Heart Haven by vanillaparchment

Rating: G
Genres: Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 7
Published: 06/08/2011
Last Updated: 23/06/2013
Status: In Progress

A home is a haven of hearts- a place where loved ones are cherished and sent out, and a place to
which they can always return. Sequel to 'That Old House'.




1. Prologue
-----------



*A/N: It is with a measure of trepidation that I begin to post this sequel. It has, as things
often do, taken a different shape from what I originally envisioned. Characters* *that*
*I thought would be of relative unimportance have taken central roles, and after writing six
chapters of an original draft, I decided to start over. This story is a patchwork quilt of sorts,
but I hope it is at least a quilt of some beauty and some enjoyment. Enjoy!*

Prologue

Below is an excerpt from an award-winning article from *The Oracle*, the wizarding
world's newest periodical:

*Magic itself ended the wedding with a flourish of gold, and everyone watched as the
world's newest and most legendary couple sailed off into their new lives together.*

*It was a beautiful love story, to be certain, but are we aware of the stories underneath?
For, as some know (though only vaguely) and others forget, there are seven smaller stories woven
underneath the tapestry of Harry and Hermione Potter.*

*These stories have names—Benjamin, Katy, Jack, Yasmine, Dustin, Adrian, and Jackie. And these
stories are an intimate part of Harry and Hermione's lives.*

*For, the reader may be reminded, these are the names of their children. They are Potters not
by birth, but by love.*

*A**ll nine of the Potters now live in an old, old house now christened `Heart
Haven'.*

*Th**is is the story of the Potters. I**t is the story of Heart Haven. It is the
story of rebirth; it is the story of renewal.*

*This is the story**, in small ways,* *of us.*

*-Dean Thomas, The Oracle*

-->



2. Chapter 1
------------



Chapter One

“What is *this?”*

Something akin to a parchment firework went off in Ginny Weasley's corner of the office.

“Revisions,” said Dean, waving away a stray piece of parchment fluttering to the floor, “You
didn't seriously think your story was going to get published like that, did you?”

“I can't even *see* my story under all this!” Ginny snapped, jabbing her finger at the
red marks crawling all over her story. “Is this *your* handwriting?”

“Yes,” said Dean in mock surprise, examining the red marks, “one of my better critiques, I have
to say.”

Ginny growled. “Just because you won that award—“

“Thank you for the heartfelt congratulations,” said Dean sarcastically, spinning round in the
chair and looking at the framed cover story with unmasked pride. “But Harry and Hermione
practically write themselves. I'd get started on those revisions, if I were you. The word
`deadline' is quite literal here.”

“Fine,” spat Ginny, hurling herself into her desk chair and slamming the story onto her chaotic
desk, “but I write their birth announcement, Dean. End of conversation.”

“Hermione's pregnant?”

“Oh, she will be,” muttered Ginny, rolling her eyes, “I'm surprised they've held out
this long. What d'you mean, this sentence is so stilted that it's almost a
*stagnant?”*

“Fragment,” Dean said. “It means—“

“I know what it means!”

“How did I get stuck in an office with you?” Dean complained, “We've never been friends, not
since I broke up with you.”

“Excuse me?” Ginny swelled with outrage, “*I* broke up with *you!”*

“You'd like to think that, wouldn't you?” said Dean in an infuriatingly kind voice,
“Fortunately for me, I've been single ever since.”

He paused, raising an eyebrow.

“So have you, I've heard.”

“That's not true! I dated Harry for three weeks after we broke up, and--”

“Who counts that?” said Dean, “Everyone knew it wouldn't last.”

“I can't believe I haven't hexed you yet…” moaned Ginny, massaging her forehead.

“Weasley!”

Ginny jumped at the sound of Editor Webb's voice.

“Yes, Mr. Webb?”

“I don't know what you call this, but it's not an article,” he snapped from the doorway,
“What did you do, ask a five year old to write it?”

Ginny turned a bright shade of red as he hurled a crumpled draft of her article to the floor.
“What part of it didn't you like?”

“The part on the floor,” said Editor Webb bluntly. “I want you to write a full-length article,
like Thomas's there, and I want it done by next month.”

Ginny gaped at him. Dean's `article' had taken up fifty pages of the May issue, and that
didn't include the photographs.

“What—what on?” she said weakly.

“I'm not giving you a topic,” snapped Editor Webb, “But it had better be as good as
Thomas's work over there, or you can start cleaning out your desk now!”

With that, the Editor slammed the door and left a stunned Ginny Weasley in his wake.

**^*^*^*^**

When Ginny arrived at Heart Haven for dinner, she had worked herself into a high temper. She
fumed to herself as she waited for someone to answer the door.

“Bad day?”

She jumped and whipped around. Neville Longbottom was standing on the porch behind her, his
brown hair slightly disheveled from the wind.

“What do you care?” she snapped. Neville raised his eyebrow and shrugged.

“That's a good question,” he said, mildly enough.

“What's taking them so long?” she muttered, looking back at the front door. The last thing
Ginny wanted was to be standing alone with Neville Longbottom on the Potters' front porch.
Things were excruciatingly awkward between the two of them at the moment, and Ginny was not sure
she could bring herself to be tactful in such a mood.

Just as she was considering knocking again (or possibly walking in without an invitation), the
door opened.

“Hello!”

“Aren't you *perky?”* was all Ginny said, quite beyond the point of courtesy.

“Hello, Hermione,” Neville said, nudging Ginny conspicuously aside, “Thank you for having us
over.”

“It's our pleasure,” Hermione said, though she was looking at Ginny somewhat guiltily.
“Won't you coming in?”

Ginny followed Neville into the house, shooting Hermione a look as she passed.

“I know what you're doing,” she hissed, “and it's not going to work.”

“For heaven's sake, Ginny,” Hermione whispered back, “I didn't know you'd be in such
a *mood*—“

“I'm not in a mood!”

“Be *civil* at least,” Hermione said, looking exasperated, “honestly, Ginny, you'd
think you could handle this with a bit of maturity!”

That rankled, but in the wake of Editor Webb's remarks, the reproach had the desired
effect.

“Fine,” Ginny said through gritted teeth, “but you *owe* me, Hermione, and not even that
newlywed glow is going to save you—“

“Hi, Ginny,” Harry said easily, coming into the foyer and putting his arm around Hermione. “When
you're done threatening my wife for trying to save what's left of the best relationship you
ever—“

“*Harry,”* Hermione said, casting him a warning glance. “That's enough.”

“All right,” he said sheepishly, kissing her forehead, “Come on, Ginny. Everyone's waiting
in the kitchen.”

Hermione caught Ginny by the arm before she could go into the kitchen.

“I'm sorry, Ginny,” Hermione said, her eyes dark with sincerity, “but you haven't talked
to Neville in so long... I just thought—if you weren't *alone* with him—it might … ease
some of the tension.”

“It's okay,” Ginny said grudgingly, “it's your house. You can invite who you want.”

“You don't have to stay,” Hermione began, but Ginny shook her head, suddenly feeling ashamed
of herself. Hermione, she realized, was being extraordinarily gracious.

“It's okay,” she said again, “I'll be nice. I wouldn't want to bring my relationship
curse down on your heads.”

“Hello, Ginny,” said Adrian as soon as Ginny entered the kitchen. “Do you want to play
Jenga?”

“Do I want to play what?” Ginny said warily.

“Jenga,” said Katy, pointing to the tall tower of narrow, rectangular blocks now teetering
precariously on the kitchen table. “We're just about to start.”

Ginny hesitated. “I—er—I don't know…”

“I'll play,” said Neville suddenly, putting down his glass of butterbeer. He was not looking
at her—in fact, Ginny realized, he was avoiding her gaze at all costs. Her cheeks grew hot.

“I'll play, too,” she said, and finally, Neville looked up.

She pretended not to notice and stood next to Katy as she explained.

“All you have to do is push out one of the blocks—like this—“ Katy used a fingertip to gently
free one of the blocks from the tower. “And put it on top. Whoever makes the tower fall over
loses.”

Ginny eyed the tower with trepidation.

“What happens then?”

“What do you mean?” Katy looked puzzled.

“Does it explode, or something?”

“No,” Katy said, taken aback, “we just start over.”

“Oh,” Ginny said, “right. That makes sense.”

“It's your turn,” said Adrian, pointing to Neville. Neville scanned the tower critically,
then used both hands to ease a block from the middle of the tower. The tower swayed slightly, but
remained standing. Adrian whistled.

“Close one, Neville,” he said, “Hey, Mama—watch this!”

Hermione turned around and watched as Adrian slowly moved a block out from the bottom of the
tower. For a moment it seemed as though the tower was about to topple over, but after a few
moments, the tower stood still. Adrian put the block on top and looked back at Hermione with a
grin.

“Did you see that?”

“Well done, Adrian,” Hermione said warmly, smiling back. “That took a lot of patience.”

“My turn,” said Jack, “this one's easy.”

He pushed the block out easily and dropped it on top.

“Jack!” Yasmine said reproachfully as the tower teetered dangerously. “Be *careful!”*

“I *am* careful,” said Jack, sticking his tongue out at her.

*“Jack,”* Harry and Hermione said at the same time. Jack wilted and sat back in his chair,
properly chastised.

“I want a turn,” Jackie said, tugging at the hem of Hermione's shirt. “Mama, can I
play?”

“Not this time, dear,” Hermione said, putting down the spoon she was using and smoothing
Jackie's hair with a hand. “Maybe Papa will play a different game with you.”

“I want to play *that* game,” Jackie protested.

“Jackie, no whining, please,” Hermione said, looking up at Harry. Taking his cue, Harry picked
Jackie up and moved to the other side of the table.

“Let's watch Ginny, Jack-Jack,” he said, bouncing her a little. “I'm not playing
either.”

It was only when Harry looked at her pointedly that Ginny realized she was staring.

“Right,” she said, shaking herself mentally. “Er… my turn? Yeah—yeah, I knew that…”

She cleared her throat and leaned onto the table, studying the tower at several different angles
before deciding on one of the center blocks near the top. Aware that everyone was staring, she
reached out very slowly and, uncertainly, pushed at the block—but slightly too hard. The tower
tumbled with wooden thunks and clatters.

“You lose,” said Jack promptly, “let's play again!”

“That wasn't very nice,” said Katy to him. Jack flushed. Katy was usually gentle when she
corrected him, but her reproach stung the most.

“Actually, it's time for dinner,” said Hermione, “so let's put it away and start setting
the table. Has anyone seen Dusty?”

“He's in the workroom,” said Yasmine, stacking the blocks into their box.

“I'll get him,” Harry volunteered, putting Jackie down. “go wash your hands, Jackie!”

Harry crossed the kitchen and opened the workroom door. “Dusty?”

He walked into the room, which was getting increasingly dark, and found Dusty hard at work at
his easel.

“Dusty, it's time for dinner.”

Dusty looked back and smiled. There was a streak of brown paint on his cheek right where the
tiniest dimple appeared in his cheek.

Harry put a hand on his shoulder and glanced at the easel.

“Wow,” he said softly, “that's Teddy and Hermione, isn't it?”

Dusty smiled again, and Harry examined the picture with unconcealed awe.

“I saw them yesterday,” Dusty explained, and Harry felt a familiar overflow of tenderness in his
heart. He'd seen them too—Hermione curled up on the bed, her eyes soft and her lips smiling…
and Teddy, snuggled safe in the curved hollow of her body, giggling as Hermione tickled his
neck.

Dusty had captured it perfectly, Harry thought, still gazing at the picture as Dusty began to
clean up his brushes. The splash of sunshine across the bedspread; the newly rumpled sheets—the
oddly familiar tumble of Teddy's temporarily brown curls, the sparkle in his blue-green eyes,
and the contentment on Hermione's face…

“I want to give it away.”

Dusty had returned to Harry's side, surveying his work with a gentle gravity that made Harry
smile.

“Who d'you want to give it to, Dusty?”

Dusty looked surprised at the question, as if the answer were obvious. “Mrs. Tonks.”

“Oh,' Harry said, as it dawned on him, “of course.”

“Harry, Dusty? It's time for dinner.” Hermione stopped short and took in a soft gasp. “Oh,
*Dusty.* That's beautiful.”

Dusty shrugged slightly, smiling. He did not say it, but he hardly thought the beauty was in the
painting. It was in the picture—the picture that had happened yesterday, in the quiet lull of an
almost-autumn afternoon.

“Dusty wants to give it to Andromeda,” Harry said as Hermione ruffled Dusty's hair.
“D'you think you could take it to her?”

Hermione saw the look on Dusty's face as he looked up at her imploringly.

“I think Dusty would like to do that himself,” she said, and she smiled at the look of relief on
Dusty's face. “I could take him tomorrow, after you come home. That way you won't have to
change your schedule.”

“That's okay--I could take him,” Harry said, “I'll pick him up before lunch, and
we'll get a bite somewhere before we go. How's that sound?”

Dusty beamed, an increasingly more common occurrence since the wedding. Harry grinned back.

“Great. Will it be ready?”

Dusty nodded.

“Let's go to dinner, then,” Harry said, taking Dusty by the hand and putting his other arm
around Hermione's waist. “I bet Jack's already eaten without us.”

