Unofficial Portkey Archive

Life and Times

Rating: R

Ship: HHr (main emphasis)

The (unlovely) procedure: all rights go to JKR for previous plot and characters, Scholastic, Warner, and whoever else has their hands in HP.

***

Chapter Sixty-Four - Wounding

***

Around two months later…

***

April 6, 2001

7:47 AM

The Quibbler HQ, London, England

"Thank you," expressed the soft naturally-red lips of Alice, her dark hair tied back in a white ribbon. Her slate grey business dress, a typical colour to that of the one she glanced over to, Luna, who wore an orchid-and-goldenrod-coloured business pants suit. Luna, her goldilocks in-sway whilst dutifully transcribing by word and quill the daily news of tomorrow's forecast. Alice smiled through the hall she stood within, and within her proximity as she turned to look back at two ivory cloaks and one blonde tilted on a silvery cane.

"The Order is more than willing to step in where the Elves cannot. After all your kin has done for us in these months…," The grey eyes of the blonde could see Alice so readily defendsive by an oncoming emotional burst. But, she held her head high as she watched him, heard his words. "On my father's name, no harm will come of her."

"I trust you," Alice looks back at Luna, her love so heavily involved in her work. She wondered if it all a ruse. Luna had always been perceptive of what was to come…and, this had all the signs of the worst. She knew this day would arrive sooner than later. She blinked back tears, her eyes like saucers when she resumed her watch of the grey eyes in control of the resistance. "She's adamant to stay here, `to give the real news to the people'…"

Alice looked back at Luna once more, adding, "…Just like her father."

In her vision, gazing back at the leaning cane, she could see the white wisps forming, and from those, brilliantly white cloaks.

As member after member filed into the Quibbler, she made note to the one, "I want full, detailed reports every day-and if anything happens, I'll be back to take her away from this poisoned land."

The blonde nodded, "With our full protective escort, of course. Nothing less."

After Luna's ex-communication from the Ministry…after the Ministry has leaned its full weight upon the Quibbler and those associated, employees, their families… Alice kept her smile on as she returned to her lover. Her lover caught up beautifully, elegant and graceful as she went about charming Quick-Quills to maintain news reporting. She crept behind Luna's desk, pictures of their escapades, their lives surrounding her between clocks and calendars, snippets of Daily Prophet articles and especially those absorbed in the Ministry, the people, and her friends…

She wrapped herself around that of Luna's warm body from beneath her arms. Without a second of thought, Luna, never surprised, leaned back into Alice, a quill still in-hand and speaking to the dozen quills scribing above her golden curls.

Alice laid her chin upon Luna's mobile shoulder, her lover so insistent in writing those words atop parchment. She caressed behind the blonde curtain, her neck, her shoulder, before closing her eyes and stating those three meaningful words: "I love you."

Luna, her hand and mouth still in work, just like the mumblings of all the associates, interns and secretaries surrounding them, smiled and leaned her head on the side of Alice's face.

***

The hot shower invigorated my senses, the perfect temperature for this cold London eve sublime, electrical, really, as it raised me from the work shift. I'd come home, or back to Nathaniel's from the pub, having gotten my waitress position back. The day being a Friday, and the frigid weather, both brought in customers ready for their warm spirits and cider. Nearly at a sprint the whole night through, and with a little banter about it with Mister Sarcastic behind the bar between wandering from the kitchen to tables, I'd grown a tad tired. But, tonight was one of our weekly group get-togethers, the cinemas, a showing of Blow, followed by a drink at a sports pub we frequented due in part of Nathan and Donald's rugby fascination.

Stepping from the hidden compartment, the shower doors steamed, and into a sultry, near-tropical mist, I pulled from the waited hanger the white towel and draped the cotton around myself after patting dry. I gave the mirror a swipe, and then another, revealing my reflection, and I found myself closing my eyes, to feel…

Him…

I could smell his therapeutic aroma.

I could feel his warmth, his arms as they wound around my middle.

I could feel the slight-scruff of his dusting of beard.

He tightened his light squeeze of me, my cheek, the side of my head leaning right and into him as he held me. He'd crept up behind me like so, so many times before…and, I'd smile, like those many of times. He supported me, catching me under my arms with his left, his right arm at my stomach. I felt his first kiss, soft, upon my bare shoulder, and another, bringing those goosebumps to surface, a chill up my spine.

He didn't care about getting wet, if only slightly, having me, embracing me, loving me as he went about caressing a line from the rounded portion near my arm upwards, following the curve to my neck, my throat. Squeezing the expanse of his forearm across my chest, I grinned, tilting with him, allowing all the access in the world for him to come further north, to the beginnings of my jaw, beneath my jaw, causing a melting sigh from the deepest part of my diaphragm to reverberate throughout the airwaves, the silence.

