all the
objects she routinely carried around, anything that could have been enchanted. Jewellery—she
didn't wear any. A book, her broom, her wand?

“Crookshanks didn't much like him, I hear,” Draco said. “Always trying to pounce on him.”

“You are finding this altogether too amusing,” Harry said in irritation.

“All right, then, I'll tell you,” Draco replied. “In Sixth Year miniature puffskeins were quite
the rage. Ginny purchased a particularly adorable purple one, which Riddle controlled and to which
she was irresistibly drawn.”

“Which I suppose you planted,” Harry said.

“Alas no. I can't take the credit—or the blame, as you'd see it. I could never have got in
the Weasleys' store. No, it was the new clerk, Verity. A peculiarly inappropriate name,
don't you think?”

“You knew, though, what Arnold was,” Harry said. It was a statement, not a question.

“Not at first but eventually, yes, I knew. I watched both of you struggle against Riddle's
influence for months. Perhaps you sensed somehow that your feelings were not as they should
be?”

Before he could answer Harry heard a faint whirring, as a huge eagle owl burst through the open
door and landed gracefully on the back of Draco's chair. Draco walked to the fireplace, where
he found the stale remnants of an owl treat in a silver dish. He extracted the parchment from the
owl's claws, as the magnificent bird nipped at his fingers, took the treat, and flew back out
the door.

Draco read the message quickly. “Good. Professor Slughorn is ready for us now. I think I have
everything we need,” he said, as he turned to a small table at the side of the room. “My old Hand
of Glory, a bit dimmer now, alas. Peruvian Darkness Powder, definitely. And this,” Draco added,
picking up a long coil of silken rope. He put the three items into a black dragonhide sack, which
he slung over his shoulder. Then he picked up an ancient tome bound in thick black leather and
ornamented in elaborate silver scrollwork

“The Malfoy heritage—an inventory of our family…treasures, shall we say,” Draco explained. “Shall
we go?”

Harry followed Draco out the door and along the corridor, whose dank walls produced the odd effect
of a light mist. For the first time since Harry had awoken the previously afternoon, he was
reminded of his dream and the strange events at a misty future Platform 9 3/4.


“Is Scorpius a star?” Harry asked suddenly.

“What an odd question. No, it's not a star. It's an entire constellation. Just like Draco,
actually. Most of the Blacks are named after stars—my mother nurtured greater ambitions for me it
would seem. Why do you ask?”

Harry had no intention of sharing the details of his dream with Draco, so he replied,
unconvincingly, “No reason. I just heard it somewhere.”

“Oh, I remember now,” Draco said. “Fifth year. Professor Sinistra's astronomy class. The one
time I bested Granger on a test. She wrote `Scorpio' instead of `Scorpius.' Ah yes, I
remember it well. So do you, apparently,” Draco said, looking pointedly at Harry as they reached
the door of the library. “Here we are.”

Draco's confidence and expansiveness seemed to shrivel as soon as they entered the library.
Professor Slughorn was waiting for them, bent over a table covered with more than a dozen ancient
books and instruments. Facing him, with his back to the door, was a powerfully built man with thick
black hair that reached his shoulders.

-->



6. The Second Day - Part 2
--------------------------



**The Second Day - Part 2**

The man stood and turned and extended his hand to Harry.

Harry gasped. It was Viktor Krum, but aged at least ten years since Harry had seen him at Bill
and Fleur's wedding. Above his thick black eyebrows his face was creased with deep lines, and
dark circles shadowed his eyes. A black cloak, muddy and torn in several places, was slung over his
shoulders.

“Thank you for all you have done, Harry,” Krum said, shaking Harry's hand with fierce
intensity. “I was there, in the Forest with the Death-Eaters. I saw you take his curse. And I saw
you finish him—at last.”

Viktor let go of Harry's hand and raised a clenched fist, grim determination giving way to
the slightest smile.

“Viktor has been our spy for the past year, Harry,” Slughorn explained. “He took the Death Mark
right after the attack at the Weasley wedding. The Death-Eaters welcomed him as a great prize—the
greatest Seeker of his generation, the most famous scion of Durmstrang. But all the while he was
feeding us crucial information, at incredible personal cost.”

“Enough of that,” Krum said curtly. “We are here to find the knife, to save Hermione.” He spoke
the name flawlessly. “Don't be surprised, Harry. I have been living in your country for a year
now. I have left my accent behind.”

“All right then,” Slughorn interrupted. “Draco, show us the Malfoy treasure book.”

Draco laid the black and silver book down on the table and turned to a page close to the end. “I
think the knife might be one of these. These are the most ancient and storied in the family
collection.”

Harry, Krum, and Slughorn crowded around the table. Faded, unmoving images of a dozen or more
daggers filled the two open pages—straight, curved, and jagged blades; hilts of silver, copper, and
bronze, intricately decorated with ancient runes, twisted serpents, and some symbols Harry
didn't recognize. None of them matched the simple weapon that had felled Dobby.

“I know Bellatrix used this one,” said Draco, pointing to a small knife with an elaborate
pentacle design on the handle.

“No, that wasn't it,” Harry said. “It was very plain.”

“Very plain you say,” said Slughorn. “It won't be any of these, then. Did it have *any*
kind of decoration on the handle. Perhaps a jagged S—or maybe two?” With three sharp strokes he
drew an angular S on a blank piece of parchment.

Harry shut his eyes trying to recall the knife he had pulled from Dobby's chest, the knife
Bellatrix had held to Hermione's throat.

“Yes, that's it.”

Draco and Krum looked at each other in astonishment. Slughorn, obviously shaken, sat down
heavily in the chair Viktor had previously occupied.

“Could you be mistaken?” Slughorn said quietly.

“Possibly, but I don't think so. In fact, I remember now—I've seen that knife
before.”

“Impossible,” Slughorn said emphatically.

“Not seen it like in front of my eyes—but in a memory. In one of the memories Professor
Dumbledore showed me.” Harry walked across the room to the window and looked out over the dark
lawn.

“There's no need to go into detail about how you came to see the memory, Harry,” Slughorn
said carefully. “Just tell us what you saw.”

Harry explained his brief glimpses of the Gaunts in their filthy cottage—and how he had seen
Morfin threaten Bob Ogden and the young Tom Riddle with the same short, bloody knife. He hadn't
remarked on it at the time, but the handle carried a double jagged “S.” “About this size,” Harry
said, drawing two letters about a quarter of an inch high.

“If you are right, Harry, then it is even more imperative that we find the knife, determine
whether it is indeed the one wielded by Morfin Gaunt half a century ago,” Slughorn said.

Harry was still standing at the window, thinking back to his conversations with Dumbledore the
previous year. “We know Tom Riddle returned to Little Hangleton and took the Slytherin ring, as
well as Morfin's wand, which he used to kill his father and grandparents.” Harry paused; he
turned around to watch as the faces of Slughorn, Krum, and Draco registered the implication of what
he was saying.

“So Riddle took the knife as well, yes?” Krum asked.

“And passed it along at some point to my dear Aunt Bellatrix? I wouldn't be surprised,”
Draco said. “She was always his most faithful servant. Completely deranged, of course,” he added
quickly.

“Let's not get ahead of ourselves,” Slughorn cautioned. “There may be more than one knife of
this description.” He pushed himself up from the table. “I must have that knife,” he said with
fierce urgency. “We must find out what powers it carries. You and Viktor and Draco will go to Shell
Cottage at first light.” He raised his hand as Harry opened his mouth in protest. “You cannot go
alone, Harry. The Aurors are far from securing all the main wizarding communities, much less an
isolated outpost like Shell Cottage. Viktor is well acquainted with the Death Eaters and knows
their weaknesses. Draco can be a useful decoy—and only he can confirm the provenance of the knife
once you find it.”

“If you do not wish to go with us, Harry, we will go alone,” Krum said, a look of grim
determination deepening the lines on his face.

“Thank you Viktor. And you too, Draco,” Harry said awkwardly. “I appreciate your help.”

“Let me see the rope, Draco,” Slughorn said suddenly. Draco opened his dragonhide sack and pulled
out the long coiled rope, which looked too silky and delicate to bind any adversary they might
encounter. “You found all the ingredients—the nerves of a bear, the footfall of a cat, the breath
of a fish, the spittle of a bird?” Slughorn asked.

“Yes, those were easy enough to find here at Hogwarts,” Draco replied. “And the hair from a
woman's beard: Professor McGonagall plucked a hair from her own chin when I told her what it
was for. I was a bit uncertain about the roots of a mountain, but then I remembered that Professor
Snape's most prized geological specimen was a stibnite crystal from Ben Nevis. He kept it in a
glass case at the back of the Potions classroom, protected with every curse a master of the Dark
Arts could give it. The enchantments, of course, ended with his death, so I was able to open the
case without difficulty.”

“Excellent, excellent,” Slughorn said, pulling a length of the rope taut to test its strength, then
returning it to Draco.

Harry was impatient with how easily Slughorn was being distracted. He needed some answers before he
set out on a mission with these two unlikely companions.

“What's so unusual about Morfin's knife anyway?” Harry asked, looking at Krum and
Slughorn. They avoided his eyes and said nothing.

Draco, who was absent-mindedly turning the pages of the Malfoy compendium, looked up at Harry.
“It's not that it was Morfin's knife. It's that it might once have belonged to Salazar
Slytherin. The double `S,' you see. Everything associated with Salazar Slytherin has brought
pain and death,” Draco said bitterly.

“Let us hope then that that is not what we are dealing with,” Slughorn said quickly. “Viktor,
you can find a kip in the Slytherin dormitory. It is empty now, I am ashamed to say--except for
Draco. Harry, come to my office at 5:00 am. That will give you a few hours' rest. I will let
you know what else I have been able to discover by then.”

Draco turned to walk to the door, but Viktor did not follow. “I understand that Ronald Weasley
has left Hogwarts to return home,” he said to Harry. “Perhaps I might be permitted to stay in
Gryffindor Tower? I have grown tired of bedding down in dank underground spaces,” he added by way
of explanation.

Harry hesitated for a moment, but his curiosity to hear of Viktor's experiences quickly
overcame his reluctance to open the doors of Gryffindor to the one-time champion of Durmstrang.

“Of course, Viktor. Please join us. I'm sure we can sort you out.”

Viktor inclined his head in a slight bow, then bent down to pick up a heavy satchel from under
the table.

“We'll see you in the morning then,” Harry said to Draco and Slughorn.

Harry could not count all the times he had walked from the library to Gryffindor Tower in his
years at Hogwarts, but the familiar route was blocked by the extensive damage of the battle in this
area of the castle. Harry found himself taking a wrong turn more than once.

“I wish Ron was here,” Harry said. “He could find the Common Room by instinct from anywhere in
Hogwarts. He's going to be very disappointed, you know. He finally gets the great Viktor Krum
in his bed and he's not even here!”

“What!” said Krum, drawing his wand reflexively from the pocket of his mud-stained trousers.

“No, not that way!” Harry said, shaking his head forcefully. “It's just that you were his
hero during the Quidditch World Cup and the Triwizard Tournament and he was so desperate for
Gryffindor to snag you that he wanted to offer you his own bed—while he slept in a camp bed.”

Krum replaced his wand in his back pocket. “I see. I did hear that he supported me during the
First Task, that he was angry with you, that the two of you did not speak for many weeks. Tell me,
Harry. Did Ron abandon you and Hermione this year?”

Harry was speechless. How could Krum have suspected? That was always to be a secret among the
three of them. Harry's silence told Krum what he wanted to know.

“Hermione was right, then,” Krum said quietly. They had reached the foot of what must have been
the twelfth staircase they had climbed. Harry's legs were aching and it seemed that Krum's
were as well, for he took his satchel off his shoulder and sat down on the cold white marble of the
third step.

“Let me explain, Harry,” Krum said, motioning for Harry to sit down. “Last summer, before the
Weasley wedding, I asked Hermione to stay with my family until the war was over. She had come to
see me in Bulgaria two years earlier, after the Tournament. She and my parents got along well and
she was always happy to be exploring our hills--and our library.” Krum allowed himself a slight
smile. “I invited her parents to come with her this time, so they would all be safe. Of course I
did not know that she had already cleansed their memories and moved them to Australia.” He bent
forward and closed his eyes, as if he were recalling their conversation. Suddenly he looked up and
turned to Harry.

“Hermione told me that you needed her, that you could not complete your task alone. When I
pointed out that you would always have Ron, she said that Ron was…'easily discouraged.' I
think that iss what she said. I knew Hermione would never leave you so long as your life was in
danger. And I was prepared to wait. I had waited two years already after all.”

Krum paused and looked at the empty plinth against the wall where a knight had once stood.

“When she told me she could not leave you, I knew what I had to do,” Krum continued. “I had to
stay here and join the Order of the Phoenix. She told me that she would not be able to write me any
more while she was on the mission with you, but somehow, staying in England, I would be close to
her and could help in the struggle against Voldemort and the evil I despised. Then, when it was all
over, I could go to her right away. Which I did—I found her in the infirmary a few hours after the
battle was over. I never thought that at almost the first moment I saw her again, your Professor
Slughorn would send me away—to bring back the amber for the elixir.”

Krum looked down and rested his head in his hands. For the first time Harry noticed the dim
glint of an ancient signet ring bearing an intricate heraldic design.

“You went to Bulgaria—and back—just since the battle?” Harry said in astonishment.

“No, no. I only had to go to Durmstrang,” Krum said. “The Potions Master there has a supply of
the purest amber from the Baltic. Also, I apparated by broomstick, so it did not take too
long.”

“How do you do that?” Harry asked. “I've never heard of it.”

“Perhaps it is not necessary in Britain, since distances are short. For long distances the
broomstick vastly accelerates the normal speed of apparition,” Krum explained. He rummaged in his
rucksack and drew out his Firebolt, which had been shrunk to fit in the palm of his hand. “It has
served me well this past year,” he said, with a ghost of a smile.

“That's an extraordinary ring,” Harry said, as he admired the impressive coat of arms,
surmounted by a crown and guarded by a lion and a unicorn on either side. “It looks English. Did
you pick it up in your Death Eater days?” Harry asked, his curiosity surging.

“This?” Krum asked, slipping the ring off of the third finger of his right hand. “No, this is
from my family. My great-grandmother was English, of royal blood apparently, although perhaps from
the wrong side of the blanket, as you say. The ring has come down to me, as the only son of the
eldest son of the eldest son.”

A distant clock chimed once, and both men instantly stood up, as if responding to a call to
battle. They walked up the stairs and were relieved to find that the top of this last staircase
brought them to the corridor that led to the entrance to Gryffindor Tower.

“Harmony,” Harry said firmly to the Fat Lady, who had returned to her post but was sleeping
soundly. “Harmony,” he repeated more loudly.

“All right, all right, I hear you,” she answered, as the door swung open.

The common room was deserted. Neville, Dean and Seamus had obviously given up the effort to tidy
up shortly after Harry had talked to them earlier in the evening.

“Celebration,” Harry said, his arm sweeping in an arc to explain the disorder before them.

“Naturally,” Krum replied and watched Harry as he walked to the boys' staircase. Krum
pointed to the opposite staircase. “Is that where she lived?”

“Yes,” Harry replied. “It's where she would be now if…” He couldn't continue. Instead he
led Viktor silently up the stairs to his own dormitory.

-->



7. The Second Day - Part 3
--------------------------



Author Note: The original version of Chapter 5 was missing the last few paragraphs. The correct,
complete version has now been uploaded. Please read that version because it contains a part of the
Harry-Draco conversation that is integral to the plot.

This chapter is a bit short but I didn't want to break the next chapter at an awkward
point.