**^*^*^*^**

Overall, the dinner could have gone much worse. Ginny and Neville got along relatively well, in
that they pretended not to look at each other and looked at each other every time they got the
chance. Katy ate her asparagus first and managed *not* to make a face; Jack ate his asparagus
last and made a face only once. Hermione was rather proud of her efforts, at the end of the meal.
And when Neville held the door open for Ginny before they left, Hermione noted happily that Ginny
actually thanked him, and even smiled. But Hermione didn't have time to reflect on it until the
very end of her day.

“Harry?”

Harry turned over in bed and looked at her. She had put down her book (a sign that what she was
about to say was of relative importance) and was looking at him with a troubled look on her
face.

“Yeah?” he said, propping his cheek up with a hand. “What's wrong?”

“Do you think I'm being ridiculous? About Ginny and Neville, I mean?”

“I wouldn't say matchmaking was one of your strengths,” Harry said, “but tonight—I reckon
they needed to see each other again.”

“If Ginny weren't so…” Hermione sighed, “self-centered—“

“Downright selfish,” Harry corrected. “It's okay, Hermione. We both know it.”

“…but Neville *does* care for her, Harry,” she protested, turning over so that she could
look him in the eye. “You saw it tonight, too, the way he looked at her.”

“I still don't understand why they fell out,” Harry said as Hermione nestled herself against
him. “Do you know?”

She shook her head, closing her eyes and yawning.

“Ginny won't tell me.”

“Neville won't even let me bring it up,” Harry said, putting his arm about her and sighing
deeply. “I can never tell what Ginny's thinking. You're better at that.”

“Not in this case,” Hermione sighed, resting her lips against his neck so that her sigh tickled
his skin. “Oh, Harry. I hope I did the right thing.”

He drew her closer and kissed the top of her head.

“Don't worry,” he said, “It'll work out.”

She smiled and pulled away briefly to put her book on her bedside table. Then, she reached up
and kissed him, fitting herself against him comfortably before turning out the light.

He took off his glasses and placed them on his bedside table.

“Good night, Hermione,” he whispered, closing his eyes and reveling in her familiar warmth. She
smiled sleepily and yawned again.

“Good night, Harry.”

**^*^*^*^**

She was fast asleep when he woke up. He smiled and traced the contours of her face with a
finger, brushing a kiss against her jaw and letting out a long breath.

Her hold on him was so tight that he wasn't sure he was going to be able to make it to work
this morning. He wasn't sure he wanted to.

He closed his eyes, listening to the rhythm of her breathing—a rhythm so familiar it was like
the sound of his own breathing.

She was a part of him in a way he had never even imagined before the wedding. But now—losing her
would be like losing himself.

He felt her stir and opened his eyes.

She dampened her lips and breathed huskily, “Dearest, you'll be late.”

“Mmm…” he murmured, kissing her, “I don't mind.”

She laughed and blushed.

“Not now,” she whispered, pushing him gently in the shoulder, “You can't be late.”

“Have I mentioned how much I love it when you call me `dearest'?”

“*Harry.”*

“All right, all right.”

He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He squinted at the clock, shook his head,
and squinted again.

“What's wrong?”

He seized his glasses and put them on his nose.

“It's seven-thirty!”

“Oh, Harry,” she sighed, dropping back onto her pillow with a groan. “You'll just have to
Apparate.”

“I can't Apparate early in the morning,” he said, frantically searching his closet, “What
robes am I supposed to wear today?”

“The green ones,” Hermione rolled onto his side of the bed and propped her chin up with a hand.
“Really, I don't know how you managed this before our marriage.”

“I like the Floo network,” he said, “it makes me feel *normal.”*

“*Normally* a wizard who is this late would lose his job,” Hermione said, “And wasn't
it your idea to close the office Floos after seven?”

“Well, yeah, but—“

“That's the wrong sleeve,” she said, laughing and coming to his side. “Here.”

She took his robe and put it aside.

“I can't believe I'm dressing my husband,” she said, shaking her head, “as if he were
our four year old.”

“I hate Apparating,” he complained, “I hate having executive privileges.”

“Oh, how you suffer,” she teased, kissing him quickly before reaching for a shirt, “you
weren't planning on going to work without a shirt on, were you?”

“I wasn't planning on being late.”

“Harry, as endearing as I find your whining—“

“I'm not whining!”

“Oh, dear,” she sighed, “you are most definitely *not* a morning person…”

She finished buttoning up his shirt, straightened his tie, and ushered him into his robes.

“Go wash your face and brush your teeth,” she said, shooing him away, “you can have breakfast at
the office. And for heaven's sake, don't forget your shoes!”

“I'm never late,” he moaned, “how did I—“

“Blame it on me,” she called after him, “As it's my day to stay home, I'm going back to
bed. Don't forget I love you!”

She was almost asleep when he came running back into their room. She started when he bent down
and kissed her.

“I nearly forgot,” he said as he drew back, “I love you!”

She laughed as he pelted downstairs and Apparated with a crack.

**^*^*^*^**

“Well, *someone's* late,” said Neville, without looking up from his paperwork.
“You're a lucky wizard. Kingsley canceled your first defense class before I got here.”

“I—well—I didn't—“ Harry flushed and felt oddly defensive. “I mean…”

“Harry,” Neville said with some amusement, “You're *my* superior—“

“It was Hermione's fault!” Harry finally got out. Neville laughed so hard that he nearly
spit his coffee out on the Level Three Roster.

“Is that so?” he choked, as Harry turned an even brighter shade of red.

“It's—it's not what you think—“

“Whatever you say,” said Neville, snickering slightly as Harry settled into his desk. “I'm
sure you were up late.”

“Shut up, Neville,” Harry grumbled, “I'm going to get breakfast.”

“Hey, Harry,” Neville spoke up right as Harry was opening the door. “Thanks for dinner.”

Harry turned back and saw his friend looking surprisingly serious.

“I mean—everything was great,” said Neville, “I—really appreciate it.”

Harry smiled and shrugged, noticing the look on Neville's face and making a mental note to
tell his wife later that night.

“Don't thank me, mate. Thank Hermione.”

**^*^*^*^**

Dusty waited patiently in the hallway with his father, holding the covered canvas carefully and
looking around at the old-fashioned décor with interest. He liked the portraits, but most of them
were sleeping.

“She says to let the boy in first.”

Ichabod, Andromeda's caretaker, looked at Harry apologetically.

“Sorry, Mr. Potter, but she wants to see this chap alone, first.”

Dusty smiled. He'd never been called a `chap' before. He didn't mind it, he
decided.

“It's okay,” said Harry, “go on, Dusty. I'll be here.”

Dusty wasn't afraid. He followed Ichabod through the tall, narrow doorway into the bedroom.
It smelled of lemon and mint, and the carpets were a deep, deep purple.

“Hello, young man,” said Andromeda. Her voice was soft and raspy, and as Dusty perched on the
chair beside the big four poster, she coughed. “Best not come too close. I'm ill, you see.”

Dusty smiled again.

“You've grown since the wedding,” Andromeda said, “How is it, being taller?”

Dusty shrugged.

“That's how I felt too,” said Andromeda, “though my sister—may she rest in peace-- was the
tall one. I was the one with the `sickly disposition'.”

There was a silence. The speckled sunlight glowed through Andromeda's curtains, and Dusty
waited for her to speak again.

“You had something for me?”

Dusty nodded and held out the painting. She shook her head.

“You'd better show me yourself. It seems appropriate.”

He thought for a moment, then gently tugged at the paint-stained T-Shirt he was using as a
drape. Climbing off the chair, he came to her side and handed the painting to her.

“Oh,” said Andromeda in a strange gasp, and for a moment he was afraid she might cry. But
Andromeda was not one for tears. “You painted this yourself? Very impressive.”

She touched her grandson's likeness with a shaky finger.

“You've painted Theodore very well.”

She studied the painting for another moment, a strangely troubled look on her face. Dusty put
his hands on her arm.

“This is your mother, isn't it?” she asked, unnecessarily. “Yes, I thought so. I suppose you
had them pose.”

Dusty shook his head vigorously, and she gave a small smile.

“Spied on them, did you?”

He ducked his head, and she patted his hand. “I used to spy, too. You see so much more, when
they don't think you're watching.”

She looked at him.

“And you painted it exactly as you saw it?”

Dusty nodded.

“You give me your solemn word?”

Dusty nodded and looked at her with earnest dark eyes.

“Well, then,” said Andromeda. “You must have a reason for giving this to me.”

Dusty shrugged again.

“You thought I needed to see this?”

He thought for a moment.

“You're sick,” he said at last. She started.

“So you *can* talk.”

He nodded, and she laughed dryly.

“Only when you need to, I see. Very well, then, I'm sick. What does that have to do with
this painting?”

He looked at her seriously.

“It hasn't helped?”

Andromeda's face softened, and that strange look crossed her face again.

“You know, Dusty,” she said, coughing, “we may not see each other again.”

He looked puzzled.

“You're very right,” said Andromeda, “that I'm sick. But this isn't just a cold.
It's something worse than that. Dragon fever is what most people call it.”

She put down the painting, considering him.

“Are you afraid of being near a dying woman?”

Dusty shook his head.

“Even if she may die, right in front of your very eyes?”

Dusty shook his head again.

“You're a strange boy,” said Andromeda, gently. “But I thank you very much for the painting.
Do you know where my grandson is? No, I didn't think so. He's with my neighbor. We
can't have him catching the fever. I don't want *you* catching the fever, but
you'll be all right. Ichabod's giving you a ward at the moment, but it wears wizards out,
trying to keep out a sickness like this. So you will have to go soon, I'm afraid.”

She looked at the painting, one long, searching look—as if she were trying to put herself
*in* the painting. And then something sad and something hopeful came into her eyes. It was
something Dusty could almost understand. The sunlight through the curtains cast Andromeda's
face in faint purple as she called out, “Ichabod! Let Harry Potter in!”

Harry ducked into the room and stood respectfully by the door, but she made an impatient noise
and motioned him closer.

“Have you seen this painting?”

“Yes, Mrs. Tonks.”

She looked amused for a moment.

“Still so young,” she murmured, “But…”

She eyed Harry sternly.

“Now I'm going to ask you a question, Mr. Potter, and I want the truth from you.”

Harry looked puzzled and intrigued as he leaned closer to Andromeda, bending over the bed.

“What I see in this painting,” she said, “is it true?”

Harry hesitated, and Andromeda looked him boldly in the eyes.

“Well?” she asked softly, and somehow Harry knew there was something else in the question,
something unspoken.

“It's true,” Harry said after a moment, in a low voice.

“Are you *sure?”* Andromeda asked quietly.

“Yes.”

“Very well,” Andromeda said after a long moment, “I'm afraid we must say goodbye for now.
But I would like to see your wife, Mr. Potter, and soon. Tomorrow, in fact.”

She looked at Dusty and smiled.

“Not you,” she said, “though I should very much like to keep you. Thank you, Dusty, for what
you've shown me. It's given me great comfort.”

He didn't say anything, though in the silence, she could hear him sniffling.

“None of that,” she said gently, “I've lived long enough. I'm not concerned about
leaving the world. I'm not concerned about anything now.”

It was, Andromeda thought, the best part of her day—seeing that boy smile through his tears. But
then, the hardest part was his wave goodbye.

“Uncommonly perceptive boy,” she murmured to herself, as the door shut behind him. “Somehow…
somehow he knew.”

-->



3. Chapter Two
--------------



Chapter Two

“Andromeda Tonks wanted to see you?” Mrs. Granger said, as Hermione put the last dish away. “Did
she say why?”

“No,” Hermione said, shutting the cupboard door. “but thank you for watching the children while
I'm gone.”

“Hermione,” Mrs. Granger said with gentle impatience, “we both know what Andromeda wants to
discuss with you. Let's not pretend. Have you and Harry talked about it?”

“I don't know what you mean,” Hermione said, looking away. Mrs. Granger sighed.

“Now, that's enough. I'm not trying to influence you one way or the other, dear, but you
might as well go into this discussion prepared. What does Harry think?”

Hermione sighed, her shoulders dropping in obvious resignation and her eyes narrowing in obvious
thought.

“He feels responsible,” Hermione said at last, very softly. She paused, and added, “And so do
I.”

“You realize what this might mean.”

“Yes, Mum.” Hermione bit her lip. “I know.”

“You know, sometimes I think you take sacrifice a little too seriously,” sighed Mrs. Granger,
“but that's how we raised you, I suppose.”

“But,” Hermione faltered, “it's not as if… we'd have to give up the hope—entirely—“

“But suppose you *did* have a baby, even with Teddy. You'd be more than tripling your
current responsibilities,” Mrs. Granger reminded her. “It's certainly a decision for you and
Harry to make. I only want you to be aware of what you would be getting yourself into. And with
your Healer training…”

“I thought you *wanted*—“ Hermione began, but Mrs. Granger interrupted.

“Yes, I do,” she said, putting her arm around Hermione's shoulders, “but at the *proper
time,* Hermione. There's no need to rush.”

Hermione half-smiled. “It's not rushing—we're just ready.”

“Oh, I know,” Mrs. Granger said, laughing. “But good things come to those who wait.”

She leaned in closer to Hermione's ear.

“And, to be entirely truthful, I really don't know if your poor father could handle the
shock,” she whispered, making Hermione laugh. “The man just got used to the seven grandchildren we
already have.”

**^*^*^*^**

“Let the girl in,” said Andromeda to Ichabod, “I'm ready.”