Reopening the brilliant cinnamon-coloured irises, seeing me briefly, in a blink, through the new reflection in the mirror, through those abstract shapes cut from the white residue on the glass…

I saw him.

Mine.

Harry… Bare-chested, he'd come home, too, from work, his black suit trousers still hitched to his hips, albeit off them a bit, beltless as the pitch-black fabric sagged ever-so-slightly downward. I could see that beautiful cut, the muscle-to-muscle, adjoined, from his right hip and abdomen. I could see his toned arms, how his biceps, his arms conveyed that strength, paralleled to my own as he hugged me, erect. I could see the shag of his messy hair, his smile beneath…and, I'd gone, completely lost in his passionate contact, his lips grazing the absolutely smooth, flawless porcelain.

I heard him laugh so softly when he felt me shudder at his whim, his nose, that smile as I blinked again to see him, pressed into my lightly wet mahogany curls. My own pink lips curled, turning, our foreheads together, noses touching, a kiss… His hands, fingers, gripping into that white cotton towel. Part of me wanted him to tear the damn thing from me; but, I loved the feeling, that tease, the emotional leaps, and how my heart raced.

Sliding a hand into the depths of that messy black of his, I brought him again to my lips from that smile…

To be brought back to reality when I heard a knock on the lavatory door.

I opened my eyes, saw that reflection…my hand, the pads of my fingers feeling of that part of my neck, the curve, my jaw, and those pink lips.

I heard the knock again, Stephanie's voice…though, muddled, my mind crawling to stay in the lands of where I'd been. I sighed, closed my eyes…sifted a hand through the fringe of my semi-moistened hair, its twin holding the towel pieces together…and called out after the third knock:

"…Yeah?"

"You all right in there? It's been a while-the boys are getting antsy."

"Yeah…," I said low, but said again louder, in repeat, "Yeah-sorry, tell them I'll be right out."

"Okay," replied Steph through the door. "Just making sure."

"Thanks," I said, pausing to hear nothing once more…and let out a breath of pent-up air, wiping more the residue from the mirror and picked up my hairbrush. As I set about straightening out my tangled mess, I closed my eyes and smiled when I could still smell his spicy pumpkin pie scent on me…

My engagement ring and my Hippogriff feather necklace lay on the lavatory sink.

***

April 6, 2001

10:17 PM

A small intimate restaurant within the suburbs of London

"What is it, Gin?"

The flaming-red ginger sits across an ornately-etched oak dining table built for two. The purplish cushions of their seats complemented the decor, the darkly green dress and that of Neville's suit attire. They'd been chatting casually when, in a sudden flash, Gin's mind switched lanes. Funny how in one second you could be thinking about one thing, only to begin thinking about another; and, that "other" usually being something awful. To Gin, the something awful…

She shivered, peering down at her half-eaten Caesar salad.

"It's nothing," she answered, peeking back up and throwing on a noticeable false grin.

"Uh huh," added Neville with a sigh. "This is your night Gin. You've been sober going on three months-that's an accomplishment. Don't let anything spoil-"

"She wouldn't spoil anything," struck the sharp-tongued freckles, her eyes narrowing. "'I'm sorry that I miss her.' Is that what you want me to say? Apologize for how I feel?"

Neville shook his head and stared down at his own Caesar salad. "Ronald would've mentioned something by now if all were not well, Gin. Look at the glass half full for a change."

Gin scowled. "I love how you so nonchalantly dismiss the piece of my missing heart. You haven't changed."

"You need to realize that Hermione's moved on. It hurts me, too-she was a good friend. But, we can't drag her back. She's a big girl."

Scrunching her face as if she'd eaten a lemon, she stared down Neville only to push up from the table. She put her hands on the flat surface, got to his level and said with astute precision, "I got you a job at the Quibbler, and this is how you repay me? By mocking me?"

"I'm not mocking you," Neville leaned into her perch. "I'm trying to say that we shouldn't worry about things we cannot control. We can't control her. She left us-remember? She left us without a single word. What does that say to you?"

"It says I should walk up to her bloody door and demand why."

"Yeah-you go and do that, and she tells you to bugger off. What then?" Neville gazed into her golden brown eyes, the light from the single candle dancing madly in her sight. "I'm trying to protect you. I'm trying to show you how much I love you, and how proud I am that you've been off-"

"Oh, go to Hell!" Gin struck within whisper, pivoting about, the frill of her skirt billowing and away she went.

"For Christ's sake…! This woman will be the death of me!" Neville pushed out of their booth and tossed money down on the table to cover their meal plus tip. He shoved his wallet back inside his trouser's pocket and made off in a jog after Gin.

***

"A toast!"