**The Second Day - Part 3**

Neville, Seamus, and Dean were all sleeping heavily and the strong scent of firewhiskey filled
the circular tower room. Ron's bed had been stripped to the bare mattress and the bed hangings
were pulled back. Krum looked around the room warily, as if he expected Ron to come out of the
wardrobe at any moment.

“Ron has gone home?” he said quietly.

“Yes,” Harry confirmed. “The funeral is later today so the Burrow will already be completely
shut off. The wards will be raised to prevent anyone from coming in or going out. The Weasleys will
be able to get ready in peace. No press, no interruptions.”

Krum nodded, threw his satchel on the floor, then sat down on the edge of the bed to remove his
boots.

“Do you need a blanket or anything?” Harry asked. “I think there might be a spare pillow in the
wardrobe.”

“Thank you, Harry, but no. I have my own things,” Krum said, pulling out a worn but clean and
neatly folded gray-green sleeping bag from his satchel.

Harry turned back to his own bed and saw that Kreacher had left him two more sandwiches and a
large flagon of what looked like pumpkin juice. “Are you hungry? Can I offer you a sandwich? It
looks like fish of some kind,” Harry said.

“Yes, thank you,” Krum said gratefully, snatching both sandwiches from the plate like a man who
had not seen proper food for a long time.

Krum was exhausted and fell asleep quickly. But Harry had slept through most of the previous day
and he was wide awake now, his mind churning through all the revelations of the past few hours. How
foolish he had been to think that the mysteries of his life would all be solved with
Voldemort's death! Instead the end of Voldemort had ripped away the veil of lies that had
almost suffocated every good and true feeling. How many of his thoughts and feelings were entirely
his own? Harry wondered. How many were the corrupting whispers of an enemy consumed by hate and
cruelty?

But, *but*—Harry reminded himself. Sometimes—*many* times—his own feelings had been
strong enough to overcome that bit of Tom Riddle within him. Once, even, strong enough to repel
Voldemort himself. Dumbledore had explained it—Harry's love for Sirius had driven Voldemort
out. But maybe that was only part of the story, Harry thought, his mind replaying the entire battle
in the Department of Mysteries. When he and Neville and Hermione had faced the Death Eaters. When
Hermione had been felled by Dolohov's curse. When feelings of fear and panic and love had
surged through Harry so strongly that he had felt faint, light-headed, unable to move or think.
Yes--love. He had loved Hermione then—two years ago! In the chaos of battle he hadn't
recognized his feelings or named them for what they were.

But Voldermort had known. Unable to feel love himself, he was still able to recognize it in
others. He knew the power that Lily's love had given Harry. He must have seen Harry's
ability to love and be loved as a weapon that could be used against him.

“When he possessed me,” Harry whispered, as if Dumbledore might still be listening, “he
experienced not just my feelings for Sirius but my love for Hermione too. And he had to kill that
love.”

Everything Draco had told him earlier in the evening now made sense. But Draco was wrong about
one thing. Ginny was not merely a distraction to keep him occupied and away from his friends.
Voldemort's manipulation of Ginny was to keep him away from discovering real love, his love for
Hermione. Instead he had been forcefed infatuation, obsession, just as if he had been given the
same dosing of Amortentia that Merope had used to ensnare Riddle's father.

Harry shook his head at his own stupidity. How could he not have seen? Why didn't he recognize
the signs? How could his feelings for Ginny have been true and real when they led him to rage and
thoughts of violence against Dean? Perhaps that's what love had meant to
Voldemort—possessiveness and jealousy. But that isn't love. Love is caring for someone so
deeply that you put their happiness before your own.

As he thought back on the past two years, Harry shook his head at the irony: Voldemort needn't
have bothered with his elaborate scheme with Ginny in order to keep him away from Hermione. Harry
had convinced himself that his two best friends were meant to find happiness with each other. So he
had done the “stupid, noble” thing—Ginny's words, in a different context, echoed in his mind.
He had sacrificed his own feelings. Even after Ron had left them, he had been a loyal friend, never
criticizing Ron to Hermione, never trying to take advantage. Only once had he allowed himself to
put his arm around her, and that was in the graveyard, when they were Polyjuiced into other people,
and somehow it was allowed.

So now he knew why, when he was walking into the forest to what he thought was certain death, and
he longed to see the people he loved, Hermione's name was the one that came to him first,
before Ron, Ginny, and the rest. And he knew why, when Voldemort was finished, he walked past Ginny
without letting her know he was there and sought out Ron and Hermione. He had accepted the
inevitable, that Hermione had chosen Ron, but he was determined to find a way to be near them, to
be near *her*.

Perhaps that was the reason for his dream of the Hogwarts Express: he and Hermione and the
Weasleys, linked forever as one family. But that was a false future, a fraud. Was that why he
hadn't been able to speak to Hermione—because he could never lie to her, even in a dream?

Just as he knew that Hermione would never lie to him. Harry looked out the window to the lake
beyond, as the moonlight streamed in, illuminating a square patch of floor near his bed. "I
don't fancy Ron," she had said. "Ron's like the brother I never had." Harry
smiled and closed his eyes, and let his mind be filled with the image of his and Hermione's
Patronuses sweeping across the lake together.


Harry was in an expansive meadow that sloped gently down to the sea. The meadow was full of a
phantasmagorical collection of animals, from the tame and domestic--a cat, a dog, a horse, a mule,
a bull--to the wild and fantastic--a camel, a lion, a wild boar, a unicorn, and a stag with golden
antlers.

In the air above, wheeling in tight circles was an unmatched flock of birds--a silver eagle, a
black raven, a grey owl, a many-coloured peacock, a parrot. Rising out of the water was an enormous
dolphin, a remora, and three whiskered sea creatures Harry didn't recognize.

Surmounting the scene at the top of a small hill, smoldering in a nest of flames, was a red
phoenix, it wings outspread.

The unicorn charged forward as if it would leap into the sea. But it came up short, reared on its
hind legs, then turned around. It cantered slowly across the meadow toward a dense thicket of trees
far in the distance. The other animals paid no attention, but the stag raised its magnificent head
as the unicorn passed and fell into step alongside it. The sun glinted off the gold of its antlers
and the silver of the unicorn's horn, and the two animals seemed to float across the meadow
until they disappeared into the forest.

[End of Part 3]

Author Note: The image comes from the fifth day of Michael Maier's *Septimana
philosophica*.

-->



8. The Second Day - Part 4
--------------------------



**Author Note:** **I changed the rating to PG-13 for this chapter, for violence.**

**The Second Day - Part 4**

Crouched behind a hedge, Harry looked at the hulking dark house half hidden by a light mist. The
sun had set an hour earlier, but not a single candle burned in the leaded glass windows. Harry
shook his head. Here he was, at the last place he ever expected to see again. And all he could do
was wait--wait for Draco to return.

It was supposed to be easy. Go to Shell Cottage, open Dobby's grave, find the knife, and return
to Hogwarts. Slughorn insisted that none of them was in a fit condition to apparate, so they had to
use the Floo network. They brought their broomsticks with them—just in case—shrunk to fit in the
corner of their packs. Slughorn gave Harry a rectangular leaden box—“Wrap the knife up well and put
it in the box, Harry. Don't touch any part of it with your hands.”

What a strange trio, Harry thought, as he took the box of Floo powder down from the mantle of
Slughorn's fireplace. Viktor was wearing the same clothes as before, though some of the mud had
caked and dried. He had tied his hair back, but the haunted look had not left him. Draco was
dressed all in black; he had taken the precaution of covering his silvery blonde hair with a
stocking cap. Harry had found some old Quidditch practice clothes in the wardrobe, loose fitting
and dark red.

“I'll go first,” Harry said. “If anyone is still at the Cottage they might hex you. Give me two
minutes, then follow.” Viktor and Draco nodded their agreement.

Harry threw a handful of powder into the flames, which quickly turned a familiar emerald green.
“Shell Cottage,” he said clearly and distinctly, and immediately he felt a sharp tug at his navel.
He tumbled through dozens and dozens of hearths, from grand mansions and Ministry offices to humble
cottages and village shops. He was stunned at the ruin and devastation. He and Ron and Hermione had
had no idea of the destruction that Voldemort's rule of terror had brought to their world.
Images of ransacked shops, broken furniture, windows shattered and boarded up and broken again,
helpless pets—cats, dogs, owls—headless, sliced and gutted—flashed before Harry's eyes like a
newsreel of some hideous Muggle war. Surely Shell Cottage had been spared, Harry thought
anxiously.

But the sight that met Harry's eyes when he finally came to a stop was more shocking that
anything he could have imagined. The pretty room he had seen only days before had been ransacked.
The upholstery on the chairs had been slashed, the china lamps hurled to the floor and broken into
hundreds of tiny pieces. The drawers of Bill's desk had all been pulled out and emptied. But
this was not the worst. In the farthest corner from the fire, sitting sideways slumped against the
wall and staring vacantly ahead, was Bill.

Harry crossed the room quickly and knelt in front of him. “All you all right, Bill? What
happened here? Tell me,” Harry said urgently. Bill didn't reply. His eyes remained unfocused—he
didn't seem to realize that Harry was there. He appeared uninjured—his face bore the familiar
terrible scars but Harry couldn't see any fresh wounds.

“He's probably been Crucioed,” Draco said, as he stepped out of the fireplace. “I've
seen that look dozens—hundreds—of times this past year.”

“But who? Who could have done this? And why?”

“Who? Not all the Death Eaters were at Hogwarts at the end. And even some of those that were
probably escaped. And why? I think we have to assume they were after the knife. If it was
Morfin's knife….”

Harry heard a gasp behind them as Viktor stepped into the room.

“What has happened? Is that Bill? Where are the others?” he asked.

Harry stood up and turned. “We don't know. But I think I may be able to reach Bill. He
can't have been in this state for long. I want you to check the other rooms—see if anyone else
is here. Get your wands out, just in case. I'm going to talk to Bill.”

Draco and Viktor followed Harry's instructions without hesitation. As they moved through the
hall into the kitchen, Harry crouched in front of Bill. He grabbed him by the shoulders and moved
him so he was sitting straight. Then he lifted Bill's chin so he was looking directly at
Harry's eyes.

“Bill,” Harry said quietly. “It's me, Harry. I need you to tell me what happened here. If
you can hear me, just nod--or blink your eyes.”

Bill remained motionless, his eyes in a glassy stare. Harry grasped both of Bill's wrists,
encircling them with his fingers, squeezing hard. “Bill,” he said again. “Listen to me. You are
safe now. I'm here. It's me, Harry.”

Harry waited a moment, but there was no response.

On a sudden impulse Harry lifted his hands and gently shut Bill's eyes, resting his fingers
for a moment on the closed eyelids. An almost imperceptible shudder passed through Bill's body
and as Harry drew back, Bill opened his eyes.

“Harry, what…” Bill's voice was hoarse, raspy.

“Never mind that now,” Harry said. “What happened to you? Here, let me get you closer to the
fire. Viktor,” he shouted into the kitchen, “Bill needs a glass of water.”

“Harry, what are you doing here?” Bill asked again.

“I have to get the knife I buried with Dobby,” Harry explained. “Here, drink this,” Harry said,
taking the glass from Viktor. “We need to find you somewhere to sit down.” He looked quickly over
the wrecked pieces of furniture scattered around the room.

“There's a chair upstairs that's still in one piece,” said Draco, reentering the
room.

“Draco is helping me,” Harry said hastily, as a look of loathing darkened Bill's face. “The
knife that killed Dobby belonged to his aunt, Bellatrix. Can you stand?”

“I don't know. I'll try.” Viktor came forward and in one smooth motion crouched down,
slung Bill's arm across his shoulders, and raised him to his feet. Bill walked unsteadily, as
Viktor half pushed half carried him up through the hall and up the narrow staircase.

Bill and Fleur's bedroom had been ransacked and the pretty blue counterpane had been slashed
into ribbons. Only the simple wooden armchair that Harry remembered having seen at the Burrow was
undamaged.

Bill sat down carefully and looked up at his unexpected visitors. He answering their unspoken
question: “I was Crucio'd. Greyback and Yaxley somehow escaped from the battle at Hogwarts and
came here.”

“But how did they find Shell Cottage? You put a Fidelius Charm on it, you told me,” Harry
said.

“Yes, but I lifted it when I came back yesterday. I thought we had nothing more to fear.
Foolish, I know. I can't tell you how grateful I am that Fleur went directly to the Burrow with
my parents. She and my mother are very close now, Harry. You'd be surprised.”

“Why did you come back then?” Viktor asked.

Bill glanced quickly at Draco before answering. “It was a full moon last night, Harry. The
potion works well but it's not perfect, especially when….I didn't want to risk something
happening to me. I was walking on the beach below the cottage, just watching the waves pound the
rocks, thinking about everything that had happened, thinking about Fred--when they appeared out of
nowhere. I have no idea how they knew to come here.”

“I think I do,” Draco said, drumming his fingers nervously against the doorframe. “After Dobby
paid Harry a visit in Second Year, my father put a Trace on all his House Elves, so he could keep
track of them. When Dobby was freed, the Trace was extinguished--but when he returned to Malfoy
Manor on his rescue mission, the Trace was reactivated. So when he Apparated here with Harry and
the others, my father was able to trace him to this vicinity, even though the cottage was
invisible.”

“But instead of trying to break the Fidelius Charm and capture me here, Voldemort went on to
Hogwarts.” Harry said.

“Exactly,” said Draco. “No one bothered to follow the Trace. But everyone at Malfoy Manor saw
Bellatrix attack Dobby. They all knew the power of the knife. I'm not surprised Greyback and
Yaxley came after it. They may have thought no one would be here—that you would all be at the
Burrow for the funeral.”

“You don't have to say it,” Bill said bitterly. “I should never have lifted the Charm. I
should never have left the Cottage and gone to the beach, where I could be so easily seen.”

“You have paid heavily for your mistake,” Viktor said quietly, resting his hand on Bill's
shoulder. “They tortured you to tell them where the knife was, yes?”

“I told them nothing. I don't know where the knife was. I never saw it.” Bill glanced at
Harry, who was standing at the window looking at the garden below.

“I wrapped it in a red rag and buried it alongside Dobby,” Harry said. “I didn't want anyone
to be able to use it again--ever.”

“Harry, Bill needs a Healer,” Viktor said. “He's not fit to travel. Bill—the Healer in the
village who took care of me last winter—can I send for her?”

“Yes, all right,” Bill said quietly. “You can send a message with your Patronus. She's still
in the same cottage as before.”

Viktor walked to the open window and drew his wand. “Expecto Patronum,” he said. Harry tensed as
a thin shimmer of mist expanded and began to take a definite shape. Four legs started to extend
from the body—could it be a horse, a lion….a unicorn? But the limbs were too short and quickly
flared into webbed paws. Harry sighed in relief as the creature rolled over once and gamboled
across the garden, past the trees that stood watch over Dobby's grave.

“That's—isn't that?--you have an otter Patronus,” Harry said in amazement. “Like
Hermione.”

“Yes, I know. She told me.” Viktor smiled and motioned for Harry to lead them down the
stairs.

“Wait here. We'll be right back,” Harry said to Bill, who sat motionless in the chair.

“That's fine. I don't think I could move even if I wanted to.”

Harry had braced himself for what he knew he would see, but the sight of the desecrated grave,
and Dobby's body, his head twisted at an extreme angle, his neck obviously broken—shocked him
to the marrow.

Viktor and Draco hung back, letting Harry go forward to the grave alone. Harry found his old
jacket thrown against the roots of a tree and he wrapped Dobby up tightly and laid him on the
grass. Then he clambered down into the shallow grave and searched for the red rag. He found it
quickly and his heart gave a leap—perhaps Greyback and Yaxley hadn't found the knife. But when
he lifted the rag it unraveled in his hands, empty of its malignant contents.