She smiled as Hermione entered the room. “Welcome, Mrs. Potter. It was kind of you to come.”

“It's nothing, really,” Hermione said, as Andromeda motioned for her to take the chair
beside the bed. “How are you feeling?”

A dry smile curled Andromeda's lips. “As well as can be expected. Aren't you a
Healer?”

“Not yet,” Hermione said, “I'm still training.”

“Well, you have the empathy that many of those old Healers lack,” said Andromeda, shifting
wearily on the bed. “I've met many kind and upstanding Healers, of course, but I've met
many old-fashioned fogeys in the profession as well.”

“I suppose you could say that of any profession,” Hermione ventured, and Andromeda chuckled.

“True enough.”

There was a pause, and Andromeda coughed again. The cough sounded like a marble rattling in a
bottle, and Hermione felt her heart go out to the woman. She was, Hermione realized, only a few
years older than her father. But illness had aged her.

“Your son, Dusty.”

Hermione started. “Excuse me?”

“He visited me yesterday,” said Andromeda, reaching for something on the bedside table. “Strange
little boy.”

“Dusty has a great heart,” Hermione said, a little more defensively than the remark
required.

“Oh, don't think I'm criticizing,” Andromeda said, chuckling again. “I like him very
much, though I could scarcely coax a word out of him. But he showed me something yesterday, Mrs.
Potter—I may call you Hermione? Well, then, Hermione, your son showed me something that interested
me very much.”

She held out the painting, and Hermione took it, struck anew by the beauty of Dusty's
work.

“It's a beautiful piece,” Andromeda said, watching Hermione gaze at the painting.
“Evidently, Dusty thought it would help me with my sickness.”

Hermione smiled. “He is very kind.”

`More than that,” said Andromeda, “he was right. I'm not sure he understood—perhaps he
thought I was just happy to see a likeness of my grandson again—but there is something else this
painting showed me.”

Andromeda studied Hermione's face for a moment.

“Do you know what that is, Hermione?” When Hermione didn't respond, Andromeda sat back,
closing her eyes briefly before continuing, “It showed me that though no one can replace my
Nymphadora, Theodore does not have to live without a mother.”

She smiled when Hermione looked up, her breath catching audibly.

“Legally, your husband will assume guardianship of my grandson when I die,” she said, “Remus and
Nymphadora determined that when Theodore was born. But I admit I was concerned for Theodore; you
see, I knew I was ill even before your wedding, and though I knew you had shown great compassion in
taking those seven children into your home, I was not sure you would treat them as anything more
than a cause. Furthermore, I was certain that you and your husband would want to have children of
your own in the near future. Would there, I wondered, be any room left for Theodore in that old
house of yours?”

Andromeda paused and coughed.

“I saw this painting,” said Andromeda, running a finger down the edge of the canvas, “and I saw
with what tender care your son had captured every inch of your face. And—watching Dusty carefully—I
knew you had not only taken him in, but you had made him your own. Love is very noticeable,
Hermione. It leaves a mark. And never has it been so clear to me as it was in your son's face
yesterday.”

Andromeda put the painting aside.

“I have told you what I have seen and what I have felt. And I have told you so that I may ask
the impossible of you.”

Andromeda fixed her eyes on Hermione, and in the moment, Hermione felt as though she had
forgotten how to breathe. There was a powerful, dignified pleading in Andromeda's eyes, and
Hermione could not help but hang upon Andromeda's every word.

“I am asking you,” Andromeda said softly, “if you have enough strength and compassion to take an
orphan boy—who will soon have no one else in the world—and love him as you love your own. Not as a
legal obligation, not as a poor, pitiable being in need of charity—but as your son.”

Andromeda gazed at Hermione, who was sitting silent and still beside her; she studied the look
on her face carefully. And something in the girl's youthful eyes—something in the softness and
tenderness of the girl's expression—filled Andromeda with the greatest peace she had ever
known, and satisfied her at the core.

She nodded, closing her eyes for a moment and taking a deep, raspy breath.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice suddenly feeble with exhaustion. “You have done more for me
than you could ever imagine.”

**^*^*^*^**

Andromeda Tonks was buried next to her husband on a gray day, when the clouds had come and the
rain hadn't quite arrived. It was not a large gathering, but it was a tender one, and when the
rain *did* come, everyone was ready—or nearly everyone.

“Dusty,” Hermione knelt beside him, ignoring the rain, “Dusty, it's time to go home.”

When he didn't move, she took him by the hand and pulled him into her arms, letting him cry
into her damp sweater. Hermione held him tight, kissing his head and stroking his sopping hair.

Suddenly, the rain seemed to stop. Hermione glanced up.

Harry held the umbrella over the two of them, standing silent and supportive in the grayness of
the rain. His gaze was gentle, and Hermione knew he understood more than Dusty realized.

Dusty looked up at him, his dark hair splayed over his forehead and his eyes full of tears. He
swiped at his face bravely, though his mouth trembled noticeably as he stood. Hermione followed
suit, and Harry wrapped his free arm around Dusty.

“C'mon,” he said softly, “let's go home.”

**^*^*^*^**

Had Ginny not volunteered to watch the Potter kids that afternoon, she would have sworn up a
storm. However, as Yasmine was scribbling away next to her at the kitchen table, Ginny had to
content herself with tearing her old drafts into several thousand scraps.

It was maddening, she thought, watching a nine-year-old write with such gusto and purpose, when
she herself couldn't write one opening paragraph.

“The trash bin is under the sink,” Yasmine said, glancing with mild interest at the mountain of
paper scraps at the center of the table. “But I suppose you know that.”

She peered at Ginny's current draft curiously.

“What are you writing about?” she asked.

“I have no idea,” said Ginny, all the anger gone out of her and all the gloominess set in. “What
about you?”

“I'm writing about Jackie's garden,” said Yasmine promptly, “well, I mean, Jackie's
garden in a million years. You see, in *my* story, the garden grows and grows into a forest,
and… well,” she frowned thoughtfully, “I haven't thought that far yet.”

“Cool,” Ginny said, absently flicking a stray corner of parchment back into the pile.
“You're further than I am.”

“What *were* you writing about?”

“Quidditch after the war,” said Ginny, “but you see how that's going.”

Yasmine paused.

“Well,” she said, scooting her chair closer to Ginny's, “do you *care* about it?”

“What?”

“Does it matter to you?” Yasmine asked, “Quidditch after the war, I mean.”

Ginny was taken aback, but something prompted to her consider the question seriously.

“No,” she admitted after a moment, “but everyone else would probably read it.”

“But if *you* don't care,” said Yasmine, “then no one else will, either. I'm not
trying to be mean,” she added quickly and anxiously, “but can't you *tell* when someone
cares?”

“So what do *you* think I should write on, Yaz?”

Yasmine thought for a moment. “Something that matters to you—something that makes you smile or
something that makes you cry or something that makes you hold your breath in excitement. I could
write pages and pages and pages on the look on Mama's face when Dad kisses her—actually, I
have,” she confessed, turning pink, “but it's so beautiful it makes me want to cry.”

Ginny thought back.

“Dean's already done that,” she said, “he wrote about you and your sisters and
brothers.”

“I know,” Yasmine said, “and it was very nice of him. I like Dean. He read one of my
stories.”

Ginny sighed and blew aside a piece of hair dangling in her face.

“Thanks for the advice,” she told Yasmine, “I need all the help I can get.”

“You're welcome,” said Yasmine, with a quick smile, “I like talking about writing. It's
fun.”

Ginny smiled then, shrugging.

“I guess it can be.”

“When *I* can't think about what to write,” Yasmine said, “I read. You can borrow a
book if you want.”

“Thanks,” Ginny said, grinning, “maybe I will.”

She sighed and looked at the scrap pile in the middle of the table.

“Meanwhile, what do I do with this lot?”

**^*^*^*^**

“Phew,” Harry groaned, practically falling into bed, “I had no idea kids could be so
strong.”

“He's confused,” Hermione said, sighing, “I imagine he's feeling very afraid.”

“Teddy never seems to fight *you.”* Harry watched her put away her robes. “He fights me
like a tiger.”

“It's going to take some time, Harry,” Hermione said softly, sitting on the bed and rubbing
his back. “This is quite a bit of stress for a child his age.”

“I noticed something today, Hermione,” Harry mumbled, closing his eyes and enjoying warm, smooth
pressure of her palms against his back. “He's not changing his appearance as much as he used
to. Not even when he sleeps. Most of the time he has eyes like yours.”

“And hair like yours,” she added, quietly. “I know.”

She touched his shoulder and he turned over, searching her face and eyes for an answer to an
unspoken question. She bent and kissed him warmly; he pushed himself up on one elbow and leaned
into the soft pressure of her lips.

She drew back, cupping his face in her hands and brushing her thumb against his cheekbone.

“I know, Harry,” she whispered into his ear, “perhaps—perhaps now isn't the time.”

He closed his eyes.

“Someday,” she whispered, “we don't need to hurry—we have time—“

He felt a yearning ache in his chest—a gentle ache, but an ache nonetheless. She sighed, resting
her head in the crook of his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around her, sighing.

“Am I being stupid?” he asked her softly.

“No,” Hermione brushed a kiss against his neck. “I feel the same way.”

“Oh, good,” Harry said, managing a smile, “because you'll have to do all the hard work.”

She laughed, and he opened his eyes, noticing that there were tears in her eyes. He pulled her
closer.

“Hey,” he whispered, “it's only a matter of time, right? When Teddy is settled—when
we're back to normal… we'll—we'll talk about it again.”

“It seems so silly, doesn't it?” she whispered, a few tears slipping down her cheeks, “We
have so many children—“

“It's not silly,” Harry said hoarsely, running his thumb down the side of her cheek, “it
doesn't mean we love the others less. It's different, that's all—it's something…
we've both wanted.”

“Jack wants it, too,” Hermione said with a tearful laugh, “I told you about Gabriel, didn't
I?'

“Oh, yeah,” Harry said with a soft chuckle, “well, if Jack wants it…”

They laughed again, and Harry was glad to see her looking comforted. He felt comforted
himself.

“Someday,” he whispered, his lips brushing her ear in a soft caress, “someday soon.”

*A/N: Incidentally: I will be posting approximately 2 chapters a week for the next five weeks.
Thus my rapid three-chapter posting spree. Thank you for reading!*

-->



4. Chapter Three
----------------



*A/N: Apologies for this late update. I've been ill recently and wasn't able to spend
time editing these two chapters until recently. I hope you enjoy!*

Chapter Three

“Well, she really did it,” Mrs. Granger said to her husband as he crossed out his third attempt
at spelling `syzygy'. “We have another grandson, Howard.”

“Perhaps we'll get a new one every three months,” he remarked dryly, “what's his
name?”

“Oh, darling, you know him already. Theodore Lupin, remember?”

“He's the one with the blue hair?”

“Only sometimes, Howard.”

“Syzegy?” Howard scowled and crossed that out, too. “Well, good. I liked him.”

“I think it's spelled like this, dear,” Helen said, reaching for the pen and spelling it
correctly. “Try that.”

“It just doesn't look right,” said Howard, his brow furrowing. “Three `Y's?”

Helen waited patiently.

“It fits,” said Howard grudgingly. “I'm done.”

Helen swept his crossword away. “And what does *that* look mean, Howard?”

“Do you think they'll stop at a dozen?” Howard mused, scratching his chin with the tip of
his pen and leaving a great blot of ink on his chin. “Or perhaps they're trying to have a child
for every letter of the alphabet—“

“*Really*, Howard!” Helen looked annoyed. “He was Harry's godson, you know.”

“I just know that the last time you talked with our daughter about children, Hermione smiled and
didn't tell you off for bringing it up,” said Howard, “that *means* something, doesn't
it?”

“I don't know,” Helen said impatiently, “I told her you weren't ready—“

“*I'm* not ready?” Howard echoed, “Shouldn't we be concerned about *Harry?*
He's her husband, after all.”

“*Harry* is just as ready as she is,” said Helen crossly, “honestly, Howard. What do you
think of it?”

Howard smiled.

“I trust them to make their own decisions, Helen,” he said, “and all we can do is support
them.”

“Perhaps you're right,” said Helen with a sigh, “but it *does* seem quite fast,
doesn't it?”

“Life moves quickly sometimes, dear,” he said, “we'll just make the best of it
together.”

**^*^*^*^**

“Neville?”

He jumped and spun around, nearly dropping the flowers in his hand as a result.

“Oh—hello, Hermione,” he said, relaxing.

“I didn't expect to see you today,” she said, brushing a curl of hair out of her eyes, “is
everything all right?”

“Yes,” Neville reassured her, “I'm just… well…”

He looked down at the flowers in his hand.

“It's my parents' anniversary today,” he said quietly, and she made a soft noise of
understanding.

“Do you—usually visit them alone?”

He didn't reply, and she touched his arm.

“Would you like me to come with you?”

He looked down at her, and though there was a moment where everything in him wanted to say no,
he felt himself nod.

They started walking toward the stairs, and as they walked, Neville searched about for something
else to discuss with her. It wasn't hard.

“I heard you took in Teddy.”

“Yes,” she said, “he's adapted fairly well, given the circumstances.”

“Harry told me that Andromeda Tonks asked you to adopt him.”

She nodded. “We finalized the adoption a few days ago.”

He felt a sudden rush of admiration for her at the words.