We were the largest group in the pub, taking up the entire bar with Nathaniel and me, Trisha, Donald and Stephanie, their friends, and friends of their friends. The women, myself included, sat on the swirly bar stools whilst the majority of the men stood behind their respective girls, acquaintance or companionship. Nathaniel stood between Trisha and me, me on the left and her on the right. He had his hand on the backside of my chair with Trisha's arm wrapped around his other.

We all held up our frothy pints of beer, the cold condensation dripping from my mug and down along my fingers grasping the glass handle.

"To the most awesome fucking people in the world!"

To say Donald wasn't a bit gone would be an understatement.

To say we weren't all a bit tipsy would be an even bigger understatement. A severe lightweight, after my third pint I was feeling pretty damn good overall. I could even bear the strict dialogue given off by Trisha's piercing stare. She'd do it when she knew she could, for Nathaniel would get in the way one way or another. She'd been overly-protective of him since I'd been around, starting back those months when I first arrived. I'd almost grown accustomed to the treatment, but Nathaniel still wouldn't allow her to push me away. As if there was something between us, wearing my engagement ring, a blatant sign that I wasn't exactly in the market to be picked up.

"Cheers!" We all resounded, taking up the trophy as the noisiest bunch in the building. But, the noise was all right-what with our group throwing tips left and right at every, single mixed drink or beer refill. So as long as we were dropping those, the manager remained happy.

"Ohhhh fuck! Manchester! Come on!" yelled one of those friend of a friend's. How the bar was set up, the oval-like counter housed the patrons, us, with their liquors displayed between propped television sets facing outwards. And, every screen showcased the football game between Manchester and some other team. I didn't really know, just being there in the moment with good friends.

I'd had an argument with Nathaniel over tonight, and nearly every night when we'd go out like this. He'd suggest some place, with or without everyone, and I'd go-and we'd have the same argument over money. The end result: he won, and paid. He had this head-strong mentality that his close friends, especially women, shouldn't have to pay every meal. He'd drop the chivalry card, tell me once again about how he grew up in the country, on a farm where his mum and dad drilled into him about "being a man" and "how ladies should be treated". Not that I didn't mind, or did, a bit, when Trisha would give me that cold stare. He paid for every one of her meals, drinks, clothes… I never did understand. And, I never did understand why they didn't move in together.

Nathaniel once told me it was because she had commitment issues. That she'd been in an abusive relationship prior to him. I could…empathize, but remembered all those times when women would run to…and I never blinked an eye about it. I knew…he'd always be there; a trust, genuine love where I didn't need to worry about…fooling around with another woman.

I wore this blue number, with specks and flecks of different shades and hues of blues interspersed. These grey tights, my black boots came close to my knees, something comfortable, something fashionable. A black scarf, super-long, hung about my neck. I didn't much care when I felt of it being played with, noting as I spoke to one of the other females in our group about this guy across the room-an unbiased opinion-that Nathan had a finger twirled within the edge of the falling fabric. So innocent, I smiled at him when he grinned at me from behind the mug of his sixth beer.

When I went to turn around back to the dark-haired woman, friends of Donald and Stephanie, I caught the closed glimpsed of Trisha, her lightly tanned face in opposition with the black coat she wore. Nathan talked to her, but her attention set on me per usual. I never got the problem…it was obvious he was into her. I was his friend. At least… And, even when our scenario was intensifying, I'd move out of the way. He'd come back. We were comfortable with each other-and we didn't fight. She fought.

We were so bloody comfortable with each other that our primary thoughts were on the same bloody wavelength.

I wanted to screen some new film, seeing the trailer on the telly, and that night when he came back from school asked if I wanted to see the same damn film, same interest. I never had a brother, or sister, or-and even then, Trisha was brought. So, he was a bit open. Was that a threat? Nathan had a habit of putting an arm around the back of things, like chairs, the sofa, whatever, and that night, as with the majority of our times out, he put an arm around both my theatre seat and hers.

She kissed him.

She rubbed herself against him.

She practically shagged him in the seat that night.

What did I do? Sat with my feet up, letting them do their thing…however awkward the scene got. Or, I'd leave for the loo to allow them their privacy…to come back to an open Nathaniel, a happy Nathaniel, a comfortable environment and atmosphere. I didn't have to negate myself around him. I didn't guard. I didn't put up a shield. I never had to worry about my damn health. My heart never raced. My brain never reeled. We laughed, we did our banter, we joked, we did our thing-he wanted a girls' opinion on clothes, he wanted to grab a bite, he wanted to hit up a bar-we did it.

We gave our fair share of hugs; but, I never once laid my lips on him…sans the first night. But, that was history, and as far as I knew was never spoken nor was it ever brought up since the day after the occurrence happened. I never slept in his bed. I never cuddled up to him. I never, ever rubbed against him the way Trish did…in front of everyone.