“The knife isn't here. They must have taken it,” Harry said, as Viktor and Draco came
forward. “I'm going to bury Dobby again, properly. You can help me if you like. Bill keeps
shovels in the shed over there.”

Draco paused for a moment, but he said nothing and went to help Viktor. The three former
Seekers—rivals no longer—worked quickly to close the grave, pitching small clumps of red earth over
Dobby's body until the mound was restored. Harry replaced the headstone and stood for a moment
thinking what he could say.

“Thank you, Dobby, for everything. Everyone must know now what House Elves are worth—that they
must be free. Hermione and I will make sure of that. I promise.”

-->



9. The Second Day - Part 5
--------------------------



**The Second Day - Part 5**

They left Bill in the care of the village Healer, Agnes Godolphin, a gentle woman with
wind-reddened cheeks and billowy white hair.

From the moment they had discovered the knife was missing, there was no doubt about their next
destination. “Greyback will want to get back to the other Snatchers,” Viktor said. “Scabior and the
rest stayed at Malfoy Manor when the Death Eaters followed Voldemort to Hogwarts.”

“We can't apparate and my father disconnected us from the Floo network years ago. We'll
have to fly,” Draco said.

“How long will it take?” Harry asked.

“About five or six hours,” Viktor said. “I came to Tinworth many times last year,” he explained.
“Bill was one of my contacts.”

After restoring their broomsticks to full size the three men pushed off from the ground, climbing
at a steep angle over the Cornish cliffs. Without consulting him, Harry's two companions
flanked him on either side, Viktor on his right and Draco on his left. Viktor's heavy
awkwardness was gone as he slashed through the sky, his cloak flaring out behind him. Draco too
seemed in his element, less careworn, as he sped through the high mist.

They swept silently across the countryside of moors, farms, and hedgerows, stopping only once to
eat the simple supper Bill had provided. Casting a Disillusionment Charm to cloak them from the
eyes of any unsuspecting Muggles, they landed in the center of an ancient ring of standing stones,
on a rise in the middle of a wide plain.

“Bread, cheese, an apple for each of us,” Viktor said, giving Harry and Draco their share.

“Here's some water from Fleur's spring,” Draco said, filling a silvery cup from his canteen
and handing it to Harry.

“Thanks,” Harry said, tilting his head back and pouring it down his throat. “I have sweets. Some
chocolate from McGonagall—but maybe we should save that. How about some figs? They're Ron's
favourite,” he added, offering a handful to Viktor.

“No, thank you,” said Viktor firmly. Draco just shook his head.

“Your loss, then,” Harry said. He popped one into his mouth and returned the rest to his pocket.
“All right. Tell me what we can expect. How many Death Eaters and Snatchers will still be at Malfoy
Manor? Where are Greyback and Yaxley likely to be—and where could they hide the knife?”

Draco told them everything he knew about the great stone estate that had served as Voldemort's
most recent headquarters, drawing a detailed floorplan from memory. Viktor listed the Death Eaters
and hangers on that they were most likely to find there.

“One thing you must know, Harry,” Viktor added. “Greyback. He is not an ordinary werewolf. He was
never bitten. He was born a Fenriswolf, the most powerful, the most vicious of all werewolves. He
is Fenrir. Draco's rope is for him—he cannot be bound by any spell. Only the rope will hold
him.”

“Then it's quite simple,” Harry said. “We wait until dark, find Greyback and neutralize him,
then seize the knife. Draco, I want you to go in first. They'll welcome you. Find out what you
can—find out where Greyback is and what he's doing. Then report back and we'll decide what
to do.”

Draco nodded. “I'll find him. He won't escape me.” Draco's face was ashen, devoid of
color, but he looked steadily at Harry and held his gaze.

The sun was still high above the horizon, so they decided to remain within the circle of stones
for another hour. One of Viktor's confederates worked as a psychic and tarot reader in the
cathedral town nearby, so Viktor offered to fly there and use her Floo to call Slughorn and let him
know about their unexpected detour to Malfoy Manor—and ask about the possibility of
reinforcements.

Draco's nervousness increased markedly with Viktor's departure. He paced a dozen
circuits around the inside of the stones, then grabbed his pack and rechecked its contents.

“So long as you have the rope, we're fine,” Harry said reassuringly.

“Yeah, it's here,” Draco replied, pulling one end taut.

Harry's mind drifted back to his conversation with Draco the day before, in the Slytherin
common room. “Could you do something for me?” Harry asked.

Draco looked up, startled. “Yeah, sure. I guess.”

“Remember what you told me about Voldemort—and Ginny—and the Pygmy Puff?”

“Of course. What of it?”

“Could you—after Fred's funeral—could you talk to Ginny and tell her what happened? You said
I needed to know, and you were right. She needs to know too.”

“I'd be happy to,” Draco said, clearly relieved. “There's just one little thing. I
don't think I could get anywhere near the Burrow, much less the Weasel…the youngest Weasley
herself.”

“Right. I see what you mean. I tell you what. When we get back I'll send her an owl-- maybe
talk to her after the funeral—let her know that you have something to tell her. You probably should
try to meet her in Diagon Alley though. Anywhere but the Burrow, that's for sure.”

“OK. I'll tell her,” Draco agreed. “But first we have to find the knife.”

Viktor returned soon after with the not unexpected news that no Auror teams could come to Malfoy
Manor until the following day. The trio was on their own.


They arrived at the wrought iron gates of the Manor just before sunset. Draco raised his arm and
placed his palm flat against the lock. The gates immediately swung open. Harry and Viktor took up
positions behind the high hedge to the right of the drive, while Draco walked slowly to the front
door of the darkened mansion, his head bared and his blonde hair glinting silver in the last rays
of the setting sun. They had agreed to give him an hour, until nine o'clock. If he had not
returned by then, they would assume the worst and try their luck without him.

Harry and Viktor crouched in an uncomfortable silence as the sky darkened and wisps of mist began
to rise from the ground and obscure the house.

Staring straight ahead and not looking at Harry, Viktor asked suddenly, “Is it true? I have heard
that Hermione is…that she and Ron Weasley are…”

“A couple?” Harry broke in. “No, they're not. Not at all. Some of us thought there was
something there—including me—but I was wrong. We were wrong.”

“Good. That is good. Hermione is exceptional. No one is worthy of her. I am not. You are not. But
Ron Weasley—he is worthy the least.”

Harry was about to defend Ron, but no words came. So he changed the subject and asked a question of
his own.

“Your Patronus is a fully formed, corporeal Patronus. That's very advanced magic. Did you learn
that at Durmstrang?”

“No. We had few happy thoughts at Durmstrang. You met Karkaroff. You know what he was,” Viktor said
contemptuously. “No one at Durmstrang was taught any charms or spells based on love or…fellow
feeling—*empathy* I think you say. No—this is how it happened. Two years ago I read about your
struggles against the ministry—your trial for using underage magic, a Patronus Charm. I wrote and
asked Hermione about it, and she explained what it was. I found an old book of protective spells in
the Durmstrang Library and taught myself how to use it. It was very useful this past year—that and
the Confundus Charm,” Viktor added, with a quiet chuckle.

“Why an otter, though?” Harry persisted, looking at the elaborate ring on Viktor's right hand.
“Wouldn't you want something more impressive, more regal, like a lion or...”

“For a long time my Patronus had no clearly defined shape. But after Hermione told me that hers was
an otter…” Viktor turned to Harry and smiled, a genuine smile that lit up his entire face. “You are
supposed to think of a happy memory, a powerful memory that banishes sadness and fear. My happiest
memories are of her.”

Harry had no idea how to reply to Viktor's declaration, so he said nothing.

At long last the sun disappeared below the horizon and the grey, washed out sky darkened to a deep
black. A soft mist rose slowly from the grassy park surrounding the house.

“Do you know when the moon is going to rise?” Harry asked. “Wouldn't want to run up against a
furry Fenrir, would we,” he added, in an attempt to break the tension that had intensified with the
darkness. Too late he remembered that Viktor didn't have much of a sense of humour.

“I don't know about the moon,” Viktor replied. “But it makes no difference.”

“What do you mean?”

“Greyback is a Fenriswolf, remember—he can transform at will, like any other Animagus. The moon has
nothing to do with it. He is not like Professor Lupin.”

“So that's why—at Hogwarts, during the battle, Greyback changed—I saw him attack Lavender—and
Lupin did not,” Harry said haltingly, as he began to understand the implication of Viktor's
words.

“Yes, that is why. And that is why we have the rope.”

”If necessary then, you and I will hold him and Draco will tie him up.”

Viktor nodded his agreement and looked back at the house. Again the two men lapsed into silence and
waited, waited for any sign of life in the house at the end of the drive.

Another hour passed when suddenly a quiet scuffling could be heard at some distance behind them,
perhaps a cat or other small creature of the night. Harry and Viktor tensed and turned around. A
dark shape, crouched over, was making its way slowly toward them.

Harry drew out his wand. “Stupefy,” he said in a fierce whisper. The shape came to a halt and fell
over on its side. Motioning to Viktor to stay where he was, Harry crept cautiously forward, until
he discovered the unconscious body of Draco, his hair hidden again by the stocking cap and his wand
still holstered.

Harry revived him with an unspoken thought. “Sorry, mate. I couldn't see it was you. Are you
OK?” he asked.

“I'm fine,” Draco said. He stood up and brushed himself off, his right hand going automatically
to his trouser pocket to see if his wand was secure.

“Slughorn gave it to me,” Draco said as he followed Harry's gaze. “It belonged to Jude Turpin,
a Slytherin who switched sides and served the Order in the last war. He died in the attack on the
Prewetts, actually. His wand hasn't been used since. Turns out it suits me very well, which is
fortunate—since it looks like I'm not getting mine back anytime soon.” He looked pointedly at
Harry. Harry had no intention of revealing the secrets of the Elder Wand to Draco, so he made no
reply.

“Listen, we don't have a lot of time. Greyback and Yaxley aren't here but they're
expected back soon. They just went to the village to get some supplies.”

“What did you find out? Who's there now?” Harry asked.

“Just Scabior and half a dozen other Snatchers. Basically the most cowardly scum of Riddle's
pathetic band. They never took the Dark Mark so they don't know anything about Riddle's
death.” Draco stretched out his left arm and pulled back his sleeve to show his pale white arm,
completely unmarked.

“Yaxley and Greyback have kept them in the dark—who knows why—and I didn't enlighten them. They
think I'm here to pick up some…instruments from the cellar. I think they would surrender pretty
easily if you went in, Harry, and told them what happened. Except that they've been enjoying my
father's stock of Firewhiskey for hours now. The bottles are everywhere and the stench is
horrible. They'd probably just take you for a ghost and not believe a word.”

“It's simple then. We just Stun or Petrify them and tie them up until the Aurors arrive
tomorrow,” Harry said. “Unless—do you think any of them know where the knife is?”

“No. I asked and they didn't have any idea what I was talking about. I don't think Greyback
would be stupid enough to flaunt such a valuable object around, not when he went to so much trouble
to get it back. But I think I know where he'd put it. There's a small silver chest in my
father's bed chamber, where he keeps his most precious hand weapons—poison darts, a garotte, a
stiletto—that kind of thing. Greyback has always been fascinated by the chest and its contents. He
would want to add his own contribution—and then take the lot.”

“Fine. We'll immobilize the stragglers first, try our luck in your father's room—and hope
we get out before the others get back.”

“Agreed,” Viktor said.

“One thing—this is very important,” Harry said, looking directly at his two companions. "Under
no circumstances does anyone use an Unforgivable, or Sectumsempra, or aim to kill or maim.
Voldemort was defeated by a disarming spell—we will use only defensive spells tonight.” Harry
strongly regretted his use of the Cruciatus Curse against Amycus Carrow, even though he knew now
that the urge to torture had come from his link to Voldemort. He was determined it wouldn't
happen again. “Do you both agree? If not, then I will disarm you now and go in alone.”

Harry thought he saw Viktor's hand tense as if he might reach for his wand. Perhaps it was only
his imagination, because Viktor said, firmly and with great earnestness, “We will do as you say,
Harry. I have seen your power: you could eliminate all those wretches on your own, without us. If
you will show mercy, that is what we will do also. We will not seek revenge.”

Viktor looked meaningfully at Draco, who nodded. “Defensive spells only. I agree.”

“Good, that's settled then. I have the box for the knife. Do you have the rope, Draco?”

“Yes, and the Hand of Glory—we may need that. They've let almost all the candles burn out. You
might want to pull up the hood on your sweatshirt. One or two of them might be sober enough to
recognize you.”


Wands drawn, the three young men walked in a long arc across the grass toward the house. Draco
pushed open the front door and Harry and Viktor followed him into the great hallway. Draco gasped
when he saw that the portraits lining the walls were all empty. “Looks like my ancestors
couldn't stand all this riffraff mucking up the place either,” he said under his breath.

They could smell the drawing room before they saw it—the stench of stale beer and whiskey and
sweat, mixed with something more terrible, the smell of the slaughterhouse. Draco slowly pushed
open the heavy wooden door. The scene was exactly as he had described it. By the feeble light of
the fire and a pair of almost extinguished candles on the marble mantelpiece, Harry could make out
a half dozen Snatchers sprawled across the room's elaborate armchairs. One man had apparently
fallen on the floor and now lay in a pool of his own vomit.

“It seems hardly necessary, but I suppose we should get them properly restrained for when the
Aurors arrive tomorrow,” Harry said, Stunning each in turn and conjuring a length of rope from his
wand to tie them securely.

Out of the corner of his eye Harry noticed a multicolored shadow dappling the wall next to the
fireplace. Fearing some lingering trace of Dark Magic he approached it cautiously—and almost gagged
when he saw what it was. A pair of albino peacocks from the park had been cruelly butchered, their
bodies pecked at and gashed and their tails sliced off.

“They set the cocks against each other, for sport,” Viktor said in barely controlled rage. “They
breed them to be white, so the injuries and blood can be seen. After the peacock is dead, they cut
off its tail as a trophy—the tail regains its colours, as you see.”

The multicolored shadow Harry had seen had simply been a reflection of the dazzling, untarnished
blues and greens and golds of the peacocks' tails.

“Our work is done here. Where is your father's room?” Harry asked.

“Upstairs,” Draco said.

Author Note: Did anyone recognize where they had lunch? I have the next part ready and will post
it once I get enough reviews to know if it's worth posting during the Olympics.

-->



10. The Second Day - Part 6
---------------------------



**The Second Day - Part 6**

“Lumos,” Harry said quietly, as he led them up the broad stone staircase at the end of the
corridor. The portraits along the wall were as empty as the ones downstairs. As they reached the
top of the stairs they saw another long corridor with five or six doors on either side. The first
door on Harry's right was open and from the dim silver firelight he could see a richly
decorated bedroom, with silvery curtains and bed hangings and furniture of dark wood. A thick
Persian carpet covered a patch of floor beside the bed.

Harry looked inquiringly at Draco, as they walked into what appeared to be the master bedroom.
Draco picked up one of the hairbrushes on the dresser and absently stroked the soft bristles with
his thumb.

“This is my mother's room. We won't find anything here.”

“They didn't…your parents were…” Harry stammered.

“They had separate rooms, yes. His is at the other end of the hall.” Under his breath but loud
enough for Harry to hear, Draco added, “She stayed with him out of fear--and for me.”

Four doors farther on they found the room they were looking for. From the moment he saw it Harry
knew it had to be the private domain of Lucius Malfoy. In the huge, irregularly shaped room,
Draco's father had recreated the oppressive gloom of the Slytherin Common Room. Heavy green
damask fabric covered the walls and the leaded windows. The bed, chairs, and dresser were
intricately carved in black ebony. An umbrella stand made of entwined silver serpents, their mouths
agape, held half a dozen skull-tipped canes like the one Harry had seen Lucius use to strike Dobby
all those years ago.