“You're brilliant. Both of you,” he said warmly, “It's good for a kid to have
parents—not that I don't appreciate Gran,” he added quickly, “but…”

Neville realized, somewhat belatedly, that he had brought the subject back around to parents.
His stomach twisted.

“I understand,” Hermione said after a moment, saving him from having to finish. “I only wish
Remus and Dora could have had more time with him. His full name is Theodore Remus Lupin Potter.
It's a long name, I know, but we didn't want him to forget.”

He ducked his head, suddenly aware that the word `forget' had struck him hard in the
gut.

“Yeah,” he said, quietly.

“We can talk about something else,” she said gently, “I'm afraid I'm only making this
harder for you.”

“No,” Neville said, “I'm glad you've come. It's… hard, being alone on days like
this. But—I have to. They're my parents.”

“I think it's extremely courageous,” said Hermione, squeezing his arm lightly. “Harry and I
both do.”

He smiled.

“What?” she asked in puzzlement, and he laughed, unexpectedly.

“You really *can't* go five minutes without mentioning him, can you?”

Hermione grinned, her cheeks turning pink.

“No,” she said good-naturedly, “I haven't managed it *yet,* anyway. I'm sure it
will wear off eventually.”

“You've lasted this long.” Neville grinned back. “Why try?”

“Fair point,” she said lightly.

He paused.

“I never did thank you,” he said, “for—forcing me and Ginny to see each other again.”

She smiled softly.

“You're welcome. I'm just glad you're not angry at me.”

“Do you think I'm mad?” he said, looking at her, “Caring about her this much?”

She paused. “No. But I do think that you're going to have to be extraordinarily
patient.”

“Sometimes I try to tell myself that I should give up on her,” Neville said, “but the moment I
do…” he shook his head. “She drives me mad, Hermione, she really does.”

“She might not be ready yet, Nev,” she said, “Love can soften any heart, but it takes time.
Especially with Ginny. She's been hurt more than any of us realize.”

“I know,” said Neville, in a low voice, “I've hurt her myself.”

He knew he'd said too much then, and he was immensely glad, for once, to see the ward.

A Healer emerged from the ward—portly and neat, the Healer cast Hermione a curious glance as he
greeted Neville with a warm handshake. “Your father's on his walk right now, Neville, but if
you come back in a couple of hours, he should be in.”

“Mrs. Potter,” said the Healer, turning to Hermione, “Healer McDonough.”

“I'm pleased to meet you,” Hermione said, shaking hands, “I hope it's all right for me
to come with Neville?”

“Of course,” said the Healer, “everyone admires what you've done for those children. I used
to play with them when I had the time, but I always hoped someone would do something. I never
dreamed that *Harry Potter* would adopt them.”

Hermione thanked him, accustomed to hearing Harry's name spoken with that particular tone of
reverence. As they entered the ward, however, Neville turned to her with a look of
embarrassment.

“Hermione,” he began, but she shook her head.

“Please don't worry,” she said, laughing a little, “I'm entirely used to it.”

“It's still not right.”

“It's *fine*, Neville,” she said firmly, “As long as I can make a difference somewhere,
it doesn't matter if the world knows me only as Harry Potter's wife.”

She laughed again. “Besides, I waited so long to be Harry's wife that I don't mind
hearing it every now and then.”

Envy (or something close to it) dug at the pit of his stomach. As he led her down the ward, he
wondered if anyone would ever feel that way about him.

They found his mother sitting by the window, but she wasn't looking at them. She didn't
appear to be looking at anything, really. She had hollow eyes and an empty expression. Neville
swallowed hard, and suddenly, as if he were fifteen again, his cheeks burned. Hermione's gaze
was sad for a moment, but Neville never would have expected what came next.

“Hello,” Hermione said, smiling at his mother, “happy anniversary, Mrs. Longbottom.”

To his surprise, his mother actually heard Hermione's greeting, and turned her head.

“What a lovely day,” Hermione said, taking an empty chair beside his mother, “and how many years
has it been?”

“Twenty-one,” Neville said hoarsely, knowing there would be no reply. There never was.

“Twenty-one?” Hermione repeated, looking genuinely impressed. “I hope Harry and I will be
married that long. Look. Neville brought you flowers!”

Neville tried to hand the flowers to his mother, but she didn't move. Hermione glanced at
him softly, and he realized that her eyes were glistening with tears. His throat tightened.

“Happy anniversary, Mum,” he said feebly, and he turned away quickly before Hermione could see
him cry. But then he heard the chair scrape against the floor, and before he knew it, Hermione was
standing in front of him.

“May I?” she whispered, reaching for the flowers. Numbly nodding, he allowed her to take the
bouquet of wildflowers and turned around to watch her sit back down beside Alice.

“These aren't exactly romantic flowers, are they?” Hermione said, and she knelt in front of
Alice, still holding the bouquet. “I suppose we must excuse him, mustn't we? He hasn't had
much practice with girls, you know.”

She reached into the bouquet and pulled out a periwinkle.

“What a beautiful periwinkle,” Hermione said softly, holding the delicate white flower gently.
“I read a book on symbolic flowers once—I found it in Harry's dresser drawer. He gave me a
bouquet based on the meanings—I found out later that your son gave him the idea.”

Neville flushed when she looked back at him.

“Some flowers, like the lily, symbolize rebirth.” Hermione raised a hand and moved aside a few
straggly strands of Alice's prematurely white hair. “What do you suppose the periwinkle
means?”

She brushed Alice's hair with a hand, astonishing Neville with her tenderness.

“The periwinkle,” she said softly, fixing her eyes on Alice as she tucked the flower into
Alice's hair, “is a symbol of remembrance.”

Hermione stood slowly, bending to brush a gentle kiss against Alice's forehead.

“Happy anniversary, Mrs. Longbottom.”

Neville had embraced her before she even turned around.

“Thank you,” he choked hoarsely, “*thank you—“*

He realized then that she was crying too; that perhaps she had been dying to cry the entire
time, and this made him weep even more.

They left the ward quietly, but the moment they were in the corridor, Neville turned to her and
blurted out, “I'm sorry, Hermione, if I—shouldn't have hugged you like that—“

“It's all right,” she assured him, touching his shoulder. “You're my friend,
Neville.”

“I know, but—“

“Hush,” she said, with a faint glimmer of amusement in her eyes, “you had nothing but the most
innocent intentions. I know that.”

He looked away, knowing that he must have seemed very foolish, and wishing he hadn't
cried—but a part of him was glad to cry, to finally show that it *did* hurt to have parents
that couldn't recognize him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Hermione's face.
She was obviously pondering something with particular intensity, her eyes fixed ahead of them.

“Why… why did you do that?” Neville ventured to ask at last, as they began to walk back toward
the lobby.

Hermione was quiet for a moment.

“Because I want to help her, Neville,” she said softly, “and sometimes it's a simple act of
kindness that helps the most.”

“You know,” he said after a long pause, “there is—*one* other person who visits my parents
sometimes.”

Hermione turned in surprise.

“Who?”

Neville paused for a moment. Then, he answered, half-smiling at the look on Hermione's
face.

“Luna.”

**^*^*^*^**

“Hello!”

“Hello, Yasmine,” said Luna, smiling at her dreamily, “You look particularly full of light
today. Did you have good dreams?”

Yasmine smiled. She liked Luna, and even understood her a little. For some reason, she followed
Luna's flights of thought better than Katy or even Dusty.

“Yes, thank you,” she said, “Did you need something?”

“No,” said Luna, “but your mother does. May I see her?”

“Mama?” Yasmine stood aside, “She's in the kitchen.”

“Did you open the windows?” Luna said as she floated through the front door toward the kitchen,
“The Luceats are particularly bright today. It's good luck to let them in. Hello, Hermione
Potter!”

“Hello, Luna,” Hermione said distractedly, sliding the eggs onto a plate and handing it to
Dusty. “How are you?”

“What a lovely memory,” said Luna. Hermione's gaze snapped up to Luna, her eyes widening.
“He certainly loves you a lot.”

“Well… yes,” Hermione stammered, keenly aware that all seven of her children were staring at
her. “He does. I mean—won't you sit down?”

“Oh, I wasn't using Occlumency, if that's what you're afraid of,” said Luna,
drifting into a chair, “I could just see the kiss in your eyes.”

“Can we eat outside?” said Katy. Hermione thanked the heavens for Katy's perceptiveness and
gave them permission.

“Come on. Back porch, everyone!” said Jack, taking charge. They hurried out of the kitchen just
in time to hear Jackie say, in a loud whisper, “Mama is all red!”

“What sweet children,” said Luna, as she usually did. “It's all right, Hermione. It's
nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Oh, no, I'm not ashamed,” Hermione said hastily, “Tea?”

“No, thank you,” Luna said serenely, “I'm just here to talk about whatever you needed to
talk to me about.”

Hermione blinked, nearly dropping the mug of tea in disbelief.

“You really ought to open your windows,” Luna commented, “it's good luck today. And since
you want to have a baby—“

“Oh, right,” Hermione said quickly, pushing the kitchen windows open. Luna meant well, she
reminded herself firmly. “There.”

“Ronald told me,” said Luna, explaining without waiting for Hermione to ask. “I think it's
wonderful.”

“Thank you, Luna.”

“I see I've unsettled you,” Luna said gently, “I usually have the effect on people. But you
especially.”

“We just think differently,” Hermione said, “you're a wonderful friend, Luna, don't ever
doubt that.”

“That's very kind of you,” said Luna, smiling at her. “And you mean it, too, don't you?
Most people don't. Ronald didn't, until last year.”

“Luna,” Hermione said, “you visit the Longbottoms, don't you?”

Luna sobered, her gray eyes darkening.

“Yes,” she said, “It's quite sad sometimes, isn't it? It really hurts Neville, you
know.”

“I know,” Hermione said. Luna smiled.

“I know you do,” she said softly, “you wouldn't have, not before your children. But you can
feel it now, can't you? That's why you care so much.”

Hermione looked down.

“Your heart is softer than before,” Luna said, touching her hand, “you understand.”

“They're still people, Luna!” Hermione burst out, “I have to do something!”

Luna smiled.

“I work with the Department of Mysteries, you know,” she said, “I think you might be one of our
greatest mysteries.”

Hermione stared.

“What on earth…?” she said impatiently. She felt agitated.

“Never mind,” Luna said, in as brisk a tone as Hermione had ever heard her use, “You're
right, you know. We mustn't give up hope.”

“W-we?” Hermione stammered, slightly taken aback by her abrupt change in tone.

Luna smiled at her.

“Well, we're going to bring them back, aren't we?” she said, “That's why we're
both here.”

-->



5. Chapter Four
---------------



Chapter Four

Katy had never been a particularly timid person, but something about the hospital ward made her
nervous. She sat on the bed across from Mrs. Longbottom and Hermione, watching as Hermione brushed
the woman's white hair. It fell to Alice's shoulders (for Hermione had taken to calling her
Alice on visits), and it seemed to Katy that no normal human being could be so insensitive to her
mother's gentle touch.

“Why doesn't she respond, Mama?”

Hermione put the brush aside and began dividing Alice's hair into three thin strands.

“I don't know, Katy,” she said quietly, “Perhaps she can't. Or perhaps she doesn't
want to.”

Katy watched Alice's face.

“Where is Neville's father?”

“They moved him to a different room.” Hermione's face grew unbearably sad, and it hurt Katy,
seeing that look. “He's been sick and it upset Alice immensely.”

Katy studied Alice's still, emotionless face, trying to picture such a silent being as
upset.

“Oh, I know it doesn't look like it,” Hermione said, “but I think Alice is still there, deep
down inside. She seems to respond to me sometimes—although I could be imagining it.”

“Are you and Luna going to help her?”

“And Frank, if we can,” said Hermione, nodding, “You see? She looked up. Hello, Alice.”

“Yasmine thinks she must have been very beautiful once.”

“I think there is something beautiful about everyone, if we can find it,” said Hermione, “but I
imagine Yasmine is right. She must have been.”

“It makes me sad,” Katy said after a moment, “that she can't even recognize Neville. Oh,
Mama, I don't think I could bear it if you forgot me.”

“You'll never have to bear that,” said Hermione immediately and firmly, “I'd never
forget you, Katy-girl. You're too much a part of me.”

“But suppose Alice said the same thing?”

Hermione went still.

“Well,” she said after a moment, reaching out and touching Katy's knee, “that's why
I'm trying to help her.”

Hermione came and sat beside Katy on the bed, putting her arm around her.

“I don't think Alice has forgotten everything, Katy,” she whispered, “and that's where
I'm going to start.”

**^*^*^*^**

Two neatly packed trunks sat by the front door, waiting for the morning when they would be
pushed through a busy train station to the Hogwarts Express. Hermione gazed at them through misty
eyes, astonished to find herself fighting back tears.

She hadn't expected Katy to receive a letter—she was only ten, after all—but she had
received one, and though the occurrence had been greeted with a great deal of excitement, there was
a great deal of sorrow in it, too.

Hermione turned off the downstairs lights, blowing out the few remaining candles, and locked the
door securely. She raised her wand and put up the family wards, then turned and tiptoed up the
stairs.

When she reached Katy's room, she lingered and finally slipped inside. Katy was fast asleep,
her hair tumbling about her face, and Hermione felt her throat constrict at the familiar sight. She
knelt near the bed, brushing a hand across Katy's cheek and kissing her tenderly on the
forehead.