I was just comfortable. Finally.

And, it felt pretty bloody good.

So, as I turned from Trisha, I merely gave a smile. What else was there to do?

By the end of our time at the pub, I felt Nathan's hand on the backside of my chair, the pad of his thumbs resting on my back while I more or less rooted on with the rest of the group. Whatever. So what? He had his full attention on Trisha, and Trish…she kept her full attention directed at me.

***

April 7, 2001

12:04 AM

Memorial Gardens, Hogwarts Castle

Darkness, and then light. Within the freezing rain appeared two figures from the white wisps, a thin veil of fog now encompassing the flowers, the cobblestone pathways, and the great white tomb of one, Albus Dumbledore.

Of these two, the first, a female, her short coal-coloured hair moved in the cold English zephyrs. The winds blew from behind them, pushing each tassel towards the marbled casket. In a black pants suit, black leather gloves and that of a black collar, all that was shown, and shown indeed by her wardrobe choice, came from an alliteration of pale features from the pitch environs.

In her arm, secured, elbow-to-elbow, wobbled the blonde, his grey eyes hung with absolute exhaustion. How he hobbled on his cane, what the public saw became evidently false. Without his mate with him, he would have surely fallen over. Beneath his own Ministry-prescribed business attire, now extinct as Nolpho has insisted in "renovating" the image of the letter "M" to accommodate change, he throws his right leg forward, his left leg the stabilizer, his balance upon the silvered-serpent head cane. With his bounce, his walk within hers shifts erratically.

The blonde offers an escape, a huff and a smile, at his own handicap.

"I should have gotten to know Mad-Eye better," he laughs with a large dose of sarcasm.

"You're almost there, my love," says the thin frame, the dark eyes and midnight painted about her face. She had turned to watch him, safely escort his route up towards the carved words of the beloved Dumbledore. Her head matte with the chilled deluge, suit and skin included, she protects, ever vigilant, to her mate's step.

"For this bloody ol' git, you'd think I could manage by myself," he grins, wincing when he steps off his good foot and onto its metal partner. His sharp nose flared in that step, but managed a wry smirk, noting as he observed his slowing trek, "Karma's certainly a cold-hearted bitch."

The woman aside him smirked just as aslant, finding it difficult indeed to not at his dry humor. "You've grown into a brilliant man, my love. Try not to think of the past."

"I had this coming several hundred miles away," his grey eyes, so warmed since leaving Hogwarts, wandered to his familiar. "I couldn't have done so without you by my side. After the death of father…mother… You helped me see another way out, and now…"

He had stepped close to Albus's casket, the torches of Hogwarts lighting the windows in the distance, a fountain their noise in the sleet. "…Here I am."

The black leather-gloved hand, so perfectly fitted to the woman's slender cuff, stroked the arm of her mate as she peered at him, his eyes looking downward.

"Albus…," he began, his eyes centred on the spot above where Dumbledore's head had been placed on the silkiest of white pillows. "I've come again…"

From stroking his arm, the darkly-haired female leaned against him, her head at his, and closed her eyes.

"…We've gained some traction, but it's slow," he spoke as if Albus was there. "…We've lost so many of our own, Albus. Sometimes, I don't know what to think. I don't tell the men; but, in the darkest parts of my mind I think we're in for a losing battle. My only hope lies with your instructions…your leads…what you left for us, the Order."

"I think you knew I'd eventually get here, Albus," the blonde upturned the depression. "I only wish I would have listened to you then."

The bit of humor faded, his voice coming somber, "I only wish this would end now. I know you're here with us, protecting us from your side…"

"My strength wanes with every story of another of my men dying on the battlefield. Please keep watch over them, I beseech of you. Keep them safe."

The blonde, his own black leather-clad hand placed atop the casket, closes his eyes and listens to the wails of the storm, the howls of the wind. His suit effectively blanketed by water, and that of his other, turns to his mate and states, "I'm ready."

She nods, finding his hand beside him and grasps…but, not before coming in and planting a softened kiss upon his lips. He smiles, squeezes her hand with his and-POP!-they were gone.

***

The main group, Donald and Stephanie, Nathan, Trish, and me, made our way-however sloppily we wandered the streets-Nathan, the drinking powerhouse included. Though, he did quickly become the "adult" when Donald decided to accost some folks across the road. He stopped, screamed something at them, and whatever that something was made the man angry. Having been led, like Trisha, and her friend, by Nathan, an arm wrapped about both our backs, he had to leave us to pry Donald away from a confrontation.