The room was immaculately clean, and a silent fire was still casting eerie green shadows across the
floor. Suddenly Harry heard a soft swishing noise. He immediately darkened his wand and crept
forward a few steps so he could see the recess in the wall on the other side of the massive
bed.

On her knees with her back toward him was a tiny House Elf, sweeping soot and ashes from the floor.
Her shapeless smock was well worn and darned in many places, but it was clean and neatly
pressed

“Beaton, what are you doing here?” Draco asked.

“Master Draco, you're back!” the elf replied. “We had a terrible storm early this morning,
right before dawn. The wind came down all the chimneys and scattered ashes everywhere. Beaton has
been cleaning all day. Master doesn't allow us to use magic for this work. Your mother's
room is finished. Will she and the Master be home soon?”

“I'm afraid not, Beaton. They will be engaged at the Ministry…for some time.” Draco took a deep
breath and plunged on. “Voldemort has been defeated, Beaton. He's dead, and the Death-Eaters
are finished, including my father. I have been pardoned—I'm trying now to help those who were
injured in the battle.”

Beaton's wide grew wide and she stared at Draco and Krum and a third man she didn't
know.

“Draco, you are the master here now,” Harry said quietly, nodding at Beaton.

“Yes, I am. Which means I can do this,” Draco said, pulling the stocking cap from his head and
handing it out to Beaton. “Take this….please. Loyalty won by fear and violence is no loyalty at
all. You're free.”

Beaton hesitated a moment but then extended her scrawny arms and took the cap. She pulled it over
her head so it rested loosely on her shoulders.

“So Beaton is like Dobby now?” she asked tentatively.

“Yes, like Dobby,” Draco replied. “And Winky and Kreacher—remember them? Winky used to serve Barty
Crouch and Kreacher was with the Blacks?”

“Yes, I think so.”

Harry stepped forward and crouched down so he was on eye level with the elf.

“Beaton, I'm Harry Potter. I'm the one who freed Dobby. I'm very sad to say that Dobby
died. He was killed by Bellatrix—she threw a knife into his back in this very house—but he brought
us all to safety. He died saving me and my friends.”

This was too much for Beaton to take in all at once and she stumbled forwards and fell to her
knees.

“Dobby was always brave,” she whispered. “I always hoped I'd see him again.”

“Will you help us, Beaton? Help us save my friend. For Dobby.”

“Yes I will. Anything I can,” she replied.

“The knife Bellatrix used to kill Dobby was buried with him, but Fenrir Greyback dug it up. We
think he brought it here. We need it back. Have you seen it?”

“Yes, yes. I have,” she said excitedly. “He put it in the master's silver chest. He should not
have done that. He should never have come in this room at all. When he left the house this
afternoon, I took it.”

“Took what, Beaton?” Draco asked.

“Took the chest—and hid it. All the Master's most precious belongings—he loved to take them out
and look at them. I couldn't let *him*—that creature--touch them.”

“Where is the chest now?” Harry asked.

“In the compartment behind the wall—there,” she said, pointing to the wall above the dresser. In an
instant a hidden door appeared in the wall and swung open, revealing an ornate silver chest with
the Malfoy crest. Draco took it carefully from its hiding place, set it down on the table, and
stepped back. Harry pulled a pair of Ron's old Quidditch keeper gloves from his knapsack and
put them on. Then he laid Slughorn's leaden casket on the table.

Slowly he lifted the lid. At first he didn't see the knife, but as he pushed aside the
assortment of weapons and instruments of torture, he found it, jammed into the back corner—the
short silver knife that he had pulled from Dobby.

He took it from the chest and held it between his fingers where the haft met the blade. In the
light from the fire and Viktor and Draco's wands the jagged double S could clearly be
seen.

“This was your aunt's knife, Draco?” he asked.

“Yes. A present from Riddle. Yes.”

“I saw her with it many times, Harry,” Viktor added. “She carried it with her always.”

“There doesn't seem to be any potion on it, though. No visible stains. We'll see what
Slughorn can find out.” Harry put the knife in the box and returned it to his knapsack.

“Will you come with us, Beaton? Back to Hogwarts? Winky and Kreacher are there. It'll be safer
for you than here.”

“Yes, thank you, Mr. Potter. I will—I just need a few minutes to gather my things.”

At that moment a loud crash came from the drawing room below. Harry's fingers tightened
instinctively around his wand. “Is there another way out of here?”

“Yes. Follow me,” Draco said, grabbing his pack and rushing out of his father's room without a
backward glance.

“Go to the old fountain—on the other side of the hedge. I'll meet you there,” Beaton said
quickly. Then she snapped her fingers and vanished from sight.

Harry and Viktor followed Draco down a narrow spiral staircase at the far end of the long hall. At
the bottom they almost fell into an old wooden door, swollen from the rain. It resisted their first
attempts to open it but yielded at last when Viktor pushed against it heavily with his
shoulder.

They reached the hedge, and concealing themselves behind it, quickly reached a stone fountain near
the front gate, where Beaton was waiting for them.

“I suggest we fly to the circle of stones and apparate from there to Hogsmeade,” Draco said.
“Beaton—you remember seeing the Slytherin Common Room when you went to Hogwarts with my father last
winter?”

“Yes, and a cold, dank place it was,” she replied.

“Apparate there now. Find Professor Slughorn and tell him we have the knife and we'll be there
as quickly as we can.”

Beaton had barely opened her mouth to answer when her face froze into a look of horror. An
invisible hand picked her up and threw her against the hard stone of the fountain.

“Revelo,” Harry said. The shadowy shape of Yaxley appeared just as he was about to clamp his
fingers around Viktor's exposed neck. “Petrificus totalis,” Harry shouted. Viktor watched,
stock still, as Yaxley's body went rigid and fell to the ground at his feet.

“Keep your wands out,” Harry ordered. “Greyback has to be around here somewhere. Draco, where's
the rope?”

Draco crouched down and began rifling through his pack. In rising panic, he tossed out his
minimized broomstick, a tin of Darkness powder, the Hand of Glory. ”I know it's here,” he said,
shoving his hand desperately into the bottom of the stiff leather sack. “Yes, here it is,” he said,
holding out the coiled rope to Harry.

As Harry reached out to take it he heard an unearthly growl. A huge grey animal appeared out of
nowhere and lunged at Draco, knocking him to the ground. Harry hurled himself at the wolf and
pinned it on its back.

"Harry--it's Greyback," Viktor shouted. "His legs. We have to tie his
legs." The two men pressed down on the werewolf with all their weight, as he writhed and
snapped at them with his huge jaws. Draco grasped each leg in turn, wrapping the rope around the
ankles over and over, tighter and tighter. Greyback squirmed and twisted, contorting his body to
try to escape the silken bonds.

"Hold him as still as you can. I have to tie his jaws shut," Draco said. "Then
we'll be able to Stun or Petrify him."

"All right. Just hurry," Harry snapped, his face drawn tight with the effort of keeping
Greyback in place.

Draco bent down, taking the loose end of the rope from where it was tied around the legs. He
brought it cautiously around the back of Greyback's head, avoiding the snapping jaws and sharp
yellow teeth. He looped it around the wolf's jaws but could not tighten it, as Greyback
strained against the rope and focused all his strength on keeping his mouth open. Again and again
Draco yanked at the rope, but Greyback was too strong. In desperation, Draco reached out to grasp
the wolf's muzzle with his hand. He forced Greyback's jaws shut and, holding them closed
with his left hand, began to wrap the rope around them with his right. Twice, three times, four
times, the rope encircled the werewolf's jaws. Finally, Greyback stopped resisting and was
still. Draco looked up at Harry and Viktor and a ghost of a smile crossed his face. All he had to
do was tie the rope and the spell would be complete.

Carefully he let go of the werewolf's jaws and, using both hands, began to work the complicated
knot. Intent on remembering the seven steps, he didn't notice Greyback's muscles twitch and
go taut as the werewolf made a final effort to free his mouth. Caught by surprise, Draco dropped
the rope and pressed down on Greyback's jaws with both hands. Just as Draco seemed to be
succeeding, his left hand slipped on the werewolf's wet fur. Greyback twisted his head and
snapped his jaws shut on something white, which fell to the grass with a dull thud. Draco gave out
a small cry and fell unconscious to the ground.

"Harry, you must do it," Viktor said. "I can hold him."

As Harry moved aside to let Viktor take control of the wolf's body he caught a glimpse of
the wolf's face and looked directly into his sallow yellow eyes. Harry held Greyback's
gaze. Startled, Greyback stopped struggling just long enough for Harry, using both hands, to force
the jaws shut. “Constringo,” he said, spitting out the Binding spell through clenched teeth. The
loose end of the rope wrapped itself round and round Greyback's muzzle, pulling ever more
tightly against the straining animal. Finally, the rope looped back on itself to create an
intricate knot. Greyback stilled, his eyes open but the lids slack in defeat.

Harry drew out his wand and pointed it at Greyback's prone body. “Petrificus totalis.” The wolf
went rigid and fell over on his side.

“Viktor, leave him,” Harry said. Viktor was still holding on to the wolf, checking the security of
the rope. “It's fine. But Draco…” Harry motioned frantically to where Draco lay a few yards
away, his head at an odd angle and his mouth open.

Viktor crawled toward Draco. “Where's his hand?” he said, swinging him arms through the thick
grass in wide circles.

“What do you mean?” Harry asked.

“His hand. Draco's hand. Fenrir must have bit it off.”

A sickening horror clenched at Harry's stomach. He realized now that the flash of white
he'd seen when Draco was attacked was Draco's left hand.

“I know where it is. I saw it fall. Turn him over. Raise his arm and make a tourniquet,” Harry
ordered. “And we'll need the elixir.”

Harry found the severed hand easily, as the patch of almost translucent white skin reflected the
shimmer of the moon. Holding it firmly at the wrist, he brought it to where Viktor was elevating
Draco's arm.

“Good. Now where's the elixir?” Harry asked.

“What elixir?” Viktor said gruffly. “We left it all at Hogwarts, remember?”

“We don't have time for this. I know you have some—I saw the vial in your pack.”

Viktor was on the point of trying another denial, but he knew Harry would see right through him.
“Slughorn said it was only for you. No one else. Not me. Not Draco. No one but you. He made me
swear.”

“But I don't need it—Draco does. He'll bleed to death if we don't do something.
Here—I'll hold his arm and hand together. You apply the elixir. Now!”

Viktor made no reply, but he nodded his assent and pulled his wand and a tiny red vial from his
pocket. While Harry held Draco's arm and severed hand together, Viktor opened the vial and
dipped his wand in the golden liquid. He drew his wand in a circle around Draco's wrist:
“Coniunctio,” he and Harry said together.

Almost before the word was spoken the flesh and bone and skin of Draco's wrist knit back
together. Cautiously Harry let go of Draco's hand and laid the healed arm on the grass.
“Enervate,” he said. Draco opened his eyes slowly and tried to sit up. But his head lolled on his
neck like a rag doll's and Viktor had to catch him to prevent him from falling over.

“Harry, I will take care of Draco. I know someone in the village here. I will call him to help me.
You must go back right away. Hurry. I will join you when I can.”

Victor's mounting alarm told Harry that Viktor knew something he wasn't telling him—but
what? Harry desperately wanted to know but fear of what he might learn kept him silent. He looked
past Draco to the fountain and the unmoving figure of the house elf he had hoped to rescue. She was
half sitting, half lying against the base of the fountain, her head drooping forward and her chin
resting on her chest. Harry felt cautiously around the back of her head until he found a bump the
size of a pelican's egg.

“Enervate,” he said quietly. “Please, Beaton, I need you. I have to get back to Hogwarts.
There's no time to lose.” Far in the distance, the clock in the village church began to
toll—one, two, three.

Beaton's saucerlike eyes opened wide, full of fear, as she recalled the last few moments before
she lost consciousness.

“All you all right?” Harry asked.

“I think so,” she said feebly, rubbing the back of her head and wincing with pain. More
chimes—four, five, six.

“Do you know the Potions classroom? Can you take me there instead of the Slytherin Common Room? We
could save some time.” Three more chimes.

“Yes, Beaton can take you there. No,” she corrected herself quickly, *“I* will take you
there.” Three final chimes. It was midnight.

**Author Note:** This is, obviously, the end of the Second Day. (It's a bit longer than
usual so I could finish the whole scene.)

Just one more day to go.

For anyone interested in the alchemy woven into the story I've started a thread about it in
the PK forums.

-->



11. The Third Day - Part 1
--------------------------



Author Note: This installment is a bit short, but the last two were both quite a bit longer than
usual, so it all averages out. Thanks to everyone who's been reviewing.

**The Third Day - Part 1**

Slinging his satchel on his back, Harry grasped Beaton's outstretched hand and closed his
eyes, focusing on the dark and vile smelling room that had long been Snape's domain. He felt
strong pressure on his entire body as his ribcage squeezed the breath out of his lungs. Beaton
pressed her nails so deeply into the palm of his hand that he knew he'd be bruised for days.
Just as Harry began to feel the pricks of unconsciousness jabbing behind his eyes, the pressure
released, Beaton dropped his hand, and he fell to the floor in Slughorn's classroom.

Shaking his head and gasping in lungfuls of air, Harry stood and searched around the room. Heavy
fumes from a dozen bubbling cauldrons filled the air. Slughorn himself was in the far corner, bent
over a large vessel that was spitting out a putrid green vapour.

“Professor Slughorn,” Harry called out. “I'm back. The Malfoy house elf apparated me
back.”

“My, my, my boy,” Slughorn said, coming forward. “Did you find the knife? Where are Krum and
Malfoy? And who is this elf?”

“This is Beaton, professor. No time to explain.” Harry picked up his pack and drew out the
leaden case. “We had to go to Malfoy Manor to get it, but we found it. Draco was hurt but he should
be OK. Viktor is with him.” Harry held out the casket. “We're pretty sure it's
Slytherin's knife. It has the same markings.”

Slughorn recoiled as Harry tried to hand him the box, so he set it down on the closest desk. “Do
you have gloves?” he asked. “Do you want to borrow mine?” Harry couldn't wait any more. He
needed answers now. He had to know.

“Yes, yes,” Slughorn replied, pulling out a pair of elbow-length dragon hide gloves from his
desk and putting them on.

Harry opened the box. “There it is. That's Bellatrix' knife—the one she used on
Hermione. The one she threw at Dobby.”

Slughorn picked up the casket almost reverently, laying it in his left hand and stroking the
knife with his right, running his gloved fingers caressingly over the tip of the blade, and tracing
the initials on the haft.

“Slytherin's knife,” he said, his eyes huge.

“So what does that mean? What do we do now?”

“What does it mean?” Slughorn repeated mechanically, in a trance that seemed to deepen with each
passing moment.

“Professor. *Professor,”* Harry said insistently, grabbing both of Slughorn's arms.
“Look at me.” Slughorn's eyes traveled slowly up to meet Harry's fierce gaze. Slughorn
shook his head sharply and closed the box.

“What it means is that the knife can be spelled with the most deadly poisons and curses, that
the merest pinprick can kill. And what we do now is find out which potion Bellatrix used—and find
the antidote.”

“But the elixir—doesn't that cure everything? And Hermione has been perfectly fine—for weeks
now,” Harry insisted.

“She was but…she is not well now, Harry,” Slughorn said gently. “And the elixir cures illness.
It may not combat Dark Magic like this.”

“So you have to make an antidote—some kind of potion?”

“Yes, exactly. And for that I'll need help.”