“I'll miss you, Katy-girl,” she murmured, “but it's only because I love you so
dearly.”

She tore herself away from her daughter's bedside, reminding herself that it was going to be
a busy day tomorrow. As she walked down the hallway, swiping tears from her eyes, she suddenly
realized that there were noises coming from Yasmine's room.

“Yasmine?” she whispered, slipping inside and finding her daughter curled up on the floor,
“Oh—Yasmine—oh, sweetheart—“

“I can't say goodbye to her, Mama!” Yasmine wailed, “Oh, Mama, I just can't!”

“You mean Katy?”

Yasmine sobbed dejectedly and threw her arms about Hermione's neck. “I know I've been so
terribly *grumpy*, and I know everyone thinks I'm jealous, but I'm not, Mama, my heart
is breaking and it hurts so much and I can't bear to think about Katy going away, not for a
whole *year*, and I know it's terrible that I didn't cry when Ben left but I'm
crying for Katy but—but… but—*oh!”*

“Yasmine, you'll give yourself hiccups,” Hermione whispered, wrapping her arms around her,
“Shh… shh…”

“I thought only grown-ups could have heartbreaks!” Yasmine moaned, “I thought I had to fall in
love first!”

“But you do love Katy, only differently. That doesn't mean it won't break your heart a
little to say goodbye,” said Hermione, her heart overflowing with compassion for her, “You'll
see Katy on holidays and of course you can write—“

“It won't be the same,” choked Yasmine, who had indeed cried herself into hiccups. “Oh
*why* do we have to grow up?”

Hermione smiled a little at that, feeling herself empathizing with the question more than she
expected.

“Because we were meant to, Yazzy,” she said softly, “Think of Jackie—you wouldn't want her
to stay four years old forever, would you?”

Yasmine lifted a tearstained face to hers, still crying, but looking slightly heartened.

“I suppose not,” she conceded with another hiccup. “But maybe I can just go to Neverland and
never grow up.”

“I don't think you'd like that,” Hermione said, laughing softly, “That's why Wendy
had to go back. Little girls have to grow up—otherwise we couldn't have wise, compassionate
women.”

“Like you?”

Hermione brushed away Yasmine's tears with a thumb.

“Well, what do you think?” she asked with tender gravity. Yasmine considered her mother's
face with dark, tear-filled eyes.

“I think—if I *must* grow up—then I'll grow up to be just like you, Mama.”

She sighed and curled up into Hermione's arms. “Mama?”

“Yes?”

“Did growing up—and getting married—I mean—does it *scare* you?”

Hermione considered the question.

“I think it scares everyone,” she said, pulling Yasmine closer, “I'm a little frightened of
it still.”

“About growing up?”

“Yes,” Hermione said, laughing gently, “about growing up, and about Katy going away, and about
being a good mother and wife. It's all right to be frightened. What counts is not running
away.”

“To Neverland?”

“To Neverland,” said Hermione, “or to anywhere else. Running away only means that trouble will
have to come a little further to find you. Fear isn't a bad thing, Yasmine—courage is the thing
that matters.”

“Do you think… do you think *I* have courage, Mama?”

“You can. Courage is being afraid and not giving in to it. Like the Cowardly Lion. Do you
remember him?”

“Yes,” said Yasmine, “he was one of my favorites.”

Hermione smiled. “The Cowardly Lion didn't stop being afraid, Yasmine. He just stopped
running away, and starting standing up for himself—even if his paws trembled and his tail twitched
and his voice shook while he did it.”

She kissed Yasmine's forehead.

“Now will you go back to bed?” she asked. Yasmine nodded and allowed Hermione to tuck her back
into bed.

“Good night, Yasmine,” Hermione whispered, stroking her cheek briefly, “sweet dreams.”

Yasmine smiled up at her.

“I'm glad you were brave enough to take us, Mama,” she murmured. Hermione smiled back.

“I am, too.”

**^*^*^*^**

He didn't know exactly how he felt about it, watching Katy sit down at the Gryffindor table.
There were cheers as well as whispers, as there had been for him, but this time, it was louder,
more excited.

“Ben?”

Audrey shook him by the shoulder gently. “Are you all right, Ben? *Ben!”*

“What?” he started. “Oh—Audrey—sorry—did you say something?”

“You look ill,” she said critically, “are you upset about your sister?”

He laughed nervously. “About Katy? No, of course not—why would I be upset?”

“Because she's in your parents' house,” said Audrey gently, “and you're in
Ravenclaw.”

It stung, and it must have showed on his face, because Audrey put her hand on his arm and
squeezed it. “Ben, you know it doesn't matter.”

“I know,” Ben said shortly.

“I'm glad you're in Ravenclaw,” said Audrey, “and I think your parents are, too.”

“I *know*, Audrey,” Ben snapped. “Just—forget it, all right?”

“Ben!” Katy came dashing up to him, her eyes shining and braids flying behind her. “Ben, did you
see?”

He swallowed hard and forced himself to smile.

“Everyone here is so *friendly!”* Katy said, “I met Nathan's brother Jason,
and—and—Ben?”

He instantly regretted the look on Katy's face, and he said quickly, “I think it's
great, Katy—you're in Gryffindor!”

“I know!” Katy beamed. “We should write to Mama and Dad, shouldn't we? And you should show
me where everything is, and how to send a letter, and—and Ben, I *will* see you, won't
I?”

“Maybe,” said Ben, “at mealtimes.”

Her face fell.

“Only then?” she said, in a small voice. “But—I thought—“

“He'll do his best to see you at least once every day,” Audrey piped up quickly, “We both
will, won't we, Ben?”

“'Course we will, Katy-girl,” said Ben, not needing the gentle kick Audrey gave him under
the table. “In fact, I'll take you to your first class after breakfast. How's that?”

Katy's eyes flashed blue-green, and he knew that he had said the right thing.

“Will you? It won't make you late?”

“It doesn't matter,” said Ben, sincerely, “I don't want you to get lost like I did.”

“Thank you, Ben,” said Katy, looking more grateful than Ben thought he deserved, “I'm going
to go back to the Gryffindor table, but—but will you—would you mind—saying goodnight to me before
you go to your common room? Just once?”

Ben suddenly realized how afraid his sister looked, and he felt instantly ashamed of
himself.

“I'll say goodnight to you as long as you need,” he said firmly, “I promise.”

**^*^*^*^**

Ben found Katy outside her common room right after dinner. She was sitting on the flagstones in
her uniform, and something about her face let him know she had been crying.

“This is your sister, isn't it, young man?” said the Fat Lady, “Poor dear. Homesick
already.”

Ben sat down next to Katy, ignoring the schoolmates passing them by and staring.

“Katy?”

She threw her arms around him and buried her face in his shoulder.

“It's silly—but—I thought you would be with me all the time—and now—now I'm afraid—“

“You don't need to be,” said Ben, “Hogwarts is amazing.”

“Oh, I know,” Katy said quickly, “I know it is, and I've been so excited, but—but Ben, I
miss home.”

“I do too, sometimes,” said Ben, “but you'll make friends.”

She looked up at him imploringly. “You must think I'm being such a baby—I must be
embarrassing—“

“It's okay, Katy,” said Ben, “you're my sister. You're more important. And I cried,
too, my first night here.”

“People stare,” she whispered, “not in a mean way, but they still look at me—“

“It's because they know who our parents are,” said Ben, “they expect something from us. But
that's okay. Dad had the same problem.”

“I suppose you're right,” Katy said, scrubbing her face. He patted her on the shoulder.

“Good night, Katy,” he said softly. “Don't worry.”

She smiled at him quickly.

“Good night.” She looked around, then bent close to his ear and whispered, “I love you, Ben, but
I'll only whisper it, because I don't want you to be embarrassed.”

He flushed, touched by her thoughtfulness, and still a little ashamed of himself. So, forsaking
his dignity, he hugged her and said, “I love you too, Katy-girl. Good night.”

**^*^*^*^**

“Well, Teddy,” said Harry, “I guess it's you and me.”

Teddy looked at him with wide eyes.

Unbidden, something like a shiver went down Harry's back. It was almost like looking at a
picture of himself as a baby, except for his eyes. They really *were* Hermione's eyes, he
thought, feeling strangely unsettled.

“Yeah,” said Harry, “I wish Ron would take me for ice cream, too.”

He paused and shifted Teddy to his other knee.

“You don't seem to like me,” Harry said at long last, when Teddy turned away. “but then… you
make yourself look like me, don't you?”

Teddy squirmed, and Harry lowered him gently to the floor, letting him sprawl out on the carpet
on his stomach.

“You know,” said Harry, sitting on the floor and watching him grasp the carpet threads. “I
wonder if you aren't afraid of me because of my glasses. Is that it?”

Teddy turned onto his back, watching intently as Harry took off his glasses.

“How's that?” said Harry to the brown and blue shape in front of him. “Yeah.
C'mere.”

He reached out and picked Teddy up. He could see Teddy's face now, brown inquisitive eyes
scanning his. Unexpectedly, Teddy planted his tiny palms on Harry's cheeks.

Harry scrunched his nose as Teddy leaned forward and spread his fingers over his cheeks, so that
his fingertips barely touched the bottom of Harry's eyes.

“Yeah,” said Harry very quietly, “I'm not as terrifying now, am I?”

In answer, Teddy put his head on Harry's shoulder and let out a tiny sigh, a sigh that made
his whole body go limp. Harry grinned, turning to kiss the little boy on the head.

“Someday you'll like me with my glasses, too… but I'm happy with this for now.”

-->



6. Chapter Five
---------------



*A/N: Happy Labor Day, everyone! These next two chapters are… a bit unusual, I think, but
hope**fully pleasant to read anyway. Chapter Six is a bit short, but that's simply because
I can't split up the next plot development. (You'll see why next week.) I hope you
enjoy!*

Chapter Five

Autumn had finally caught up with them, it seemed, as trees came alive in gold and orange and
red. Swift breezes and brisk skies watched over Heart Haven's happy chaos, and Neville would be
downright lying to himself if he denied that he was feeling slightly envious of the family warmth
that encompassed the entirety of the Potter household.

Hermione and Luna had asked to meet with him that day, and Neville—needing, in an odd way, to
rid himself of nervous energy—had decided to walk part of the way. So here he was, strolling along
the lane with his hands tucked in his pockets, leaves breaking crisply under his feet.

“Neville! Neville, it's *us!*”

He jumped and looked up; he could see Jackie Potter dashing toward him, waving a hand, and her
father behind her, pushing Teddy in the stroller.

“Hello,” he said, smiling, as Jackie puffed up to him, her cheeks ruddy from her run. “How are
you?”

“I learned a song today,” Jackie boasted, in the blunt, unapologetic manner of four-year-olds.
“Only Mama says it's for Christmas, but I want to sing it anyway.”

Promptly, she burst into “Deck the Halls” with every indication that she had absolutely no idea
what she was singing. She had clearly forgotten the words, but this did not appear to worry her;
she simply substituted her own words and, if she felt the performance was lagging, picked up the
pace when she reached the `Fa La La La Las'.

“Deck the halls with bowls of jelly, fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la! Tis the season to be… be… Molly,
fa-fa-la-la-la-la-la-la!”

Neville knew he would never sing that song with a straight face again. Harry made it up the lane
just as Jackie was urging Neville to, “Follow me to buried treasure, fa-la-la, fa-la-la,
la-la-la!”

“Hi,” said Harry, as Jackie finished on a particularly soulful `la'. “Er… good show, Jackie.
Maybe we'll stick with one song for now.”

“I could sing another one,” said Jackie, very sweetly. Harry coughed and put his hand on her
shoulder.

“Maybe later, Jack-Jack.”

“Ron taught me the Cannons fight song,” said Jackie, with a persuasive widening of her eyes.
“You like *that* song, don't you, Papa?”

“Jackie—“

“Hail, you men of orange and *cour*-age…!” Jackie warbled with gusto. Teddy gurgled in
puzzlement and kicked his feet slightly.

“Jackie,” said Harry, more sternly this time. “Did you hear me?”

Jackie stuck out her bottom lip and pouted visibly, but fell obediently silent.

“Hermione and Luna are waiting for you,” said Harry to Neville. “She really appreciates you
coming over on our day off, you know.”

“No, I'm glad I could come.” Neville noticed Jackie getting restless. “I'll… erm… just
let you go, then.”

“Thanks, Nev. We'll be back to the house in a bit. C'mon, Jackie!”

“Can *I* ride in the stroller, Papa?” Neville heard Jackie asked as they walked past
him.

“No, not this time. You're big enough to walk by yourself, don't you think?”

“But I'm *tired!”*

It took Neville about another half-hour to arrive at the house. Yasmine and Dusty waved at him
from the big oak tree in the front yard.

“Neville, could you get our kite down? It's stuck!”

He paused, looking up at the two hopeful faces looking at him from above. The tree rustled in a
very crisp sort of way, and he drew his wand.

“Sure.”

“It's on the top,” Yasmine said, swinging casually further up the tree with surprising
nimbleness. “Dusty nearly reached it, but the branches are too thin.”

She grasped a branch with one hand and leaned out, peering at Neville's wand with curious
dark eyes.

“Can't you just climb up here?”

Neville stared at her, surprised. “I thought I'd summon it.”