Donald seemed unfazed, laughing giddily, tugging Stephanie with him down the street to the Oxford Halls of Residence. Because of the proximity, Donald and Stephanie, as well as Trisha's blonde friend, were going to bunk at Nathan's tonight for obvious reasons. However…by the time we'd gotten in, Donald decided a game of beer pong was in order. And, as much as Nathan pushed for Don to settle down, the more the intoxicatedly happy drunk continued to triangulate the red solo cups.

Two teams:

Donald and Stephanie.

Nathan and me.

Nathan wouldn't allow me to play one on one with Donald, surely I'd lose, and surely I'd get sick after chugging cup after cup. No handicap, Nathan's beer pong prowess kept Donald's expertise at bay; though, Stephanie got me, and I drank one, two, and by the third my head, my world, spun. I had to keep my hands on the foldable card table to balance, shrugging Nathan off when he offered to assist. We were winning, and I was stubborn enough-drunk enough-to want that win. It was a rare win, normally horrible, especially against Nathan. I was horrible.

Trisha and the friend kept to themselves on the sofa. I could hear them talking, in discussion. The telly was on, the volume loud, and a radio even louder. The music wasn't at all what I'd turn on. The group rather enjoyed the more, new modern music including rap and metal. I went along with it, now knowing who Jay-Z and Ludicris were.

I had the ping pong ball in hand, blowing a huff to get some of the hair of which hung in my face from my face with a laugh, and went to toss the orange sphere into Donald and Stephanie's last cup when I heard something, someone, Trisha:

"Hermione."

I had momentum, about to toss the plastic, when I stopped.

Everyone stopped and stared back around at the two blondes above the sofa. Trisha's friend was beside herself, giggling. Trisha, daggers for me, had a grin that I knew meant she was up to know good.

"What is it, Trish?" Nathan took the bullet. He could see, through drink or envy, or whatever her problem was, that she was going to say something fairly stupid and become the arse of the party. "Shouldn't you and Nikki be in bed? It's late, and you've got work later today. The sheets are made on the bed."

None of what Nathan said she listened to, keeping her squinted eyes at me. "Why do you still wear your gaudy engagement ring all the time? Isn't it about time you-"

My heart immediately sunk.

She found that one…sensitive…button.

Only a real witch would press it, and…

Nathan went off.

"The Hell's your problem, Trish?!" I'd never heard him so loud, and specifically at Trish-but, she had it coming, and in front of everyone.

"Fuck you, Trish," Stephanie hopped into the ring. "Go to bed."

"Not cool, little T," stated Donald through tsk tsk's. "Really not cool."

Nathan was at the sofa, his arm out. He pointed towards his bedroom, and demanded in a firm, curse-filled shout, "I'm tired of your fucking jabs, Trish-go to fucking bed, God damn it!"

She sort of stared blankly up at him.

"NOW!"

"Don't talk to Trish that way, Nathan!" stepped in Nikki. "I see what you mean now, Trish. It all makes sense now. He'd rather have the slut."

"'Slut'?" spoke Nathan boisterously, and with a sarcastic laugh. "This is coming from the same girl who blew half the rugby team? You fucking hypocrite."

Nikki gave him the finger.

That heart ache turned about face, and immediately I felt rage build…she should have never have…and her friend…both… I'd had enough. Stephanie, I guessed in hindsight, had saw my shaking, the boring holes I stared into Trisha and that of her friend, and chased me down before I could leap on them. She caught me around the middle in a halfway jump, having run the small distance towards the sofa.

"You fucking bitch!" I screamed, claws at the sofa's leathery material. Every light on began flickering on-and-off in haste, creating a nauseating strobe for those witnessing the odd phenomenon. "Bitch!"

She shouldn't… I saw images of his face…so…gone…flashes…my mind liquidated, it was difficult to keep everything together.

"Breathe," Donald was at my side with Stephanie urging me to do as he said, watching the lights going on-and-off to his left and right with an elevated brow. Stephanie's grasp loosened, probably because she too watched the otherworldly scene. My nostrils flared, and by the heat on my cheeks I knew my face had to be reddened by the violent anger.

I would have ripped that perfectly straight blonde hair right from her pretty little head!

"We're done, Nathan." Trisha's words were clear. "You can go about this like you don't have a thing for her. You can walk mindlessly blind. I'm tired of your fucking shit."

Neither her nor Nathan seemed at all bothered by the flickering lights, in their own universe for now.

"Get out."

"What?"

"Get out!" Nathan shouted again, now his finger at the door. "Leave! I'll call you a fucking taxi-just leave-now!"

Trisha's friend answered, saying in distress, "I've got you, baby-let's get out of here!"

She was looking at Trisha, her car keys jingling in her hands.

Nathan had to step out of the way when Trish made a scene on the way out, trying to step on his toes.

Donald could see something in Nathan as he watched Trish walk out the door, and even when he slammed it behind her stated with a bit of concern, "I'll run on after her. Make sure she's going to be all right."