Slughorn walked to the side of the room and threw a handful of powder into the fireplace, which
immediately flamed a brilliant emerald green. “Minerva,” he called. “Harry's back. With the
knife. It's what we thought. Can you come right away—and bring Professor Sprout.”

“I'll be right there,” came McGonagall's quick reply.

“I want to see Hermione,” Harry said. “I won't wake her. I just want to see her.”

“Go ahead, Harry. She's still in the infirmary. You can take Beaton to the kitchen on your
way—Kreacher and the others will sort her out for tonight,” Slughorn added. “And tell Madam Pomfrey
I said you could stay in the infirmary. Try to get some sleep. It will take us most of the night to
strip away the protections on the knife and find the curse or poison embedded in the blade.”

“You'll wake me up as soon as you find out anything.” It was a command, not a request.

“Yes, Harry. You have my word.”

Harry pushed open the door of the infirmary just as the clock struck one. Lavender had
apparently left some time during the day because Hermione's bed, at the far end, was the only
one occupied. Madam Pomfrey sat in a chair at the foot of the bed, dozing quietly. The screen
around the bed had been removed, so he could see Hermione clearly, sound asleep on her back, with
one arm dangling off the side.

Harry crossed the room quickly and dropped his pack on the neighboring bed. As quietly as he could
he clasped Hermione's outstretched hand in both of his. He almost dropped it in astonishment—it
was as cold as ice, colder even than when she had been petrified back in second year. Instinctively
he brought it to his lips, blew on it and kissed it, then tucked it securely under the
covers.

He glanced at Madam Pomfrey, who seemed to be in a deep sleep, her head leaning forward and her
chin resting comfortably on her chest. Could he risk it?

Harry looked back at Hermione, her brown skin now white and almost translucent in the moonlight
that streamed through the window. “I love you, Hermione,” he whispered. “So much.” Then,
remembering all the times she had hugged him or kissed him, he leaned over and pressed his lips to
her forehead.

Her face was cold, inexplicably cold, and as he looked around the room for another blanket he
noticed that the fire in the huge stone fireplace had almost gone out. He walked over and reached
for the poker to stir the embers, but before he could grasp it the fire blazed up with a fierce
roar, pushing a wave of hot air into the room.

Madam Pomfrey stirred, shook her head, and gave out a small shriek when her eyes focused on Harry.
“Mr. Potter, you're here! When did you get back? Did you find the knife?”

“Yes, we found it. But what about Hermione? Why is she so cold? Is she getting better?”

“It's too early to tell,” Madam Pomfrey said carefully. “Remember that the Elixir must be
applied for three nights, and this is only the second night.”

Harry did not know how much Madam Pomfrey knew about Slytherin's knife, so he asked no more
questions. The answers to Hermione's illness lay in Slughorn's hands now and for that he
would have to wait.

“Professor Slughorn said I could kip here tonight. Is this OK?” he asked, motioning to the bed
where he'd put his backpack.

“Yes, certainly. Do you have everything you need?”

“Yes, thanks. Professor Slughorn said he'd come and get me as soon as he knew anything.”


After he crawled into the narrow cot Harry watched Hermione as long as he could, but eventually he
lost the struggle to keep his eyes open, and exhaustion claimed him once again.

Harry watched the unicorn moving ever more deeply into the forest, followed closely by the stag,
who had to twist and turn to avoid getting its antlers caught in the branches overhead. The dense
foliage shut out the sun almost completely, but the unicorn never hesitated as it drove through the
forest, sure of the way to its destination. Finally it reached a small circular clearing. Here the
sun shone strongly through the canopy of branches, dappling the ground below. The unicorn stopped
and turned, waiting for the stag to join it. The animals faced each other, lowering their heads in
salute. The stag raised its right hoof and the unicorn seemed poised to raise its own in answer.
Harry sensed a faint whirring in the air near his left ear just before a black arrow found its mark
in the unicorn's neck. The unicorn shuddered and fell to the ground, blood falling in a thin
trickle from its neck. Harry tried to rush forward to help the fallen animal but unseen hands
gripped him firmly and held him back.

“Mr. Potter. Harry. Wake up.” Through unfocused eyes Harry made out the fuzzy shape of Madam
Pomfrey, who was shaking him vigorously. He grabbed his glasses from the table next to his
bed.

“What is it? What time is it?”

“It's about four o'clock but Professor Slughorn just flooed to say they've solved the
mystery of the knife. You are to go to the Potions classroom immediately.”

Harry had slept in his clothes so after pulling on his trainers he was on his way to the hall,
glancing back just once to see that Hermione was still sleeping, both arms safely tucked under the
covers.

-->



12. The Third Day - Part 2
--------------------------



**Authors Note:** Some more canon repair in this installment. I'm back to my
regular-length installment now, but this is a very long scene so I had to break it into two
parts.

**The Third Day - Part 2**

As Harry neared the Potions classroom a strange, acrid smell grew stronger and stronger. When he
opened the door billowing black smoke came pouring out, choking him and stinging his eyes.

“It's all right, Harry,” said Slughorn's reassuringly. “I've opened all the windows.
This'll clear up in a minute.”

“Evanesco”—the dispelling charm rang out in Professor McGonagall's determined voice. The smoke
quickly vanished and Harry could at last see the two professors at the front desk, the knife laid
out on an iron trencher in front of them. Slytherin's knife was no longer shiny or silver. It
was dark gray, almost black, as if it were made of wrought iron or lead.

“We know what the poison is, Harry. Professor Slughorn and Professor Sprout tried every test. They
all came out the same.”

Harry looked at the cauldrons on his right and left, filled to the brim with a thick black liquid.
He walked toward the front of the classroom, looking at a dozen more cauldrons on his way. The same
black liquid—in all his years at Hogwarts he had never seen any potion like it.

“What is it, professor?” Harry asked.

“It's the Odiosa poison, Harry,” McGonagall replied. “The poison of Undying Hate.”

A wave of panic clenched at Harry's stomach so he could barely speak. He reached for the chair
behind him and sat down. Head bowed, looking anywhere but at his two professors, he asked, “What
does it do?”

“It is a way to kill your enemies after you yourself have died,” Slughorn explained.

“I've never heard of it. Never. Are you sure?”

“You wouldn't have heard of it, Harry. It was a poison invented by Salazar Slytherin and, as
far as we know, the secret died with him. However, Narcissa Malfoy told us tonight that her sister
was trying to rediscover all the lost poisons and curses of Slytherin—we believe that Voldemort
gave Bellatrix the knife for exactly that purpose. And yes, we're sure.”

“So what's the antidote? Will the Elixir work?” Harry asked, already fearing the answer.

“The Elixir is keeping Hermione alive, but barely. She slipped into unconsciousness a few hours
ago, just before you returned. There is no known antidote—remember this poison has not been used
for hundreds of years.”

“But there has to be something we can do,” Harry shouted, standing up and staring furiously at the
knife. “You can't just give up!”

“We're not giving up, Harry.” McGonagall said firmly. “We've been examining every encounter
Miss Granger has had with Dark Magic since she came to Hogwarts. She has overcome much, Harry. We
need to see if there's a way to help her overcome this as well,” McGonagall said.

“Of course there's a way,” Harry said.

“This is what we've pieced together so far, Harry. You know Hermione best. Correct me if I have
something wrong—or leave something important out.”

Harry nodded.

Professor McGonagall turned to the blackboard and began to write. *Basilisk*.

“The enormous reptile revived by Tom Riddle. *Very* Dark Magic, no doubt about that,” Slughorn
said.

”But she was cured—by the mandrake root,” Harry insisted.

“Yes, she was,” Professor McGonagall replied. “But were there any lingering traces? We don't
know.”

Harry looked down at his hands and cast his mind back to one of his most vivid memories of Second
Year. “What about the Polyjuice? Hermione accidentally used a hair from Millicent Bulstrode's
cat, remember?” he said quietly.

“No worries there, Harry,” Slughorn said reassuringly. “Though terribly ill-advised on Miss
Granger's part, her half-transfiguring was self-inflicted. And the cat was…just a cat. No, she
did not come face to face with Dark Magic again until—“

 *Dolohov's curse.* Hands shaking, Professor McGonagall scratched out the letters on the
blackboard.

For an instant Harry froze, as he flashed back to the horrifying moment when he had watched
Hermione fall in the Department of Mysteries. “Neville found a pulse. I was useless,” he
said.

“But she recovered, Harry,” Professor McGonagall said gently.

“However…” Slughorn stood up and walked to the board. He drew a large question mark next to
McGonagall's last entry.

“What?” Harry asked.

Slughorn turned around and looked at Harry intently. “Did you ever notice—did you ever think—that
Miss Granger behaved—strangely—afterwards? In your Sixth Year, perhaps?”

“What do you mean?”

Professor McGonagall glared at Slughorn, who ignored her and pressed on. “Did she ever seem to
…lose control? Do something cruel…violent even?”

“No, Horace, this is not going to get us anywhere,” McGonagall said, turning back to the
board.

“Actually, Professor, well…I don't know,” Harry faltered.

“Harry, you must tell us,” Slughorn pressed. “We have to know everything if we are to help your
friend.”

Harry gave a quick nod, as images of Hermione's erratic behaviour the previous year flooded his
mind. “Most of the time she was as she always is. Helping me—keeping me out of trouble. But I
couldn't believe it when she…um…rigged the Quidditch tryouts so Ron would make Keeper. And then
she was cruel to Ron sometimes. Really cruel.” Harry paused. “You asked about violence. There was
one time—she conjured a whole flock of yellow birds and made them attack him. He had cuts all over
his hands and face.”

“Why was this not reported?” Professor McGonagall said furiously. “This is not the Hermione we
know—maybe we could have done something—long ago. Why didn't Ron report it? Why didn't you?
Couldn't you see something was terribly wrong?”

“Because Ron knew he deserved it,” Harry muttered under his breath before looking directly at the
Headmistress. “We didn't want to get Hermione in trouble. And Ron got better.”

“It's too late to fuss about this now, Minerva,” Slughorn said. “Anything else, Harry?”

“I dunno, maybe this is just a girl thing, you know? But she was awfully...moody. She'd roll on
the floor laughing at—really—nothing. And she'd cry at the drop of a hat—or not talk at all,”
Harry said, reliving the tense evening when Hermione and Ginny had quarreled over his use of the
Sectumsempra curse.

“But then, after Professor Dumbledore's death”—and after I broke up with Ginny, Harry
remembered—“she was back to normal. She and Ron were friends again and they decided—they
*insisted* —on coming with me to find the Horcruxes.”

“What do you think, Minerva? Perhaps all this is normal for a teenage girl?” Slughorn asked.

“No, I'm afraid not,” Professor McGonagall replied. “I noticed bits of odd behaviour too but
I'm ashamed to say I refused to see it. The students were safe and not under attack—that's
all I considered. And I didn't know about the birds,” she said, looking at Harry sharply.

There was an awkward silence, as Slughorn nervously flipped the pages of an ancient Potions book,
collecting his thoughts.

“So Miss Granger was fighting the effects of a Death Eater curse all through her last year here. We
can presume that when she was under stress, she cracked…but…She bends, but she doesn't
break.”

“Hermione is a fighter. She's the strongest person I know,” Harry said.

“Hermione is strong, Harry,” Professor McGonagall agreed. “But she isn't alone. She never faced
anything alone. There is no greater power against Dark Magic, against evil of any kind, than love.
What helped Hermione was the support—and love—she had from you, her friends, her family. Always,
through every trial she has faced she had your friendship and Ron's. As well as the affection
of her teachers—and I include Professor Dumbledore, who knew her worth—and myself.” Her voice
faltered on the last two words, but she wrapped herself tightly in her long robes and continued
firmly: “And she's always known she could count on the unconditional love of her
parents.”

“But she lost that. She gave it away,” Harry said.

“What do you mean, Harry?” McGonagall asked sharply.

“Last summer, before we went searching for the rest of the Horcruxes—she modified her parents'
memories and moved them to Australia, to protect them,” Harry explained. “They don't even know
they have a daughter anymore.”

“Gracious!” Professor McGonagall exclaimed. “What a terrible—and foolish—sacrifice! But that would
explain one thing—why I haven't been able to reach them these past two days. Because she needs
them, now more than ever. Hermione needs to be surrounded by all the people who love her, the
people she loves.”

“What about her sister, then?” Harry asked anxiously. “I know they aren't close—her parents
almost disowned her when she lied about her age and went off to university. But she's still her
sister, her blood relative—couldn't she help?”

“Yes, I hope so,” McGonagall replied. “So Hermione told you about Imogen, then?”

“Yeah. Not much though. Just that she was absolutely brilliant and went up to Cambridge to read
physics when she was fifteen or something—same year Hermione came to Hogwarts. And that her parents
were furious.”

“Imogen Granger is now a distinguished research scientist at Trinity College,” Slughorn added. “And
barely twenty-two. Pity she never came to Hogwarts. She would have been a great addition to my
Club.”

“As far as we knew she was a Muggle, Horace. But that's not what's important now. Harry,
Imogen should be on her way here soon. I told Mr. Krum to go to Cambridge and fetch her, when he
Flooed from Avebury to find out whether you and Beaton had come back—and tell us about
Draco.”

“How is Draco?” asked Harry, embarrassed that he had not thought about him at all since he came
back to Hogwarts.

“He's going to be fine, we think,” McGongall replied nervously, wringing her hands. “But he
lost a lot of blood, so the Aurors took him to St. Mungo's for a Replenishment Potion—and to
watch for—any other effects.”

“Great. That's great,” Harry said, managing a half-hearted smile. “But what about Hermione?
What can we do while we wait for Imogen?”

“We need to finish the list,” McGongall said, turning back to the board. “Where were we? Ah yes,
Dolohov's curse. What was Miss Granger's next encounter with Voldemort's Dark
Magic?”

“I think it had to be the locket—you know, the Horcrux we nicked from Umbridge at the Ministry. I
wore it around my neck for safekeeping but it…it affected me….so Hermione volunteered to wear
it…said we should take turns.”

“And how did it affect her? Did you notice any strange behavior—irritability, any more violence?”
Slughorn asked, as Professor McGonagall added *Locket Horcrux* to the list.

“We were all pretty cranky…and depressed. But she seemed to bear it fairly well. Better
than…”

“Better than before, do you mean?” Slughorn interrupted.

“Yes, well no, I mean, better than Ron. Ron actually…um…left for a bit—we think because of the
locket. But he came back when he could,” Harry said hastily. “In fact Ron was the one who destroyed
the locket Horcrux in the end.”

“So again. Hermione, despite all the stress, all the deprivation, without the support of her
parents, her friends—except for you and Ron—she persisted and defeated the Dark Magic trying to
overwhelm her,” Slughorn said, the admiration clear in his voice.

“I think so, yeah,” Harry responded.

“So then what comes next—Bellatrix?” Professor McGonagall asked.

“Yes. We were captured and taken to Malfoy Manor. Hermione was separated from the rest of us—and
tortured.”

“How?” McGonagall asked gently, as she added *Bellatrix - knife* slowly, unwillingly, to the
list.

Harry looked down at the floor. “Bellatrix demanded to know where we'd got the
sword—Gryffindor's sword.” Seeing the professors' confused expressions, Harry explained:
“Snape sent it to me. Bellatrix used Crucio over and over. But Hermione said *nothing*.”

“And she threatened Hermione with the knife as well?” Slughorn asked.

“Yes, when we escaped from the cellar and rushed everyone upstairs she held the knife to
Hermione's throat—to make us drop our wands.”

“Did she cut Hermione?” Harry gasped. “I'm sorry, Harry, but we have to know,” McGonagall
added.