“Oh, you don't have to do that. You only need to come up part of the way; you're tall.
Besides, it might rip.”

She pushed her feet off the tree trunk, dangled from a branch by both hands, then dropped to the
ground beside Neville. Bright orange leaves were tangled in her dark hair, and she smoothed it down
slightly.

“If you back up a little, you should be able to see it.”

He backed up obediently, gazing up at the tree. He could see a bright blue kite entangled among
the oak's tallest boughs, bobbing anxiously up and down with the tree's movements.

“If you climb to where Dusty is standing, we think you'll be able to reach it.” Yasmine
combed aside some of her stray hair with meticulous fingers. “If you don't mind, of course—I
mean… please.”

He grinned a little at that, and—steeling himself—he took hold of one of the branches and
hoisted himself up.

Dusty scooted over for him and pointed upwards.

“Yeah, I see it,” said Neville, squinting. “Right.”

He cleared his throat and reached for the kite. It shuddered a little at the wind's
prodding, but—after a bit of maneuvering—Neville managed to seize hold of the kite by the tail.

“Be careful!” Yasmine said anxiously, “It might rip—“

“No, no, I got it,” said Neville, reassuringly, “Here—“

He pulled gently and the kite came free in his hands.

“There you go, Dusty.”

Dusty smiled at him warmly and patted his arm in thanks. Then, with as much agility as Yasmine,
he bounded out of the tree and landed lightly on the ground, holding the kite.

Neville got down with a bit more difficulty than either of the children, finding that he had to
hunch over slightly in order to avoid hitting himself on the head.

“Thank you,” said Yasmine gratefully. “Mama's inside with Luna.”

He waved and strode toward the house, shivering a little as a wind stirred up. The house was
already showing signs of Jackie's enthusiastic decorations—a few crayon drawings of pumpkins
and pies hung festively in the window, as did a few paper cutouts of yellow and orange leaves. He
reached the porch and noticed three new bikes propped up against the wall.

“Thank you, Neville,” said a voice, and he jumped. Hermione held the door open for him and
motioned him inside. “That was good of you.”

“They wouldn't let me use magic,” he said, curiously. Hermione smiled.

“That doesn't surprise me.”

When he looked at her blankly, she shrugged and explained, “We try to let them problem-solve on
their own first. We'll use magic if they need it, but I think it makes them more independent
and creative.”

“Well, they definitely know how to climb trees,” was all Neville could say to that. Hermione
laughed.

“Yasmine and Dusty, especially. Won't you sit down?”

He sat down at the kitchen table, looking around at the cozy, neat little kitchen.

“Hello, Neville,” said Luna to him from across the table. She was doodling idly on a piece of
paper with a crayon and sipping at a cup of something hot. He smiled.

“Hello.”

“Would you like something to drink?” Hermione offered. “We have hot chocolate, if you'd
like. The girls made it.”

“It's delicious,” Luna said, drawing a spiral across her paper scrap. Neville looked over at
Hermione and nodded.

“I'll have some of that, then, please.”

“Have you had a good day off?” Hermione said, as she turned away and ladled the hot chocolate
into a mug. “Harry said you were all ready for a break.”

“Oh, yeah… it's been—all right, I guess,” said Neville uncomfortably. He didn't like to
add that he'd been planning on spending it alone.

Evidently he didn't need to, for Hermione turned and studied him carefully.

“You're always welcome here,” she said after a moment, softly. “You know that, don't
you?”

Neville took the mug. “Thanks, Hermione.”

He'd almost asked Harry last week if he could visit on their day off, but it had embarrassed
him, and it was hard to explain exactly how grateful he'd been to receive Hermione's
letter. He'd never been really close friends with anyone at Hogwarts, he'd realized, or not
close enough that they would have had reason to miss him.

“You are staying for dinner, aren't you?” she asked, in a more normal tone of voice. “I told
Harry to ask you yesterday, but…”

“Oh, yes, he asked,” said Neville quickly, “and… yeah, I'm planning on staying. Thanks.”

She sat next to him with her own mug of hot chocolate and glanced at Luna.

“We have a… question to ask you.”

Luna put down her crayon, and the atmosphere in the kitchen changed noticeably.

“We want to help your parents,” Luna said, simply.

His heart dropped and he stared at them, his mouth falling open. Surely, they weren't… but
no, Luna was rarely anything but sincere, and Hermione was looking at him quite intently.

“You're… you're serious?” he blurted out.

“Of course we are.” Hermione sipped at her hot chocolate and let him digest the thought.

Of course Hermione wanted to help, he realized, he may not know Hermione as well as, obviously,
her husband, but everyone knew that Hermione Potter was a problem-solver.

“My parents aren't a project,” he said, perhaps more shortly than the situation required, “I
know you—you want to help—but… but they aren't just… I mean—they're not just a… a
*problem!”*

“I know,” Hermione said, looking alarmed and leaning forward. “Oh, dear—that's not what
I—“

“No, maybe not,” said Neville, “but we've had our fair share of people who had that idea in
their heads, and they didn't help anything. Besides, there's not much… not much hope—“

“Oh, what a terrible thing to say, Neville,” said Luna, in an almost reproachful voice. He
flushed.

“Well, isn't there?” he said, looking at them both defiantly. His hands were sweaty;
suddenly, he felt as though he were a kid again, the school joke at Hogwarts—

“We wouldn't ask you if we didn't think there was hope,” said Hermione after a moment.
“I've talked to some of the Healers who worked with your parents, and apart from the Healer you
have now—McDonough—none of them seem to be willing to—understand your parents, as people.”

“And what makes you think you'll be any different?” The moment he said it, a memory crashed
over him like a tidal wave… *a periwinkle, a soft touch—a smile...* he regretted his words
immediately, and he looked away.

“I think,” said Luna, serenely, “that you'll find love makes a great deal of
difference.”

He stared at her.

“What Luna means is,” said Hermione quietly, “we care about you, Neville. And we care about your
parents, too. It's not a matter of problem-solving. It's… it's trying to reunite your
family. I can't promise we'll be successful, but—I can at least promise you that we're
trying for the right reasons.”

He let out a breath and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes briefly.

He couldn't help but remember every time he'd met Luna in the hospital—she'd sit
there and talk to Alice about things like the seasons or her favourite colors. Or, that one,
burning memory of Hermione, kneeling in front of his mother with his bouquet in her hands—

Despite himself, something in him started to hope.

“All right,” he said, hoarsely, “But… I'll have to talk to Gran first.”

“Of course.” Hermione said, and Luna beamed at him. Neville smiled back weakly.

And he couldn't help but think—*I may not have parents, but… at least I have friends like
them.*

^*^*^*^*^

All things considered, things couldn't have been much worse.

“Seriously, Ben, you need to find another way to get to class.”

“There *is* no other way,” Ben replied to Sam through gritted teeth, as Audrey scrubbed at
his hair with a dubious look on her face. “And Peeves looks for me on *purpose.”*

Sam surveyed Ben skeptically.

“Well,” said Audrey, trying to boost Ben's spirits, “It's at least purple for the
Quidditch match.”

This did not appear to cheer Ben up. He shrugged his shoulders moodily and stared at the
wall.

“You could wear a hat,” said Nathan, tilting his head and studying him. “It's odd, the way
the water rolls off your robes like that. What's the charm?”

“Impervius,” said Audrey, “Cheer up, Ben. You'll have your hair back by the end of the week,
like always.”

“Is *any* of it coming off?” Ben asked grumpily, uncharacteristically ignoring Audrey's
attempts to cheer him up. He stared at the water streaming down the flagstones of the secluded
corner where they were standing.

“A little,” Audrey said, stretching the truth and shooting a warning look at Jacob, who had
opened his mouth to reply quite differently. He rolled his eyes but shut his mouth. “Maybe
we'll try again later.”

Nathan handed her a towel and she dried her hands.

“Here,” she said, giving Ben the towel. “Use this to dry off.”

“Have you considered an umbrella?” said Sam, “You could decorate it.”

Jacob snickered appreciatively as Ben pulled the towel over his head.

“This is stupid,” he said in a muffled voice, “Why me?”

“Why Audrey?” Jacob put in slyly, “Can't you wash your own hair?”

“It was Professor Slughorn's idea,” said Nathan, cutting in before Audrey could snap at
Jacob, “He thought it might come out better if one of us tried it.”

“Thanks for trying,” said Ben wearily, shaking his hair a little. “I guess we can go to
dinner.”

They saw Katy with a group of friends on the way. She waved, the way she always did, and then
pointed to his hair questioningly. He shrugged and held up his hands, signaling his
resignation.

They branched off to their respective House tables. Ben and Audrey settled into their normal
spots at the table just as the food appeared.

“Nice hair, Potter,” said a freckled sixth-year. Ben flushed.

“Have some potatoes,” Audrey said hastily, scooping the mashed potatoes onto his plate. Ben
glowered and stabbed the fluffy pile with a bit more vehemence than normal.

“What did your mother say? In your letter?” she asked, trying to take his mind off his hair.

“Nothing interesting.”

Audrey sighed and returned to her food, resigned. There were a few minutes of silence ensued
before a conversation at the Gryffindor table caught their attention.

“You think you're so much better than we are, don't you?”

“I- I don't know what you mean—“

Ben and Audrey whipped around at the same time. A brawny Slytherin first year was towering over
Katy, flanked by two of his surly friends. Katy looked petrified.

“Shut up, Harland,” said one of the boys sitting next to Katy angrily, “ignore him, Katy, he
doesn't know what he's talking about.”

Ben was out of his seat in less than a second; he seized the first year by the arm and turned
him around forcibly.

“Leave my sister alone,” Ben snarled, “or—or—or I'll…”

The first year, who was actually much taller than Ben and much stronger, yanked his arm out of
Ben's grip.

“Your know-it-all sister isn't worth my time,” he snapped back, and, jerking his head at his
friends, the first year stalked away.

Ben turned to Katy, still clutching the butter knife in a vice-like grip.

Katy looked close to tears.

“I didn't mean to show off,” she said shakily, “I only did what I was supposed to, Ben.”

“She didn't show off,” said Halley Parker hotly from beside Katy. “Jason and I were there.
She just studies, that's all. Harland's the show off.”

“What's going on?” Nathan, Sam and Jacob had all hurried over at the sound of Ben's
voice.

Audrey let Ben continue to talk to Katy and explained the situation to the others.

“He's a spoiled little git,” Jacob said immediately when she had finished, “Bit of a
Mummy's boy, too. Come to think of it, I might have time to take the mickey out of him tomorrow
morning—I bet we could sneak a Puking Pastile into his pumpkin juice—they dissolve in seconds.
Anyone in Slytherin would give their right arm to shut him up for a bit.”

“Harland hates being beaten,” Halley explained to Ben, “and Katy's the best in our year. His
father manages the Holyhead Harpies and Harland thought *he'd* be the famous one, but of
course Katy beat him to that, too.”

“And Professor Slughorn always compliments her on anything,” Jason, Nathan's younger
brother, added, “He's already invited her to his office.”

“You should stand up to him,” Ben said, looking at Katy. She looked terrified.

“We've tried,” said Jason, coming to Katy's rescue, “I knocked him down yesterday and he
yelled like anything. I've got a week's worth of detention for one measly little bruise on
his leg. He won't shut up, Harland. His friends only like him for the free Quidditch tickets
anyway.”

“I don't want to get in trouble, Ben,” said Katy earnestly, “I just *couldn't*.
What would Mama say?”

Ben couldn't think of anything to say to that.

But, he thought after a moment, his purple hair didn't seem half as bad anymore.

-->



7. Chapter Six
--------------



Chapter Six

“Your friends want to *what?”* His gran's voice cracked through the soft harpsichord
music like the shattering of china.

Neville cleared his throat and repeated himself.

“They want to work with Mum and Dad.”

“Well, that's very kind of them, I'm sure,” said Augusta Longbottom tersely. “But you
can tell them no.”

“Gran…”

“Don't `Gran' me, young man. You know as well as I do that it's no use.”

“They think there's hope!” he said, insistently. Mrs. Longbottom snorted. “Gran, I'm
serious. I think they may actually—“

“I admire your optimism, Neville,” said Mrs. Longbottom, “but I cannot allow yet another group
to raise our hopes and break our hearts. It will be another fruitless endeavor and it does not do
to dwell on what cannot be. Now eat your scone. You're far too skinny as it is.”

“Hermione says…”

“Hermione?” Mrs. Longbottom raised an eyebrow at him. “Oh, this is the young lady who used to
rescue you in Potions class, isn't it?”

He nodded, too used to such remarks to pay them any heed.

“I liked her,” Mrs. Longbottom mused, “She seemed very bright. And she married Harry Potter,
didn't she?”

“Yes,” said Neville, buttering his scone and pretending not to notice the thoughtful look now
crossing his grandmother's face. “They… er… have a couple of kids now, actually.”

“Oh?”

He knew his grandmother's `Oh?'s as well as he knew anything in the world, and he
knew—from that one, significant syllable—that he was well on his way to persuading her.

“Yes,” he said, taking a bite of his scone. “They adopted them.”

“Now wait a moment,” said his grandmother suddenly. “I spoke to Andromeda Tonks before she
died... she said something about her grandson.”

“Oh, yeah, that was Teddy,” said Neville casually, “He's their youngest, you know. He looks
a lot like Harry, but he has Hermione's eyes.”