Nathan was silent.

I was silent, too…

The electricity went out.

***

The in-house electricians had no trouble finding the blown fuse, and with a half hour after the lights went out in the residence halls did they all come back on.

Hermione lay curled in one corner of Nathaniel's sofa when the lights finally came back on. She shared a blanket with Stephanie who lay in the other corner. In opposing chairs, Nathan close to Hermione's side with Donald at Steph, they'd been in the middle of talking in the darkness when the bulbs burned back bright, making them stop mid-sentence, Nathan addressing the beer bottle at his lips.

"There they are," Nathan stated, glancing around when the atmosphere came from the black.

"Quick," replied Donald. "They're on the ball tonight. How weird was that?"

"One of England's famous brownouts, I'm sure," Nathan chuckled, setting his now emptied beer bottle on the side table. He stood up and stretched towards the ceiling. "I swear, tomorrow morning you'll hear on the news broadcast that some old bird turned her blender on too fast."

Donald laughed, standing too, scratching his abdomen as he looked down at first Stephanie, and then Hermione. He glanced at Nathan. "Need help?"

Nathan had already bent down to Hermione and caught her arm. He had her slid it about his neck, slipping an arm under her knees and up he went without much effort by her slight weight, easily able to bench two or more Hermione's. The sheet slipped from the feet of Hermione and fell back around Steph, making Hermione move just enough in the cradle of Nathan's arms. He smiled at her, looking up at Donald. "Nah, I've got it. The poor thing is rather exhausted."

He went to move, a step, and another, turning around to tell Donald looking back, "I'll come back to help you with the sofa after I've got her in bed."

As Nathan turned back around, a few more feet until Hermione's refugee spot in his flat…he had a thought, that memory, the sudden anger…and sadness, of his…mate to Hermione. He never questioned why she wore her ring, none of it being his business…but, to take a stab…Trisha…

He looked down at the cot and had an instant idea.

She should get the best…tonight. She deserves the best.

And, with that thought, he turned back around and pulled opened the door with the tip of his sock-covered toe. Backwards he went in, clicking on the light switch for the desk lamp on the way, and lay Hermione down gently on his bed. Her head hit the midnight-coloured hue of his pillow case, the flawless pale skin and brunette locks so very surreal against the charcoal.

She immediately began to snuggle in.

Nathan smirked.

He went to those extremely uncomfortable boots, he noted as they looked awful-how did they walk in these?-and took the sole. Wiggling one of her foot, he did the other, the grey tights covering her feet, her legs, as Nathan went to move again, stretching out with her little toes wriggling.

He went to pull the sheet over her form and stopped to watch her move. Her tiny movements brought on a chill, goosebumps to his forearms… A dreadfully perfect woman, he thought to himself, should never be treated or hurt as much as she's been through. He chuckled a bit at a cute little sneeze she made, sniffling afterwards, her right cheek now at the pillow she grasped. He heard her yawn, smiled at her yawn, and lifted when he had tucked her in.

At the door, a finger to the light switch, he gazed back in and said quietly, "Sweet dreams, Hermione…" before turning the light off. He closed the door and turned back around in making his way back to the living quarters. His visage came to see, the small hallway not much distance, Donald rearranging Stephanie in the chair he'd been sitting in and the mattress cushions off.

"Is she okay?" he asked when Nathan walked in, his mate going for the pull-out bed.

"Yeah," Nathan said kneeling at the floor. He pried the level out and began lifting the bed from the sofa. "She's sound asleep."

Donald helped Nathan on the other side, adjusting the lever at his end to secure the mattress stand to prevent the mattress from buckling inward later on in the night. "Trish was a real bitch tonight. Not like that's new."

"Hey," Nathan silenced Donald. He eyed him. "You're talking about my girl."

"'Your girl'?" Donald laughed, in genuine hysterics. "'Your girl'?! When are you going to get it into your thick skull that Trisha is a mean, ungrateful-witch!"

Nathaniel went about securing his side, straightening the lever.

"Sure, she has a nice set of ti-"

"Enough." Nathaniel looked up at Donald to his left, his lips pressed together. He pushed off from the floor. "Drop it."

"Nathan, mate-"

"I said drop it."

Donald raised his hands in surrender. "Whatever you say, mate."

Nathaniel looked over the made mattress, Donald throwing some pillows upon it. "This good enough? I've got some bigger pillows and an extra blanket in the laundry room."

"Nah, it'll be fine," Donald was in the process of lifting Stephanie similarly to how Nathan had picked up Hermione with an arm about his neck and shoulder. Only all he had to do was to turn a hundred eighty degrees and lay her down. "We appreciate it. She's pretty gone, and I'm still got a little left in me."