“She pressed the blade into her throat—she pierced the skin. I saw a few drops of blood,” Harry
closed his eyes trying to banish the horrifying sight from his mind.

“You're sure you saw blood, Hermione's blood?” Slughorn persisted.

“Yes,” Harry said, barely above a whisper. “But then Dobby came and made the chandelier fall and we
all escaped. Hermione was perfectly fine after that, at Shell Cottage.”

“Did you ever see her injury—was there a scar at all?” McGonagall asked.

“I never saw a scar. And she never said anything, never complained.”

“That's our Hermione though, isn't it? Brave to a fault,” McGonagall said proudly.

“Wait a minute,” Harry said. “Yes, I *did* see it once. At Shell Cottage she showed the cut to
Griphook, the goblin from Gringotts. It was just a thin line, but it was red, bright scarlet—like
the scarlet scar the locket made on my chest, now that I think of it.”

McGonagall and Slughorn looked furtively at each other, struggling to mask the look of horror that
had crossed their faces at Harry's last words.

-->



13. The Third Day - Part 3
--------------------------



The Third Day - Part 3


“But it healed, I know it did,” Harry said.

“Yes, fine. Let's go on,” McGonagall said. ”It was right after that that you and Hermione and
Ron went to Gringotts? And Hermione Polyjuiced herself as Bellatrix?”

“Yes.” Harry nodded, as *Polyjuice - Bellatrix* joined the list. “She had one of
Bellatrix's hairs on her sweater—from Malfoy Manor. And she used Bellatrix' wand too. She
didn't like it though—said it didn't work properly for her, that the wand was like a bit of
Bellatrix.”

“Very interesting. I think we're right, Minerva, about the protection.”

“What protection?” Harry almost shouted.

Professor McGonagall picked up her wand from the desk and twirled it slowly in her fingers. “We
suspect—we don't know for sure—but we suspect that when Hermione took Bellatrix's form and
used her wand, it neutralized--suspended--the curse from the knife.” She paused, as Harry began to
realize the implications of what she was saying.

“So that's why the cut healed?”

“We think so. Well, partly, anyway. The other part was Hermione's own strength, her ability to
fight hate and Dark Magic,” she added, her eyes blazing with fierce pride. “But then, just hours
before you defeated Voldemort, she had another run-in with Dark Magic. Hermione told me yesterday
that she and Ron went to the Chamber of Secrets alone, to collect fangs from the skull of the
basilisk that Riddle brought back to life in your second year.”

“That's right. They destroyed a horcrux, Hufflepuff's cup,” Harry confirmed. “Oh. I see
now. It was Hermione who did it. *She* took the fang in her hand. *She* stabbed the cup.
But what does that mean? Ron was there too, and he's fine. And nothing happened to him months
ago after he stabbed the locket.” Only *before* he stabbed it, Harry thought, remembering the
spectral images of himself and Hermione, their taunting kiss, and his denial to Ron—his lie.

Slughorn rose from his seat as McGonagall added *Cup Horcrux - Basilisk fang* to the list.
“Before it is killed and at its death, a horcrux emits a surge of evil—which quickly dissipates,”
he explained. “If that were the only thing Hermione had to face….but she was already weakened by
everything else she had suffered. Harry, did you notice any effect on her magic, after she
destroyed the Horcrux?”

“Well, when we met the dementors outside the castle, she could barely summon her Patronus—and it
quickly faded. But mine and Ron's didn't last either. Luna, Ernie, and Seamus had to save
us.”

“Remember, Horace, that Hermione told us that the wound did not reopen until the next day, after
Harry defeated Voldemort, the day Bellatrix was killed.” McGonagall was twirling her wand again,
her brow furrowed in concentration. “Something else must have triggered the Odiosa curse. But
what?” she said.

“What do you mean—triggered?” Harry asked.

Slughorn pulled on his dragonhide gloves and picked up the knife, examining it carefully. “The
curse of Undying Hate feeds on hate. It can only be cast by someone consumed with hate. But the
hate must live on--somehow. Bellatrix expected that if she were killed, it would be at the hand of
a blood enemy, someone who hated as strongly as she did, someone who passionately desired her
death--someone she would have wounded with the knife in battle, before her own life was
taken.”

Harry's mind raced. “So, whoever killed Bellatrix—if he killed her out of hate—and she had cut
or nicked him with the knife—then the Odiosa curse would be cast, and he would die too.”

“Yes, that's what we believe,” McGonagall said.

“But that's not what happened, not at all,” Harry exclaimed joyfully. “Hermione didn't kill
Bellatrix. Yes, she was there in the Great Hall but it was Mrs. Weasley who cast the killing curse.
So Hermione will be fine—she'll recover for sure.”

“What did you just say, Harry? That Mrs. Weasley cast the killing curse? Are you sure?” McGonagall
asked sharply.

“Oh, I didn't mean that,” Harry said. “I…she…”

“This is very important Harry,” Slughorn interrupted. “Did Mrs. Weasley use the Avada Kedavra curse
on Bellatrix Lestrange? We must know the truth, the whole truth. Do not attempt to shield Mrs.
Weasley or anyone else. Hermione's life should be your only concern.”

Bile rose in Harry's throat at Slughorn's needless reminder. Hermione *was* his only
concern; nothing and no one else mattered to him now. But he had to think. What had Mrs. Weasley
said?

“They were fighting to kill, both of them,” he said reluctantly. “I didn't hear what Mrs.
Weasley said—or if she said anything at all--but the curse hit Bellatrix right over her heart and
killed her instantly.”

Silence filled the room, broken finally by Professor McGonagall's last entry: *Bellatrix
killed—Odiosa curse.*

“I never would have thought it. Never. Molly using a killing curse,” Professor McGonagall
said.

“But she couldn't have known that Hermione had been injured by Bellatrix—or even that Bellatrix
had potioned the knife,” Slughorn protested.

“It doesn't matter, Horace. Unforgivable Curses are unforgivable for a reason. They have
consequences. Harry defeated Lord Voldemort with a defensive spell. If Molly had done the same,
then Hermione would have…would have…”

A sudden crack came from the back of the classroom. The cauldron nearest the door had split open,
revealing a solid mass of potion, frozen hard, utterly black. Harry suddenly realized that the
bubbling in the other cauldrons had stopped as well, and in the next moments each of them cracked
in turn, as the Potion of Undying Hate froze to ice and expanded.

Professor McGonagall was shaking uncontrollably, so Harry leaped up and grabbed her arm, guiding
her to an armchair in the corner of the room. He replaced her at the blackboard and drew a line
under the terrible list.

“All right,” he said forcefully, refusing to give way to the panic that was rising in his chest.
“We know everything that happened. Now what do we do about it? You said there's no *known*
antidote—that the Elixir is just keeping her alive, it isn't a cure. But there *must* be a
cure. There can't be a curse driven by an evil so strong that there isn't a powerful good
that can defeat it. I won't believe that. Otherwise we would all have been serving Voldemort
for the past seventeen years.” He glanced for a moment at the dozen cracked cauldrons. “I know—what
about the Department of Mysteries—you know, the room that's always locked? Dumbledore told me
about it—that what it holds is a power more wonderful and more terrible than death. The power is
love, isn't it? Can we take Hermione there, give her some of that?”

“Oh, Harry. If only…” McGonagall sighed and shook her head.

“If only what?” Harry pressed.

“Behind that door wizards and witches study the power of love and hope and self-sacrifice, but the
only love that is alive, that can heal, is the love we feel in our hearts,” Slughorn said.

McGonagall was sobbing quietly, tears flowing down her cheeks. She looked up at Harry. “If Hermione
hadn't been already so weakened. If she had taken the Odiosa curse when she was strong,
confident of the love of her family, her friends, everyone here—then maybe that love would have
sustained her, allowed her to withstand Bellatrix's hate. Oh I wish I could contact her
parents, but there's no way they could be back in time….Imogen should be here soon—and Viktor.
Although--”

“Although what?” Harry asked.

“The strongest love is love that is both given and received: it grows and multiplies within our
hearts. I have no doubt at all that Viktor loves Hermione—has loved her for years. But I'm
afraid that she does not return his feelings. In fact, I have long suspected that she gave her
heart to—“

“To Ron, yeah, I know. I thought so too. But she told me, after the battle, that they didn't
fancy each other, that they were better as friends. But she *does* love him as a friend—that
counts for something, doesn't it?”

“Yes, certainly, Harry,” Slughorn replied. “And we sent messages every way we could to the Burrow,
to ask Ron to come back. Unfortunately, the Burrow is sealed for the day of mourning before the
funeral, so Ron won't know about Hermione until this evening.”

Harry gasped.

“We have all been taking turns with her, Harry,” McGonagall said. “Not just Madam Pomfrey but all
the teachers, her friends who are still here—Neville, Lavender and Parvati until they had to go
home, Crookshanks of course.”

“But that's not enough, is it? Or she'd have recovered by now.” Suddenly Harry remembered
what else Dumbledore had told him that fateful night of Sirius' death—that his love,
Harry's love, his heart, had saved him from possession by Voldemort. His love for Hermione was
strong and pure, greater than the love he'd felt for anyone. Would it be enough? It had to be.
He forced a thin smile at the two professors, who sat unmoving, stricken by the revelations of the
past hour. “I'm going back to Hermione. I'll stay with her.”

Professor McGonagall inclined her head slightly and nodded at Harry. “Remember, Harry. Love
isn't how you feel. It's what you do.”

AUTHOR NOTE: I need to acknowledge Madeleine L'Engle's A Wind in the Door, for the
memorable final line of this part.

So did anyone see the Molly twist coming? This is something Rowling would NEVER do, though the
context is fully established in canon.

-->



14. The Third Day - Part Four
-----------------------------



*[***Author Note:** *Th**is is the last of the prewritten parts. Updates will be
slower from now on I'm afraid.]*

**The Third Day - Part 4**

**Recalled to Life**

It was nearly dawn by the time Harry returned to the infirmary. Madam Pomfrey's chair was
empty, though she had not gone far: he heard the clatter of pots and pans from the infirmary
kitchen. Hermione was alone. The pale light of the setting moon reflected off her white skin and
sky blue nightdress. Crookshanks was curled up on the foot of the bed, awake and purring steadily.
His ears pricked up as Harry approached. He stood, jumped off the bed, and began circling
Harry's legs. Harry reached down to pick him up, but Crookshanks eluded his grasp and scampered
down the row of beds and out the door.

Harry sat down beside the bed and took one of Hermione's hands in his. It was as cold as
ice, though her fingers were still soft and flexible. She was breathing lightly but she did not
respond to his touch.

He noticed a large book with an ancient red cover lying on the table beside the bed, next to
Neville's cutting from the ancient oak. A wave of affection swept through Harry: it was so like
Hermione to turn to a book to solve a mystery. He placed her hand gently back on the coverlet and
picked up the book. Stamped in gold on the cover was a title that stirred memories of his first
year at Hogwarts: *The Philosopher's Stone*. Perhaps it would have a picture of the stone
he had secured from the Mirror of Erised all those years ago. As he leafed through the book he saw
that it was a collection of richly detailed pictures of mythical lands and creatures—a dragon
swallowing his tail, a wolf battling a dog, a salamander burning in a fire and never consumed. Then
came images of animals and their mates: a lion and a lioness, two fish in a calm sea, two huge
birds.

And suddenly he saw it. In the glade of a thick forest was a stag, standing proudly with its
head erect to display the twelve points of its antlers. It was the image of his own Patronus, but
with flesh and muscle. It was the stag of his dream.

Facing the stag and walking toward it was a perfectly formed unicorn, the paper twin of the one
Hermione had sent across the lake two nights before.

What did it mean? Harry could make nothing out of the short Latin inscription below the
engraving. But long ago a Hogwarts student had scribbled two words on the picture. In faded ink
Harry could make out the word “soul” on the stag and “spirit” on the unicorn. Spirit and soul. He
remembered little from History of Magic but this much he knew: Thousands of years ago a great
wizard had taught that to become whole, a person's spirit and soul had to come together.

But then there was a change. What was it? Harry closed his eyes tightly to capture the images
and words that flitted through his mind. Flamel. Yes, Flamel. Nicolas and Perenelle, the only
wizards ever to create a Philosopher's Stone. Spirit? Soul? Yes, that was it. Flamel had said
that man was soul and that he could not survive alone. He had to find his spirit, his partner, the
one who would complete him. Harry gasped.

The stag and the unicorn. Male and female. Meant to be together.

Harry opened his eyes and looked back at Hermione. All the doubts of the past two days
dissolved. She didn't love Ron—or Viktor Krum. She didn't love some mysterious unknown
wizard with a unicorn Patronus. Hermione loved him. She loved *him*. Harry could scarcely
believe it. A host of questions jostled in his mind competing for answers: “How long?” “How could
he have not seen”?” “Did Ron know?” And finally, “Did she realize how much he loved her?”

Though he knew she couldn't see or hear him or feel his touch, he surrendered to instinct
and bent over her to press his lips gently against hers. They were cold and pale. How he wished he
could breathe his own life into her. He drew back and gazed at her face, letting his fingers graze
her check and play with her hair. Her lovely face, so familiar and dear to him. She *was* his
spirit. How long had she also claimed his heart?

He bent over again and started to cover her face with kisses, her forehead, her eyebrows, all
the features of her face that he knew so well. Her nose, her cheeks, the soft places of her ear,
her lips again.

She was cold. Cold as a pane of glass after a hard frost. The Hermione he knew was brown and
healthy and glowing; but now her skin was pale and white, almost translucent. The blue of her veins
was visible on her closed eyelids.

She must come back. She had to come back—to him. Was it selfish of him to ask for this one life,
the life more precious to him than any other?

Panic welled up inside him and clawed at his chest. He pressed his lips against hers again, much
harder this time, willing her to awaken and accept his love. For a moment Harry thought he saw her
eyelashes flicker. But he was mistaken. Hermione was still, cold, unmoving, in thrall to
Bellatrix' poison of Hate.

Harry forced himself to look at Hermione's neck, where the wound from the knife was covered
by a large square bandage. In fury and despair, in obedience to an impulse he could never explain,
Harry ripped off the cloth and stared at the place where Hermione's life was ebbing away. The
pricks of the knife had combined to create a single wound forming a rough semicircle at
Hermione's throat. This was a wound unlike any Harry had ever seen. It was not bleeding at all.
It was open, but it was oozing a thick silvery-white substance. Cruelly, Harry realized that he had
seen something similar once before: the life-sustaining unicorn blood that Voldemort had taken from
a creature he had slain in the Forbidden Forest. But this time the silvery-white blood meant
death.

Harry knew what he had to do, whatever it might cost him. Without hesitating, he bent over
Hermione again and began to suck the poison out of her wound. The silvery blood tasted metallic and
was terribly cold. Almost immediately Harry felt sharp pains go down his throat. In the next
moments icy fire stabbed like a thousand knives down his arms and legs and tore at his stomach,
ripping him apart from within. This was a pain unlike any other, a pain worse than death.

But Harry knew that Voldemort's instruments of death could no longer hurt him, and he would
bear any pain if it would save Hermione. His heart was on fire with love for the person who was his
truest friend and companion, his real family, his partner and yes, his spirit. Harry felt a
powerful warmth rising from his body, coursing through his veins, overwhelming the icy pain, as he
drew the last of the silvery blood from Hermione's wound.

Exhausted with the effort, Harry fell across Hermione's chest, pressing himself against her
as if he could revive her with the heat from his body. He turned his face and looked at her neck.
He gasped in shock: the wound was closed and completely healed. A red sickle-shaped scar was all
that remained of Bellatrix's curse.