“He's a Metamorphagus?”

“Yeah, but he hardly ever looks like anyone else. I mean… they're great parents. Harry
understands what it's like, I think, not having parents, and he *knows,* what kids need.
Hermione, too.”

Another thoughtful silence.

“And you say you think she and this Luna Lovegood… really have hope?”

“That's the great thing about Luna,” said Neville, sipping his tea. “She's always able
to find hope in any situation.”

“I see.”

Neville took another bite of his scone and allowed another silence.

“Hermione Potter,” said Mrs. Longbottom, “I seem to recall hearing her name somewhere
recently…”

“Healer McDonough, probably,” said Neville, “she and Luna visit Mum and Dad all the time.”

“Oh…”

She sat in meditative silence, as Neville finished his scone.

“Well, Neville, you've nearly persuaded me,” she said, almost grudgingly. “But I want to
talk to them first. Fetch me quill and parchment. I'll write to them. I don't want you
giving them any ideas.”

“Of course, Gran,” said Neville, ducking his head and hiding a grin of triumph. “Er… should I
get the owl, too?”

“Of course you should, Neville, I'm writing to them, aren't I? Don't dawdle, now, go
and get them!”

**^*^*^*^*^**

Augusta Longbottom was anything but sentimental, and she prided herself on her ability to look
at situations analytically. Organization was a core value of hers, as were practicality,
thriftiness, and common courtesy.

She was not a mean-spirited person; she was a very good woman at heart, but unfortunately, one
would have to find a very organized way of finding that out. It may have been years living in times
of chaos that made Augusta so desperate for stability and order, or perhaps it was Augusta's
own upbringing. Either way, she did not entirely appreciate the Lovegood girl's distinctly
disorganized way o f thinking. Her meeting with Luna had gone well enough—Augusta had at least
judged that the girl had her heart in the right place, and was really rather intelligent—but
needless to say, she had higher hopes for her meeting with Hermione Potter.

She rapped on the door and straightened her vulture hat as she waited. She had surveyed the yard
with some trepidation, for nearly four young children were running about with a black and white
checked ball. She knew it was good for them to be outside, and they'd been very polite—but she
wished they'd have some supervision.

“Hello, Mrs. Longbottom!”

She stared at the young man in surprise. She had expected his wife to answer the door, but here
he was—Harry Potter, the Chosen One, greeting her like an old friend.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Potter,” she said briskly, trying to hide her surprise. “I believe your
wife and I had an appointment.”

“She's in the kitchen,” he said, standing aside. “Come on in.”

He led her across the foyer into a neat little kitchen, warm with the smells of baking bread and
simmering stew. Harry walked right over to his wife and kissed her hair.

“Hermione, Mrs. Longbottom's here.”

“Thank you,” she said, twisting her head around and returning the kiss. Mrs. Longbottom blinked,
unexpectedly touched by the couple's tenderness.

“Please sit down, Mrs. Longbottom,” said Hermione, motioning to a chair. “Would you care for
something to drink?”

“No, thank you.” She noticed that Hermione seemed slightly nervous. Mrs. Longbottom suddenly
felt ashamed of herself—an unusual sensation in its own right—and she smiled.

“You… ah… seem very happy here.”

“Oh, yes, very.” Hermione sat down across from her. “I've never been so happy.”

*What a declaration*, thought Mrs. Longbottom with some amusement. *Ah, well, she's
young. She has room enough to* *say such things.*

“I trust your family is doing well?”

“Yes, thank you. Teddy is finishing up a nap,” she said, “but I thought you might like to meet
him. I… understand you were friends with his grandmother.”

“Who told you that?” She was caught off guard (again) and the question escaped her before she
could stop it.

Hermione looked surprised.

“Neville did.”

“Oh. Oh, of course.”

She took a deep breath and tried to calm herself. This whole situation was so entirely new that
she really didn't know how to behave. And Augusta Longbottom *always* knew how to
behave.

“Mrs. Longbottom,” said Hermione hesitantly, “I… I understand that you have some—misgivings
about our… idea.”

“Well, yes, now that you mention it.” Relief swept over her as she seized upon the subject. “I
don't think I need to tell you that I've endured several different Healers trying to
`solve' my son and daughter-in-law. And all of them have been useless.”

“Yes,” said Hermione, “Neville explained that to us.”

“Well, how are you going to be any different, Mrs. Potter? You'll forgive me for being so
abrupt, but I have reason to be wary.”

“Luna and I… we're not experts in anything,” Hermione began, “But… Mrs. Longbottom, I
visited Alice with Neville on their anniversary a few weeks ago, and… and I could see how much it
hurt him. And after spending some time with Frank and Alice, Mrs. Longbottom, I've started to
realize that—they are still there, deep down. And if I have hope, what kind of friend would I be if
I stood by and let Neville suffer any longer?”

Again, that peculiar sensation of being moved—Mrs. Longbottom lowered her eyes and did not
answer for a moment.

“That's very kind of you,” she said finally, trying to smooth out the tremors threatening
her voice. “But I'm afraid I require more than simple empathy to persuade me.”

“Oh, of course—I… I have some research if you'd like to—“

“No, no, no, that will only make my head spin.” Mrs. Longbottom waved a hand.

Hermione looked puzzled.

“Then…”

“I am a very old woman, Mrs. Potter, and I do not cope well with lost hopes. Should I allow you
and your friend to begin to work with my son and his wife, you must work with the awareness that
you are my last hope.”

A very odd look came over Hermione's face—suddenly the young woman looked unusually wise, as
if the phrase were not entirely unfamiliar to her. Which, Mrs. Longbottom realized with a start,
given who her husband was, it wasn't.

“We'll need time,” Hermione said, quietly. Mrs. Longbottom gazed at her—the grave
determination in her face, the wisdom in her eyes, and an unusual depth of understanding in her
voice. And suddenly, for perhaps the first time in years, Mrs. Longbottom felt as though she were
in the presence of someone much, much wiser than herself.

“All things take time,” she said in a low voice. “But—and I never say this lightly, Mrs.
Potter—I trust you.”

And the moment the words left her mouth, she knew it was true. Somehow—madly, insanely,
inexplicably—she trusted her. There was something about Hermione that inspired trust, and… Mrs.
Longbottom was weary of suspicion.

She wanted to trust someone again.

“Thank you,” said Hermione, and suddenly, she smiled. Her youth returned and her cheerfulness
was almost infectious. “Would you… like to meet Teddy?”

“I would,” said Mrs. Longbottom, trying not to look too eager. “If it wouldn't bother
him.”

“Oh, no, Teddy's a very happy baby,” said Hermione. Mrs. Longbottom found herself smiling at
the girl's expression.

*Andromeda had chosen well.*

“How old is he now?”

“Nearly two,” said Hermione, “He doesn't talk very much yet, but he can walk a little if he
wants to. Hello, Teddy!”

Looking around the room, Mrs. Longbottom guessed that Teddy shared this room with one of the
boys—Jack, she thought, noticing the sign on the door. Hermione bent over the cradle and pulled the
baby into her arms.

“He's still sleepy,” Hermione said, laughing. “Can you say hello, Teddy?”

The boy blinked sleepily, and Mrs. Longbottom was taken aback by the deep brown of his eyes. His
hair was sticking nearly straight up, black and unruly, and he wrinkled his nose, obviously none
too pleased at having to wake up.

“Hello,” she said, and her voice trembled.

She remembered Andromeda's excited letters about her grandson. Andromeda had tried to seem
very casual about it, but it hadn't worked. The baby had been a bright spot in a very bleak
time, and… if it hadn't been for the baby… Andromeda would not have fought that fever half so
bravely as she had.

Teddy looked at her curiously, then turned back to Hermione, looking puzzled.

“Mrs. Longbottom, Teddy Bear,” said Hermione, the endearment sounding very natural and very
familiar. “She was a friend of your grandmother's.”

Teddy looked bashful and hid his face in her sweater.

“Oh, don't be shy,” Hermione laughed softly and kissed his hair. “Say hello.”

“It's all right,” said Mrs. Longbottom, “I'm not a particularly inviting person.”

She studied the baby a little longer.

“He looks like your husband.”

She nodded.

“What about his… parents?”

“We won't let him forget,” said Hermione, quickly. “We've no intention of pretending
that Remus and Dora weren't his… true—parents.”

She struggled a little with the wording.

“I believe Andromeda told you that you were to raise him as your own.”

“Yes,” said Hermione, “and… he *is* ours, Mrs. Longbottom. It sounds very selfish, I know,
but—but I can't help but think of him as my son. Dora was his mother; and I very much wish she
could have had more time with him… but…”

She trailed off and looked down at Teddy, stroking his hair with a hand and allowing a silence
to ensue.

Mrs. Longbottom gazed at them with a strangely tight throat. For a moment, she
remembered—standing in a solemn room, inwardly wild with grief but outwardly dignified and calm;
cradling a plump baby boy and realizing… realizing that she had been forgotten—that they had
*both* been forgotten. She remembered being stunned… how quickly she had to move from
grandmother to parent… how desperately she had wished the boy could have parents of his own…

She had to look away.

“Well,” she said with difficulty, her voice sounding unfamiliar to her own ears, “I… think
that's very… admirable.”

And for once she was not ashamed when a few soft, salty tears trickled down her cheeks.

-->



8. Chapter Seven
----------------



Chapter Seven

“Just stand up to him, Katy!” Halley whispered as they passed a sniggering Harland Cooper, “Just
turn around and tell him to shut up!”

“I can't,” Katy whispered back, hugging her battered old Potions textbook and looking
anxiously behind her.

“Well, you've got to, sometime,” said Jason, glowering threateningly in Harland's
direction, “Otherwise he'll think he's winning.”

“He *is* winning,” said their friend Isaias bluntly, “unless we can show him up somehow… it
feels stupid, being in Gryffindor and running away.”

“We're not *running,”* Halley retorted, “We're just not… facing him either.”

“We're running,” said Isaias as they reached Transfiguration, “I wish I knew some
hexes.”

“Isaias!” scolded Katy, “Hexing him wouldn't solve anything and besides, he wouldn't be
able to defend himself! I don't think he knows any hexes either. It wouldn't be fair.”

Jason agreed with Isaias but didn't say so, not after what Katy had said.

“If you'd just… hit him!” Jason tried to reason with Katy as they struggled to transform
their matchstick into a needle. “Or scare him on Halloween, or *something.* He's a coward
and everyone knows it—he just needs someone brave enough to stand up to him.”

“You knocked him down,” said Katy, gently tapping the matchstick with her wand, “and the only
thing that did was earn you a detention. I don't want you to get in trouble because of me.”

“Well, I hate the way he looks at you,” said Jason stubbornly, glaring at Harland across the
room.

“Try twisting your wand a little as you say the spell,” Katy said, “Did you hear me?”

“Mr. Redman, if you do not turn around by the time I'm finished speaking...” Professor
McGonagall warned.

Jason turned around.

**^*^*^*^**

“Where are you going, Hagrid?”

“House elf's gone missin',” Hagrid said, “And don' yeh try coming after me. Yer
mother and father spent too much time in here as it is.”

Katy lingered by the edge of the forest.

“But don't house elves stay in the castle?”

“…come in here fer herbs and mushrooms and the like,” came Hagrid's reply.

Katy wondered why they couldn't just locate the house-elf with magic. Ben, guessing at the
reason for her puzzled expression, said, “They can be hard to track because of their house magics.
It interferes with finding spells.”

They stood there for a moment in silence, but when it was clear that Hagrid wasn't coming
back anytime soon, they turned back toward his hut.

“Come on, Katy,” said Ben, “Let's go back to the castle.”

“Poor elf,” said Katy softly, surveying the grim, dark forest with a shudder. Strange sounds
always seemed to come from its insides, and the sharp, twisted trees seemed to be cloaked in
fluttering shadows.

“Goodbye, Grawp,” said Ben to Hagrid's lumpy younger brother, who was sitting by the hut and
using massive hands to twist thick, woody-looking vines into rope. “Maybe we'll see you
tomorrow.”

Grawp nodded.

*“GOO'BYE,”* he boomed. Ben winced and smiled. Grawp really was getting better at
controlling his volume, though even Hagrid seemed to be going a bit deaf anyway.

“Can I stay a bit longer, Ben?”

“No,” Ben said firmly, tugging at her arm, “it's not safe out here.”

“But the house-elf—“

“Hagrid's looking for her, don't you see? Come on, Katy. You can come down
tomorrow.”

“What if I stay by Grawp?” Katy pulled her arm away. “And I'll come back before curfew, Ben,
I promise. Hagrid can walk me back.”

“Hagrid might not be back for a while—“ Ben began, but Katy interrupted him.

“I'll stay by Hagrid's house,” she said, “and if he's not back before seven,
I'll—I'll come back.”

Ben hesitated. “I could stay with you.”

“No,” Katy said, surprising herself at how quickly the reply escaped her, “I mean—it's all
right, Ben. I know you have an exam tomorrow…”

“But—“

“Honestly,” Katy said, “I'll be fine.”

“Oh, all right,” he said reluctantly, “But Katy, I'll know if you stay.”

He reached into his bag and pulled out his map.

“So don't stay long,” said Ben, “or I'll come and get you.”

“All *right*, Ben,” Katy said, “I'll be fine.”

“Wait,” Ben said after a moment, “take out your wand.”