"Well, you know how I think about drinking and driving. And, it's not like this is your first time. You know you can stay here for as long as you like tomorrow-today. You know what I mean."

Donald reached out and Nathan took hold of his hand. "Thanks for helping a mate out."

"Not a problem," issued Nathan. "Well, I'm heading for the sack."

Or the floor…thinking it would be a wrong to just sleep in Hermione's "bedroom," what with her privacy and all…

"Hey."

Nathan turned back around midway from his trek. "Yeah?"

Donald was sitting on the side of the sofa bed. "Can I ask you a question, mate?"

"If it's anything about Trisha, I'm going to come over there and punch you in the shoulder."

Donald snorted. "Like I want to go there… She's going to kick your arse tomorrow. I'd put your phone on silent or turn the damn thing off. She'll be firing it up with texts come whenever-the-fuck she wakes up."

"Whatever," Nathan shrugged, sifting a hand through his hair and blew a sigh from his lips. Donald wasn't far from the truth. "Your question?"

"How come you've got a really good girl by your side and you've done nothing in the way of furthering that relationship?"

"Excuse me?"

Donald pointed off towards Nathan's bedroom. "The girl you just put to bed in your bed-she has to be the most fucking majestic creature I've ever met. She's gorgeous, smart, she cares about you-you care about her-and you guys are always together. You guys talk about the same shit and you're interested in the same stuff."

"Now I'm understanding why Trisha-"

"Fuck Trisha for a second, listen to me."

"Donald, don't talk like that about Trish I said, damn it."

Donald growled in frustration. "Mate, you've got a fucking brilliant woman in your midst. Now, I know you've told me her situation-and I've never brought it up until now-but damn it, man, pursue her!"

"It's not that simple. Her fiance was murdered. You just don't do that sort of thing, mate. And, she still wears the ring. We're friends."

"'Friends'? HA!" Donald scoffed. "I get it, mate. I do. Look-I'm not really a religious man; but, I swear, if there was anything at all I learned from my mum and dad it was that God, or Fate, or whatever you want to believe in-when He or She or It gives you an opportunity like this for fuck's sake take that fucking risk! A girl like that deserves to be treated like the treasure she is-and you've been doing it pretty damn well."

Nathan glanced back at his shut bedroom door, and then back to Donald. "If only life were that simple. She's a friend. She needs to be around people that care about her and make her happy, and if I can provide that-"

"And more!" interrupted Don. "You two move together, mate. Get your head out of your arse a second… I'm not saying go in there and sleep with her-"

"Donald!" Nathan's eyes widened, and it appeared, to Donald, that his mate suddenly grew. He went to raise his fist. "I swear I'm going to-"

He did a step back. "I didn't mean it like that… I mean, this is a gift. Hell, Stephanie has even asked me why you hadn't begun dating Hermione. Hermione's a sweet girl. You don't want to pass this up, I'm telling you! You two are made for each other! Pull that Casanova shit you know that makes the girls swoon."

"Good night, Donald!" Nathan left him to go find that extra blanket and pillows in the laundry room. He waved without looking. "I'll see you later on today."

"Think about what I said, mate! It all makes bloody sense!"

To say that Nathaniel got any sleep that morning would be a lie. As he came back into the living area, setting camp on the floor, he stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours, or even days, before-thankfully-the alcohol kicked in and took over. When he closed his eyes the one and only time, he passed out.

***

April 7, 2001

8:17 AM

Prophet Media News Network

Lilith De Val, Morning News

Brightly pale, and slits for eyes, Lilith De Val sits disturbingly still. Her posture, her appearance rather bird-like, a raven, straight down to purplish-black feather tufts on her shoulders and a serpent-like pattern of her business dress. From her black lips, a hiss as she spoke:

"…In conjunction with new Ministry protocol, the names of those bearing violence against his name shall be listed, posted on every corner, and a significant reward given to those who find the perpetrators. These on the list will include names you've already know, now named Undesirables. Kingsley Shacklebolt, previous Minister of Magic who has secretly vowed to take down the Nolpho Ministry. Previous Defense Secretary Dennis Eaton, who is in collaboration with Kingsley Shacklebolt. Various previous employees of the Kingsley administration including his Press Secretary and other such close associates."

"There is an underground war amidst us, viewers. The Aurors of the past have vowed to undermine Minister Nolpho, an act of villainy. The Aurors within the new Nolpho admin have accepted the bounty, but we wish every one of you to take the Ministry call to arms and help us track down these criminals. Evidence seen here:"

A moving image beside Lilith appears showing a part of the Ministry under desperate attack from those in white against the newly changed black-color of Nolpho's new defense brigades. The change, of course, to separate them from ancient days, for a "brighter future".