A slight flush crossed Hermone's face and Harry noticed small movements in her fingers. Her
eyelashes flickered, then her eyes blinked, once, twice, three times. The first pale glint of dawn
burnished her hair in its golden light. Her eyes were fully open now, and she was looking at
him.

“Harry,” Hermione whispered.

“Hermione.” Harry's heart was so full he had no words. He grabbed her hand in both of his
and kissed it over and over in joy and relief.

*[***Author's Note:** *S**o this is what I've been aiming for all along.
Let me know if it's satisfactory—what you were expecting. There's a lot of alchemy in this
part—I'll explain the main things on the* **thread at the Forum*.**]*

-->



15. The Third Day - Part 5
--------------------------



**Author Note:** Imogen, Hermione's older sister, makes her first appearance in this
chapter. She was mentioned briefly before, in Chapter 12 (The Third Day, Part 2).

A slight flush crossed Hermione's face and Harry noticed small movements in her fingers. Her
eyelashes flickered, then her eyes blinked, once, twice, three times. A sudden shaft of sunlight
caught her hair in its golden light. Her eyes were fully open now, and she was looking at him.

“Harry,” Hermione whispered.

“Hermione.” Harry's heart was so full he had no words. He grabbed her hand in both of his
and kissed it over and over in joy and relief.

**The Third Day - Part 5**

"Hermione, are you okay?"

"I'm so thirsty," she said in a raspy whisper. Next to the bed was a glass of water
that had been charmed to remain cool. Harry picked it up and offered it to her.

Feebly, Hermione lifted her head, but she quickly fell back on the pillow. Harry reached his arm
around her shoulders and supported her so she could sit up. She swallowed eagerly, draining the
entire contents.

"I'm so cold," she said. "Why is it so cold?"

"Do you want some cocoa? Looks like Madam Pomfrey left you a huge mug full. Maybe it'll
thaw you out."

Hermione took a few sips, then paused. "*You* melted me, Harry, only you..."

Harry's smile was so broad it reached his ears. It was now or never. "I love you,
Hermione," he said with all the power of his heart. He had never said those words to anyone
before.

"I know," she replied, her eyes shining. "I heard you last night. I heard
everything.” She took another sip of cocoa then gave the mug back to Harry. “But I couldn't
move. I couldn't speak. I tried--so hard--but it was as if I was imprisoned in a sheet of ice.
But I heard you." She took Harry's hand in both of hers. "I felt the heat of your
breath, like a warm fire melting the ice. Then I felt you draw the poison out of me. That was very
brave, Harry. And very rash."

"How could I live without my soul?" Harry asked, turning his eyes to the book of
engravings, still open to the image of the stag and the unicorn. Hermione smiled, and a tinge of
palest pink blushed her cheeks.

"I love you, Harry," she said, turning slightly so she could look into his soft green
eyes. She raised her hand to his face and timidly brushed his cheek with the tips of her fingers.
Harry grasped her hand and kissed it, her fingers, her palm, her wrist. He looked up at her pale
white face and, tangling his fingers in her hair, he drew her to him and pressed his lips gently
against hers. Her lips were still cold, but soft and yielding, and with a lingering taste of
chocolate.

“We have to get you warm. Let's get you to the fire.” Harry stood and half-carried, half
dragged Hermione to the chesterfield. He sat down and pulled her onto his lap, wrapping his arms
tightly around her so her back was pressed firmly against his chest. He tried to keep as much
contact with her body as possible, to give her his warmth from her shoulders to her ankles.

“I think we can do better than this, don't you?” Harry asked, motioning toward the modest pile
of embers smoldering in the ancient fireplace.

“Yes, indeed,” Hermione said, releasing her right arm from Harry's grasp. Before she could
extend her hand and speak the spell, the embers blazed up in huge tongues of flame, sending a wave
of warmth into the room. “Wow. I never did that before,” she said.

“That's not exactly true, Hermione. Remember the bluebell flames you conjured back in Second
Year? These are just a different colour—and hotter. You've always been a master of fire,” he
teased.

“Ah yes,” Hermione laughed, as she leaned back into his embrace. As Harry warmed the back of her
neck with soft breaths and kisses, she interleaved her fingers in his and clasped and unclasped
their hands. As she drew her finger along the back of his right hand her nail caught in a deep
scratch.

Harry winced.

“What's this, Harry?" Hermione asked, grasping his hand. "I looked you all over after
the battle and you were uninjured. What happened?”

“It's a long story and don't worry--I'll tell you everything, but…well…Viktor and Draco
and I had to go to Malfoy Manor. . . and we had a bit of a run in with Fenrir Greyback. And he
scratched me.”

Hermione gasped.

“But it's fine. We captured him and tied him up. Draco got the worst of it actually. But
he's going to be fine too. Truly.” Harry was not going to sacrifice an instant of his moment of
happiness with Hermione, so he quickly changed the subject. “Did you know that Viktor has an otter
Patronus? I saw it. Very impressive. Had me worried for a while. You know, because of my mother and
Snape—both having Does, remember?”

“So you thought I might be in love with Viktor? Harry…” she said, turning in his arms and kissing
him firmly, leaving him in no doubt about her feelings. “You know, Ron was right about one thing
this year. I did choose you. I just didn't realize what it meant at the time. I could never
leave you.”

Lost in joy and happiness, Harry and Hermione did not notice when Crookshanks padded silently back
into the room. They startled and let go of each other when he jumped onto the chesterfield and
climbed into Hermione's lap. She laughed and began scratching him between the ears. Crookshanks
purred loudly, in deep contentment.

“Am I always going to have to share you with him?” Harry asked.

“Do you mind?”

“No. So long as he's the only one.”

Harry suddenly heard the squeaky soles of Madam Pomfrey's shoes behind them, entering the
infirmary. As he turned to look, he heard a sharp gasp and the clatter of a metal tray hitting the
stone floor. A dozen steaming hot towels scattered to the ground. Crookshanks jumped off
Hermione's lap and ran out the door.

“Miss Granger! Hermione! You're awake!”

“Yes, thanks to Harry,” Hermione replied. Harry tightened his arms around her as she tried to
wriggle out of his lap.

“She's still terribly cold. I'm warming her up,” Harry explained defiantly.

Before Madam Pomfrey could suggest a more conventional remedy, the fire in the grate flared emerald
green and a young woman tumbled out onto the floor. She had bushy dark auburn hair, and a thin
crease between her pale blue eyes, which seemed dazed and out of focus as she looked around the
room.

In the next moment the green flames flared again and Viktor Krum stepped out. He went immediately
to the woman still crouched on the floor and helped her to her feet, holding his arm firmly around
her waist to steady her.

“Imogen, are you all right?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you, Viktor. I'm fine.” With his free hand Viktor carefully brushed a smudge of
soot from her cheek.

“Hermione!” she cried. “Are you okay? Viktor said that….he said…”

This time Harry released Hermione, who stood up just in time to receive a bone-crushing hug from
her sister. Viktor's face shone with joy as he watched the happy reunion. “God be thanked,” he
said fervently, as he took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped at the corner of his eye. He
stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket, drew himself up, and looked directly at Harry.
“*You* did this Harry. *You* saved her. I knew it would be you.” He jerked his head in a
quick nod.

“I was so worried," Imogen said, still holding tightly on to her sister. "Viktor tried to
keep up a brave front, but I could tell he wasn't telling me everything.”

“We don't know how exactly, but Harry was able to draw out and neutralize the poison,” Hermione
explained.

“So this is Harry, then?” Imogen asked, a smile crossing her face for the first time.



-->



16. The Third Day - Part 6
--------------------------

**The Third Day - Part 6**

“Yes. Oh, sorry,” Hermione answered, taking Harry’s hand and drawing him forward. “Imogen, this is
my…friend, Harry Potter. Harry, this is my sister Imogen.”

“Hi. It’s great to finally meet you,” Harry said, extending his free hand, which Imogen shook
enthusiastically.

“Thank you, Harry,” she said fervently. “Viktor told me about what you went through to defeat
Lord Voldemort—and retrieve the knife.”

Viktor stepped forward and took Hermione’s hands in both of his. “You are fully recovered,
Hermione?” he asked, his voice shaking. “I was afraid to hope.”

“I think so, Viktor,” she replied, kissing him lightly on the cheek and pulling away her hands.
“Thank you for bringing Imogen—thank you for *everything* you’ve done this year. I know it
helped so many people.”

“I did what had to be done,” Viktor said gruffly. He had never been comfortable with praise.
“And now you and Harry can be happy at last…together.” The last word was barely a whisper.

Hermione struggled for an answer, but she was rescued by Madam Pomfrey, who had just finished
deploying a battery of silent Wingardium Leviosa spells to refold and stack the towels. “All right,
then, now that we’ve had introductions all round, I need to check out my patient. Mr. Potter, Mr.
Krum, may I ask you to leave? Looks like you both need a good wash, to make yourselves a bit more
presentable. Dr. Granger, you may of course remain.”

“Oh, but I’m not a real doctor,” Imogen protested.

“Yes dear, I know. A Ph,D. in particle physics, isn’t it? Professor McGonagall told me all about
you last year, when Hermione inquired about your being admitted to Hogwarts as a special student.
Just as well you didn’t come—this past year has been…dreadful…tragic. So many gone….” Her voice
trailed off. “But that’s all done now, thanks to Harry.”

Harry had grasped Hermione’s hand as soon as Viktor released it, and he looked as if he wasn’t
going to surrender the connection without a fight. Hermione turned quickly and looked at him. She
gasped at the intensity in his eyes. “Harry, I’ll be fine. You are with me now, always,” she
whispered, laying his hand on her heart. “It’s almost eight o’clock,” Hermione said, glancing at
the ancient clock on the mantelpiece. “Give us an hour. Imogen and I will meet you—*both* of
you,” she added, looking meaningfully at Viktor, “in the Gryffindor Common Room at nine
o’clock.”

Hermione gave Harry’s hand a final squeeze and he recognized the dismissal. He gathered up his pack
from the foot of the cot where he had spent those few restless hours when Slughorn and McGonagall
were probing the mysteries of Bellatrix’ knife. Viktor slung his satchel over his shoulder, and the
two Seekers reluctantly shuffled down the row of beds. Hermione watched them until they left the
infirmary and closed the door behind them. That was the man she loved. Harry was the one she loved,
had always loved. And he loved her. She could hardly believe it.

“Right. Now, Miss Granger,” Madam Pomfrey said briskly. “That’s enough staring. Let’s have a
look at you.” She motioned to a straight-backed chair beside the bed, and Hermione sat down. The
examination was quick but thorough. “Still very cold. Well we can fix that, can’t we?” Madam
Pomfrey said. “What’s this, then?” she exclaimed, as Hermione lifted and turned her head so she
could examine her throat. “Where were you injured, Hermione? I can’t find it. There’s nothing
there, no scar, nothing. There’s just this little half-circle, but it’s totally white, must be from
years ago.”

Hermione knew she would have to explain her remarkable recovery at some point, but now all she
wanted was to get back to Gryffindor Tower, get back to Harry. “I’m perfectly fine now. Can we
go?”

“I don’t know. I’d like to keep an eye on you for a bit. But all right—on one condition. You
need a long, warm bath. Why don’t you use the Prefects’ Bathroom? It’s still in good order. Imogen
could join you,” she added, glancing at the smudges of soot on Imogen’s face and hair.

“Oh, good idea,” Hermione agreed.

“And stay in there until you’re wrinkled all over.”

“Yes, Madam Pomfrey.”

Hermione picked up Neville’s oak cutting, her wand, and the rest of her belongings and led
Imogen into the hall. As they walked around and through piles of rubble and up a half dozen
shattered staircases, Imogen’s eyes grew so wide that Hermione was suddenly reminded of Dobby—and
his fate. Her breath caught in her throat. She stopped and threw her arms around Imogen.

“I’m so sorry, Hermione. I had no idea,” Imogen said, drawing back, her arm sweeping out to
encompass the scene of destruction around them. “I should never have doubted you. I can’t imagine
what you went through this past year. I was wrong. You were right to get Mum and Dad away from
this. I’m so sorry for what I said. I was angry. I know I hurt you. Can you forgive me?”

“Yes, yes. What’s important is that you came to me now,” Hermione replied. “Oh, Imogen, it’s so
good to see you. We’ll go to Australia as soon as possible. Harry and I have to go to a funeral
this afternoon, but after that you and I will go and find them, together.”

“Thank you. You are kinder to me than I deserve.”

Two more staircases and another long corridor and they finally reached Griffyndor Tower.
“Harmony,” Hermione said firmly. “You have to give a password to get in,” she explained. “‘Harmony’
is a new one, just in the past day or so, Harry told me.”

They clambered through the portrait hole and climbed the stairs to the girls’ room, its five
beds stripped to the bare mattress.

Hermione made straight for a sturdy oak wardrobe in the corner. She pulled out a long black
robe.“This should fit you. Miranda is about your height,” she said, handing the robe to Imogen,
along with a fluffy white towel. “I’ll transfigure some of my old clothes for you when we get back
from the Prefects’ Bathroom.”

“So this was your room for all those years?”

“Yes, since I was eleven—well almost twelve really.”

“It looks just like the pictures you showed me.”

“Lavender Brown was over there. Parvati Patil, Miranda Prospero, Bronwyn Llewelyn-Davis,”
Hermione continued, pointing to each bed in turn.

“It’s so lovely, Hermione. Charming. Not much privacy, though. You know, at first, when Viktor
came….” Imogen paused.

“Viktor came and what…”Hermione prompted.

“I wasn’t terribly welcoming. It was the middle of the night but he tracked down the porter,
Perkin Sitwell—one of your people…”

“One of *our* people now, Imogen.”

“Right. Sitwell is a wizard. I realize that now. He’s been watching me very sharply this past
year. Didn’t blink an eye when I accidentally melted the lock to the gate when I returned late one
night. It was fixed the next morning.”

“I imagine he was assigned to keep you safe.”

“That’s what Viktor said actually. Sitwell told him where to find me. But I was in bed sound
asleep—I don’t know how he got in—but suddenly this strange man in a black cloak was shaking me
awake and calling my name and I just…reacted.”

“Oh Imogen, what did you do?”

“I didn’t say or do anything but all of a sudden Viktor was thrown right across the room into
the far wall.”

Hermione gasped.

“But it was all right. He landed against a massive stack of paperbacks that I keep in my room.
He just got up, shook himself off, and started talking about what had happened to you, why I had to
come. Once he told me his name, I knew who he was, that he was a friend. ”

“Paperbacks? Don’t tell me you’re still reading those…um…romance novels?”

Imogen blushed. “Hermione—I spend all day in a lab with a particle accelerator looking at
subatomic blips. I rarely get to talk to anyone and when I do we converse in equations. I love my
research, truly I do. But I crave human companionship too….” Her voice trailed off.

“You can’t find friends in books, Imogen.”

“I know. I know a dashing young hero isn’t just going to drop into my bedroom out of nowhere one
night.” She smiled mischievously and started to giggle. This was such an unaccountable sound from
her sister, who had always been intense and serious that Hermione began to giggle as well.

But after only a few moments Imogen’s expression turned serious again, and a deep furrow
reappeared between her eyes. “Viktor’s parents were killed last year, by an attack of giants in
Bulgaria,” she said quietly.

“No! It can’t be. They were friendly, wonderful people. So generous. You would have liked them,
Imogen. I didn’t know. I never suspected, never thought. I must tell him how sorry I am.”

Hermione walked to the window and looked over the lawn toward the Black Lake. “I lost contact
with Viktor—with everyone really except Harry, and Ron—this past year. Viktor came to see me for a
few minutes yesterday, before he left with Harry—but he never mentioned his parents. Poor Viktor.
He’s lost so much.”

“And now he’s lost you too,” Imogen said. “He loves you, you know.”