"Shows that they do wish to cause us harm. This is war, and a war we can win with your help. Please contact your local Ministry agent office if you see anyone on the list."

***

Sometime later that day…

Deep in the underbelly of the new Ministry

The stench of burned flesh and ripe iron fills the obsidian, lightless room. Torches, all but burnt out, settle for the absence of illumination. On a chair in the centre of the room, crowded with black-robed figures, sits a hunched over old man. Nothing more than rags hang from him, his shirt ripped and torn, the same with his trousers, displaying several hundred lacerations about his body. His shirt could have been another colour, but now lay stained with red.

A pool of liquid at his feet, dark and cold, saliva, dried and wet, drips from his mouth.

"…You won't…," He spits blood when he's bludgeoned atop his head. Ropes around his arms, tied to the chair, he falls over and into the mixture of sweat, saliva and other bodily fluids. He wheezes, his age and the beatings…

"…You won't get anything out of me…," finally comes out in a half-cough.

A pair of stylish, fancy leather dress shoes appears in his sight on the floor. How the shoes step, not only do they stain at the sole, but splash human stock upon the old man's wrinkled face.

A pin-striped trouser leg, pleated, bends down and he hears him, the man who has been at the forefront of these…"interrogations":

"You've lost, fool!" The man is picked up by what little strands of graying hair he has left, having had his hair torn out…manually. The human fluids drip from the man's face, his face contorting and eyes shut at a wince. "I've made you eat your own fingernails…toenails…your skin has been flayed off your backside… I've even made you drink your own blood-and somehow you've been able to stave off the veritaserum injections-what will it be for you to open up? Should I allow the dementors to feed on you again, or should we just skip all that and open you up…forcefully…"

Something sharp is shoved into the shoulder of the man who screams out loud, the gash oozing.

"…You made my wife and children suffer when you had us excommunicated from the Ministry. Fools, the lot of you-the Death Eaters have risen in each hole you've been unable to fill-"

"…Like a cancer!" The man yells through his screams of pain.

Before Nolpho stands up, he takes with him, pulling the knife out, ripping the muscle and flesh open. He wipes it rather casually on his pin-striped vest, his white collared undershirt's sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He does this without flinching, no remorse, coldly as the elder shouts below him.

"Tsk tsk…," Nolpho shakes his head, other Death Eaters, Ministry "associates" around him. Dementors loom above him, waiting patiently to strike when called…so eager from their last meal of the strangled victim. "And here, Dennis, I thought we were friends. Best friends… Old chaps. How does it feel when you know someone you trusted betrays you? Hm? Feel good when your life is traded for galleons? Money talks, the people are pathetically stupid…"

"Can someone, please, take this from me?" he adds, dangling the sharp, now cleaned, knife between two fingers.

A dark cloak, amongst others, hurries to retrieve the knife as if it were their last dying wish.

Nolpho audibly sighs, the sigh echoing in the basalt-stone room. "I've grown increasingly tired of you, Dennis… At your age, I'd hoped you'd answer my questions. Your family…"

Nolpho shakes his head. "Poor things… Such a shame they're dead…"

"No!" cries out Eaton, but is hushed with the heel of Nolpho's dress shoe.

"Silence!" He demands, pulling his crooked, willow-carved wand from his vest pocket. His foot remains suffocating Eaton. "If only you would have talked sooner, Eaton, your lovely wife and children, grandchildren, and their children would not have been harmed! I don't enjoy killing people, Eaton… It's a messy job, and I rather hate mucking up my new suits…and these shoes…they were my favourite…"

Nolpho's eyes twitch with the madness behind them. "I only wanted some cooperation! Cooperation, Eaton! Cooperate with me!!"

Nolpho's shoe, his weight pushes down, crushing now Eaton's throat, his bobbing Adam's apple. He looks around at his cohorts, "Be sure, when this is done, that we've tidied up the place for the next?"

A resounding, "Yes sir!" was said.

"Excellent," Nolpho sighs once more, slicking back his hair whilst pointing down at Eaton's head. "Such a shame… Such a shame… With your knowledge and tactics, those secrets you keep bottled up in that big brain of yours, you would have been an excellent asset to my Ministry…"

"You… Will… Lose!" coughs Eaton, struggling to breathe, gasping, flooded with his own liquids.

Nolpho's frozen stare watches the old man fight for a moment, almost curiously observing, like a painting, a sculpture in a museum…until he says those two words, the green flash emanating from the tip of his wand, and then he watches Eaton's dead body flail those last few seconds.

***

{Author Note: I'd like to know if the changing scenes trip up anyone. I try to separate the stories not following Hermione's POV from her first person story; but, because there's so many cuts in this chapter I nearly put a title on hers, too. Just some clarification would help on my end. Thanks.}

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