Hermione sighed and looked back at her sister. “Viktor doesn’t love me. He loves the memory of a
15-year-old girl in the happy time before the war. I’m not that girl any more.”

Author Note. I will probably wrap this up in another part or two. I can handle the ending two
ways: # 1 - I can write a couple of paragraphs outlining the future jobs, kids, etc. of the main
characters and put it at the end of the last part. OR, # 2 - I can write an Epilogue with a scene
or two written out. Option 1 you’ll get sooner. But I’m willing to try my hand at Option 2 if
that’s the consensus. Please let me know in your reviews.



17. The Third Day - Part 7
--------------------------



The Third Day - Part 7

“And now he's lost you too,” Imogen said quietly. “He loves you, you know.” Hermione sighed
and looked back at Imogen, who was fiddling with a button on her cardigan. Hermione knew this
conversation was coming, knew from the moment Imogen had fallen through the fireplace in the
infirmary with Viktor close at her heels.

“Viktor doesn't love me, Imogen” she said gently. “He loves the memory of a 15-year-old girl in
the happy time before the war. I'm not that girl any more. And he knows I love Harry. You
saw—you heard what Viktor said.”


Imogen frowned, deepening the crease between her eyebrows, but then a slight smile fluttered across
her face. “You know we used an old Floo connection that Sir Isaac Newton built almost three hundred
years ago?”

“Really?”

“Yes. Down in the cellars of Trinity College, behind an old wardrobe—all walled up now, behind the
oddest tessellation of ceramic tiles I've ever seen. Definitely an aperiodic tiling—I tried to
analyze it but there wasn't time. Perhaps Viktor could take me back there?” Her eyes blazed
with fierce intensity. Hermione smiled: Imogen had found a new project—whether it was Viktor or the
metaphysics of the magical world—or both-- remained to be seen.

“I'm sure he'd be happy to. But what happened next?” Hermione asked impatiently.

“Oh yes. Right. Viktor opened the wall by tapping on the tiles in a seemingly random sequence that
I couldn't quite follow, the wall vanished and the fireplace appeared, and he sent me off to
Hogwarts.”

Five minutes later the two young women were soaking in a mountain of bubbles, facing each other on
either side of the enormous Prefects' Bath.

Hermione laid back her head and let the water envelop her, warm her. She drifted, deeper and deeper
until she was completely submerged, her hair billowing around her like a golden brown nimbus. Not
just the grime and the cold but the cares of the last year washed away. She melted into the water,
dissolving, boneless, renewed, transformed.

Suddenly she heard a shrill giggle. Moaning Myrtle had discovered Imogen and was darting in jagged
circles around her, just out of reach. Hermione pushed herself quickly to the surface, afraid that
Imogen would be terrified. Instead, she was looking at Myrtle intently, fascinated, trying
repeatedly to touch the transparent ghost.

“Your young men are wondering where you are,” Myrtle said, with an exaggerated wink. “You'd
best hurry up.”

“Myrtle, where have you been?” Hermione asked sternly. “You didn't go to the boys'
showers, did you? You know girls aren't allowed there.”

Myrtle just giggled--and winked again. She soared to the ceiling, dove into the bath a
hair's breadth away from Imogen's outstretched hands, and disappeared down the drain.

”Shall we go, Hermione? Since they're waiting….”

“Yes, let's. I'm all toasty warm now. I feel so much better.”


Hermione had stored her trunk at Hogwarts at the end of Sixth Year; with her parents in Australia
the school had become her only home. She rummaged quickly through the contents and soon had a large
selection of somewhat musty clothes strewn all over the floor.


“These are pretty,” she said, holding out a sky blue jumper and a pair of jeans. “I think the jeans
will fit you, though they might be a bit long.”

“Thanks. I can roll them up. Jeans would be best for flying I think.”

“Oooh,” Hermione said, pulling a purple blouse wrapped in white tissue paper from the bottom of
the trunk. “I forgot I had this. It was a present from Professor McGonagall, Christmas Sixth Year.
I never wore it—when would I wear a silk blouse? What do you think?” Hermione asked, holding the
lustrous garment against her chest.

“It's beautiful, Hermione. I love the pearl buttons—look at all the colours they reflect.
Wear it with those white trousers—you know, the ones you were always afraid to wear in case they
got dirty. It's a day to celebrate, right? And let me brush your hair, like I used to when you
were little.”

“Oh dear,” Hermione sighed. “You may need to use some Sleakeasy's to get it to behave. There
must be some somewhere.”

In the Gryffindor Common Room Harry and Viktor were waiting impatiently. They had scrubbed away
the muck and mire from their adventures of the night before. Clean shaven, hair combed—Victor's
was tied back with a dark green ribbon—they were almost unrecognizable from the mud-stained
warriors who had fought at Malfoy Manor.

Viktor was pacing around the room, examining each item in turn: the chessmen, the Gobstones, the
ornate tapestries—the lion, the lady, and the unicorn. He nervously twisted his signet ring.

“Imogen wants to learn everything—immediately,” he said. “I think I will teach her flying first.
She will be a natural flyer,” he added confidently. Harry was dubious—Hermione had never taken to
flying—but he smiled encouragingly.

“It is a good day,” Viktor continued. “Sunny, little wind. After breakfast, I think.”

As much as Harry loved to fly, the only thing he wanted right now was to be with Hermione—alone.
He tried to replay in his mind all their moments together in the infirmary. But that wasn't
enough, wasn't nearly enough. He needed Hermione here, with him. He wanted them to make new
memories together. His eyes never left the stairs to the girls' dorm, but he heard her voice
before he saw her, as she finally came into view on the circular staircase.

Soft curls framed her face—in the end no untangling potion had been needed. As she made the
final turn down the narrow stairs, a shaft of light burnished her hair a brilliant gold.

Harry drank in a vision of Hermione that he had glimpsed only once before, at the Yule Ball. He
reached for her and drew her gently into his arms. “Hi,” he whispered into her ear. “You look
wonderful. I should have put on dress robes or something.” He was wearing old jeans and the dark
red shirt Hermione had given him years ago, which he had enlarged to fit.

“The shirt. It still fits!” Hermione said.

“It fits, yeah,” Harry replied. “I just…um…Engorgio'd it a bit.”

Imogen was still standing on the lowest step of the staircase. Her bushy hair had refused to
submit to Hermione's efforts to tame it, but her blue eyes were bright, shining, and the crease
between her eyebrows was barely visible. She looked past Harry and Hermione to Viktor and smiled.
Viktor returned her gaze with an awestruck expression. Hermione tugged Harry aside so Viktor could
approach her sister. Imogen extended her hand. He took it, bowed, and brushed his lips lightly over
the back of her fingers. “Good morning,” was all he could manage.

Harry could feel his stomach grumbling. “Great. Fantastic. Breakfast anyone? I'm starving.
Let's show Viktor and Imogen the kitchens.”

**Author note**: I know I know it's short. But I'm a stage now where I need some
feedback to get me to soldier on and finish! Hint. Hint.





-->



18. The Stag and the Unicorn
----------------------------

If you’d like to see the alchemy emblem of the stag and unicorn in the forest that Harry sees in
the book on the table next to Hermione, I’ve posted it here:

http://talk.portkey.org/index.php?s=&showtopic=29421&view=findpost&p=416108



19. The Third Day - Part 8 cont'd
---------------------------------

The Third Day – Part 8 cont’d

The trip to the kitchens took longer than usual, since piles of rubble still blocked many
corridors. Astonishingly, some of the hundred and forty-two staircases had begun to repair
themselves, as though the castle were alive and healing itself. Harry barely noticed: with
Hermione’s hand tightly clasped in his own, he told her of his and Viktor and Draco’s adventures at
Malfoy Manor. For once she did not reproach him for the risks he had taken.

When the quartet reached the kitchens part of the wall had been blasted away, but in the far corner
the debris had been cleared and a merry fire blazed at the large hearth. The unmistakable aroma of
cinnamon assaulted them as they drew closer to a small trestle table, which groaned under the most
spectacular feast Harry had seen in a very long time: golden croissants and buns, raspberry jam,
apple turnovers, strawberries, blueberries, and a huge silver dish piled high with scrambled eggs.
Four earthenware plates and flagons marked the places for the expected guests.

Barely visible above the table was Mrs. Beaton, who was smiling from ear to ear. “Welcome to the
kitchen, Mr. Potter, Mr. Krum, young ladies. Mr. Kreacher and I–she nodded toward Kreacher, who was
carrying a huge silver pitcher of pumpkin juice to the table. “We haven’t had much time, and
the...er...conditions are not what we’d like, but we hope....

“This looks spectacular, Mrs. Beaton,” Harry said enthusiastically. “Hermione, Imogen, this is Mrs.
Beaton, the Malfoy House Elf who helped us escape. Mrs. Beaton, this is Hermione Granger–my very
dearest friend–and her sister, Imogen Granger.” Harry was tempted to introduce Hermione as his
girlfriend, but they hadn’t had that conversation yet, so he bit his tongue. “We’re starving–quite
literally I think–so we’ll just tuck in then.”

But Beaton was looking past Harry and staring wide-eyed at Hermione. “Miss Hermione Granger, is it?
And you are well, very well, I can see. Mr. Kreacher told me what happened. Harry was in time then.
Oh, I’m so glad. All of us, all the House Elves–will always be grateful to you for what you tried
to do a few years ago. Thank you.”

She reached up to Hermione, took her right hand in both of hers and shook it vigorously. Hermione
smiled.

“Winky! Winky Joanne! Come here please,” Beaton said kindly to the younger Elf, who had been
stacking crockery in the pantry. As she walked a bit unsteadily across the room, Harry wondered
whether Winky had already had a nip at the bottle. But her eyes were clear, her hair was neatly
combed and tied, and she was wearing an old-fashioned gray pinafore that he had never seen
before.

“Our guests need cutlery. Bring the golden knives and forks and spoons from the chest,
please.”

Kreacher came forward wearing a high starched collar and shiny black suit like something Harry had
seen on a television programme set in the nineteenth century. Beaton was a seamstress as well as a
cook, it seemed.

Kreacher inclined his huge head slightly in greeting. “Almost all the kitchen staff left after
Professor Dumbledore’s death. And the new ones who came in with Snape”–Kreacher’s sneer was almost
audible–“fled after the battle. But the three of us will be delighted to serve you.”

Harry took his seat on one side of the table and pulled Hermione down next to him. Imogen sat
across from Hermione; after a brief hesitation Victor slipped in next to her, across from
Harry.

“Try the treacle tart, dear,” Beaton said, pointing to the golden pastry. “We know it’s your
favourite.”

“But how–how did you know?” Hermione stammered.

“Winky told me. Winky—kindly explain to Miss Granger what you told me.”

“Yes, ma’am. It’s from the Amortentia. We know what each student smells, you see? It’s a special
Revelo spell House Elves can do. We test the cauldrons in Advanced Potions class before we clean
them.”

“And since so many students smell their favourite food–“ Beaton smiled.

“You know what to include at the feasts,” Harry finished. He turned to Hermione and pulled her
close. “You never told me, Hermione. You said ‘green grass’ and ‘parchment’ but then you stopped.
Turned a nice shade of red, as I remember.” He swallowed hard before adding, quietly, “I thought it
was something to do with, with, you know...Ron.”

“So did I,” Hermione whispered. “Because Molly always made it at the Burrow. But–wait a second–yes!
She always made it for [i]you,[/i] Harry. You were always the one with treacle dripping down your
chin.”


Harry beamed. "Did I never tell you that treacle tart was one of my three Amortentia smells
too? I could never figure out what food has to do with who you love. I must have watched you dive
in all those times at the Burrow. Come to think of it--watching you lick all that liquid sugar from
your lips was rather fascinating." Harry's eyes drifted down to Hermione's lips with
unusual boldness.

Hermione rewarded him with a smile, as her cheeks tinged a slight pink. She quickly glanced over at
Imogen, who had been watching in astonishment as a seemingly endless parade of dishes floated
across the room and onto the table. "Try this one," Viktor said firmly, handing her a
large muffin speckled with bright red berries. "Lingonberry. From the North. They are my
favourite."

Hermione tried not to giggle at Viktor's lack of subtlety, but Imogen took the muffin readily
and bit off a good-sized chunk. "Ooh, delicious," she said. "Sweet and tart at the
same time. A perfect blend. I'm going to have to make this the last, though, or I'll not be
able to get up from my chair much less get on a broom."

"Nonsense, Imogen," Viktor said firmly. "You will fly very well. I know it. I have
for you a good broom. Cherry, sturdy, hard wood. Simple, but responsive."

"I can't wait! Shall we go now?" Imogen asked, stuffing the last crumbs of muffin
into her mouth.

"Yes, of course; I am ready," Viktor replied, laying down his fork and pushing back from
the table. He stood and bowed slightly to Harry and Hermione. "You will excuse us,
please?"

"Of course," Hermione said. "Harry and I will come along later."


Harry and Hermione ate slowly, savouring the rich feast and each other's company. Beaton
flitted in and out, constantly pressing them to eat. They were afraid of hurting her feelings so
they tried every dish--until they literally could hold no more. Hermione could tell that Harry was
bursting with curiosity about Imogen, a sister Hermione barely mentioned in all the years he'd
know her. So she explained the estrangement between Imogen and their parents, an estrangement
Hermione had tried to heal many times, without success.

“She could never forgive them for not allowing her to go to Cambridge when she was admitted as a
prodigy, at fifteen. And they never forgave her for forging their names on the parents’ consent
letter and leaving without a word.”

“But how did she support herself all these years?”

“That’s a bit of a mystery. Our grandmother set up a trust fund for both of us when we were
born. Somehow Imogen convinced the trustee to pay her a meager subsistence. She can be [i]very[/i]
persuasive.”

“Or perhaps the trustee was a wizard, and knew that Cambridge was what Imogen needed,” Harry
speculated.

“You know, perhaps he was. I always wondered whether our grandmother was a witch. I never met
her; she died before I was born. And my parents never spoke about her.”

“So what are you going to do now?” Harry asked.

"Imogen and I talked about it this morning. We’re going to Australia together right away, to
sort it all out. After all we've been through, I'm not going to let this silly quarrel go
on any more. I want my family back--all of it!"

Hermione's look was determined, but Harry could see the dampness in her eyes. He stretched out
his arm and drew her to his side.


“Would a non-Granger be allowed to tag along? I've always wanted to see Australia; I'd try
to stay out of your way."

"Oh yes, Harry. That would be fantastic. Thank you. I would love it if you came. We would both
love it---Imogen and me I mean. But we plan to leave tomorrow; is that all right? Can you take care
of everything by then?"

Harry knew she meant his obligations to the Weasleys, especially Ron and Ginny. Harry smiled wanly.
"Yeah. I can take of it. Don't worry. We'll go to Fred's funeral and explain why
we have to leave. Don't worry, Hermione. You are the most important person to me now, and I
know how much your family means to you."


Harry and Hermione walked leisurely to the Quidditch pitch, hand in hand. They kept a deliberately
slow pace, so Harry could tell Hermione everything he has discovered in the past three days,
especially Voldemort's manipulation of his mind, including planting his feelings for Ginny and
hers for him.

The sun was almost at its highest point in the sky by the time they came in sight of the grounds.
"Who's that Slytherin out there?" Harry asked, pointing to a distant silver-and-green
caped figure hovering close to the ground.

"I have a suspicion," Hermione answered, as the flyer began making slow elliptical loops
in the air.

"So what do you think, Mr. Potter?" asked Professor McGonagall, who had come up
noiselessly behind them. "A new Quidditch instructor for next year? Madam Hooch left us a year
ago to return to Little Merriwether, so we'll need someone to teach First Years this
fall."