Puzzled, Katy did as she was told.

“Now,” said Ben, taking out his own wand. “Watch me.”

He took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders, holding his wand out in front of him.

*“Protego!”*

There was a sound like the beat of wings; Katy jumped and Buckbeak made a soft screech of
annoyance; a bright blue shield had blossomed from the tip of Ben's wand.

Moments later the shield dissolved.

“We're not supposed to learn that yet,” said Ben, smoothing down his purple hair with a
hand. “But it's a Shield charm. I came across it when I was reading. You learn it, Katy—go on.
It's `pro*-teg-*o'.”

“Protego,” she repeated. Ben nodded.

“It's a sort of whippy motion,” he said, demonstrating. “But there's a bit of a twist at
the end—you see how I do that? Yeah, like that. Now do it together.”

Katy took a deep breath and raised her wand.

*“Protego!”* she cried, and nearly dropped her wand as the wing-like sound whooshed
again.

“Good job,” said Ben, his voice slightly muffled by the shield between them. “If anything comes
at you, use this spell. It will block them for a few seconds—enough time for you to run away if you
need to. And one more thing—Petrificus totalus. I won't show you, but all you have to do is jab
your wand and say it. Say it again—good. It makes whatever comes at you stiff as a board.”

Katy tucked her wand into her robes.

“Remember,” said Ben, “before seven. I'll be watching.”

“I know,” said Katy, “I'll be back.”

He looked at her seriously and waved.

“I can't believe I'm doing this,” he said as he began to walk toward the castle. “Be
safe, Katy.”

“I will,” she said, “besides, Grawp will protect me.”

She was glad to hear him laugh as she settled down on Hagrid's front porch steps, slightly
sideways so she could see the edge of the forest. It was very peaceful out, though autumn had
frosted the breezes and the skies a cool gray.

Katy wondered, as she gazed at the big orange pumpkins and their prickly vines, why she had
wanted to stay. Ben was right; Hagrid *was* looking for the elf and was going to find her, in
all likelihood. And the Forbidden Forest frightened her, with its looming shapes and shifting
darks. But Katy had felt a strange compulsion to sit here alone; alone, with no one to comfort her
if she felt afraid.

A breeze stirred up and Buckbeak made a soft sound, a thin, thoughtful mumble that made her
smile. Grawp used a big hand to pat Buckbeak on the back, continuing to twist the rope in slow,
definitive motions.

Katy reached into her shoulder bag and pulled out *Hogwarts, A History.* She flipped it
open without much interest and cast the page an idle glance.

*Godric Gryffindor was known for his bravery, of course, but he was also known for his concern
for the neglected and the abandoned of the world. Historians speculate that this may have resulted
from Gryffindor's childhood, for the founder himself had been orphaned at the age of
ten.*

*Notable personages placed in the House of Gryffindor include Albus Dumbledore, Lily and James
Potter, Harry and Hermione Potter--*

Katy stopped reading and shut the book forcefully.

She wished Yasmine hadn't talked her into buying the most recent addition of the book. It
hurt strangely to see her parents listed as `notable personages' from the House of Gryffindor,
as it reminded her of how very much she felt she had to live up to.

She had not felt brave or courageous even when she was being Sorted; she did not feel as though
she deserved to be placed in the same house as her parents and grandparents. She'd been told
otherwise, of course—but she couldn't help but think of her elder brother and of when he stood
up for her. She had just sat there, too afraid to move. And then her friends, who all told her she
ought to be brave and stick up for herself, always saw her let Harland insult her and tease
her.

Tears welled up in Katy's eyes, but she scrubbed at them angrily and fought them back.

She wouldn't let herself cry, at least. It was a tiny show of bravery, but it was a
start.

“Katy, yeh're still here?” Hagrid came tramping out of the forest, brambles and leaves
tangled in his wild beard and hair. “I'll walk yeh back—hang on a mo.”

“You didn't find her?”

“Nah,” said Hagrid, looking sorrowful, “Dunno if anyone could, ter be honest. Wait `ere.
I'll walk yeh back.”

He disappeared into the house and Katy gazed into the darkening forest. She shuddered, thinking
of being all alone in there, with the eerie caw of the occasional crow and the bony rustle of the
autumn-bare trees…

”No one should be left out there alone, especially no one as small as a house-elf,” she said out
loud, and her heart pounded at the words. Determination flooded through her entire body; without a
thought she stood and gripped her wand tightly. She could hear Hagrid bustling round in his house
behind her. She'd have to go quickly.

She hopped off the step and started off round the side of the hut—but stopped short when
confronted by the watchful golden eyes of Buckbeak the hippogriff.

Her breath froze in her lungs and she gripped her wand again. He drew a wickedly sharp talon
through the earth, leaving a deep score in the earth. His wings fluttered in a soft, tense
movement.

Grawp was fast asleep beside him, the rope abandoned and half-finished. Katy let out a breath,
trying to calm her shaking hands.

“Hello,” she said softly.

*You make eye-contact,* she remembered her father saying, *and then bow. Wait for him to
bow back.*

She met Buckbeak's challenging golden glare with a steely look of her own. The hippogriff
eyed her regally as she bowed, very slowly. She heard his neck-chain clink softly as the hippogriff
arched his feathered neck; she caught her breath as he straightened up, clacking his beak
crisply.

And he bowed.

She approached him cautiously and raised a hand to his beak—it was smooth and cool to the touch,
and something like a bird-like purr emerged from the hippogriff's throat. Unexpectedly he
pushed his beak further into her hand, and she stroked his headfeathers gently.

“I have someone to find, Buckbeak,” she said, and on impulse, adrenaline pumping through her
veins, she pulled his chain free and came around to his side. “Will you take me?”

To her astonishment, Buckbeak bent at the knees, and allowed her to climb onto his back, just
behind the wings. She had just enough time to feel him tense powerfully underneath her before there
was a great, upward heave and a rush of wings, and she fell forward, seizing the hippogriff around
the neck—the air flew past her like a mighty wind and they bounded up, up, up—

She heard Hagrid tearing out of the hut and roaring, “Beaky! Bring her back down, yeh great
feathery lump—“

Buckbeak let out a high, sharp cry that Katy felt in the muscular neck beneath her arms; she
felt a sudden rush of triumph; the ground grew more and more distant beneath them and the gray
clouds rolled closer around them. The wind whipped around her, but she held on tightly—the rhythmic
pumping of Buckbeak's wings took time to get used to, but a new boldness had taken hold of Katy
and she sat up straight, gripping Buckbeak's sides with her legs and surveying the ground
beneath her.

They were over the Forbidden Forest now, out of sight of Hagrid's hut. Buckbeak gave a
questioning sound, almost like a tremulous whistle.

“I don't know,” Katy said, using a hand to stroke his neck and gripping the chain like
reins. “What do you think? You have better eyes.”

Buckbeak appeared to appreciate the compliment, and suddenly he dipped lower, so that they were
nearly touching the trees.

“Right,” said Katy, taking a deep breath and grinning, “We have a house elf to find.”

**^*^*^*^**

Harland Cooper was seething with rage, and none of his usual cronies were currently brave enough
to approach him. Although Harland was not particularly proficient with his wand, he was already
well-convinced of the persuasive power of a good punch.

“Where's Potter?” he demanded, halting Jason Redmond, Halley Parker, and Isaias Rover in
their tracks. Isaias treated Harland to a less-than-complimentary hand gesture while Jason simply
glared.

“It's none of your business where Katy is.” Jason crossed his arms. Though Harland was
taller than he was, Jason was reputedly stronger. “Why don't you annoy someone else for a
change?”

“Shut up,” snapped Harland, “You tell that Potter girl to watch her back.”

“*I've* got her back,” Jason snarled back, “She has friends, which is more than you can
say, Cooper. You stay away from her or I'll do a lot more than knock you down.”

Harland growled. It was three against one at the moment, and he didn't fancy the odds. So he
stalked away, leaving Jason glaring after him.

“That was brilliant,” said Halley and Isaias at the same time. Isaias whooped.

“Did you see the look on his face?”

“Where *is* Katy?” said Halley, looking troubled. “I saw her brother come back a while ago.
Shouldn't she be back?”

“I dunno,” said Jason, suddenly concerned. “Maybe she's in the common room. Let's
go.”

Jason was not a particular perceptive fellow, but he had the strangest feeling that whatever
Katy Potter was up to, it was something entirely out of the ordinary.

**^*^*^*^*^**

They landed in the center of the forest. Katy slid off of Buckbeak's back, taking out her
wand and praying that she could manage the spell properly.

“Lumos,” she whispered, and light appeared at the tip of her wand. “You think someone is around
here, don't you, Buckbeak?”

He whistled again, softly this time, and snapped at a crow.

The forest was deathly quiet, and Katy was immensely grateful that she'd heard her mother
mutter the light spell before. It would have been a severely frightening place without it.

She glanced about the clearing and shuddered inwardly. The trees themselves were contorted into
unearthly positions, and it seemed as though arms were stretching for her, fingers beckoning at
her, faces leering through the darkness—

Suddenly she heard voices—harsh, old-sounding voices— all in a murmur, just behind her.

“You should not have ventured this far, human,” came the first voice, cold and angry. “You are
overbold.”

“I'm looking for an elf—“ hesitated a second, and Katy started.

“Were you not so insolent—“ said the first, and then another babble of voices.

“Give her to me!” cried the human voice, “She belongs to the castle!”

“She is a creature of magic; they belong to themselves,” said the voice coolly, “centuries of
wizarding slavery does not make her belong to the wizards.”

“Wh-what are you doing? Get away!”

“We cannot kill a foal, Redal,” said a third voice, softly, “lower your bow. Another human
approaches.” The voice turned audibly toward Katy. “Present yourself, human.”

Katy swallowed hard and made her way toward the voices, picking her way through the bushes and
scrambling into the clearing. The moment she looked up, her breath caught.

Nearly a dozen centaurs were standing in front of her, their solemn faces and glimmering eyes
fixed on her with such grim looks that Katy felt herself tremble.

“Lower your wand,” spat a centaur with silver hair and a silver coat. His face was narrow and
his eyebrows were thin; his mouth was twisted into an ugly, angry line. He pointed at her with the
tip of a bow. Katy lowered her wand. “Put oxut the light. We will not have your magic in this
gathering.”

“I—I don't know how,” Katy finally managed to stammer. “If you please, sir.”

The centaur snorted and reared up slightly. His front hooves landed with a hard, muffled thump
in the earth.

“You foolish witch-foal,” he said coldly, “How did you learn this magic, then? Surely not
without its counter-incantation?”

“I watched my mother,” said Katy.

“And do you know this insolent wretch?” said the centaur, turning his eyes toward a huddled
figure in the center of the clearing. Katy felt anger rise up in her unexpectedly, but she kept her
voice level.

“Yes,” she said clearly, and Harland Cooper looked up at her. “And I'm sorry you had to meet
him first, because he was very rude.”

Suddenly one of the centaurs came close to her; she started back, but he held up a hand. He
moved closer still in a soft trot. Then he bent his head nearer to her. She swallowed. He had very
light blue eyes and he seemed to find something of interest in her face.

“What is your name, little foal?” he asked softly.

Katy swallowed again. “Ka- Katy Potter, sir.”

“Potter?”

Another murmur went up among the centaurs.

The centaur straightened and smiled, ever so slightly.

“There is something of her father in her face,” he said quietly, to the wider group. “We cannot
forget what Harry Potter has done, not so soon. Someday, perhaps, our kind will forget, but even
then the stars will remember.”

He bent his head slightly.

“I am Firenze, Katy Potter,” he said, and Katy bowed her head, too, feeling herself to be in the
presence of someone very important. “I once met your father in this very forest, on a night like
this one. And Mars shone even brighter than it does tonight.”

“Enough, Firenze,” said the silver centaur, called Redal, “Though you are undeniably too kind to
the human race, in the instance we must agree. The foal of Harry Potter will go unharmed. But what
of this one?”

Harland whimpered audibly.

“Please don't hurt him,” said Katy, as the centaurs began to mutter among themselves, “I
know he's been terribly disrespectful, and you really *ought* to be upset with him. But I
think—if you don't mind—I should just take him back to the castle and let our teachers punish
him for you.”

“Very well,” said the silver centaur, looking at Harland with distinct dislike and disgust, “but
he must never come into this forest again.”

“As if I'd want to,” said Harland, scrambling to his feet and looking rather ugly under all
the mud and dirt, “see if I ever come into this stupid forest again—“

“You seek a house-elf,” said Redal loudly, over Harland, “Firenze will direct you. Take that
insufferable creature with you.”

“If you say another word,” said Katy fiercely, seizing Harland by the arm, “I'll tell
everyone that I had to save your life.”

He glowered at her but said nothing more until they had reached the clearing where Buckbeak was
tearing into a crow with gusto.

“What is *that?”* Harland said in a high-pitched whisper. Buckbeak's head snapped up
just as a bone cracked in his beak. It was clear by the way he looked at Harland that he was not
overly amused by his remarks.

“He's a friend of mine,” said Katy, as Firenze bowed to the hippogriff respectfully. “You
stay here.”

“Alone?”

“You made it all the way into the forest on your own,” Katy said, “there isn't a
difference.”

“I *flew*, and it wasn't half as dark then. I can't even find my broom.” said
Harland, “And I didn't have a monster like th—“

“No, Buckbeak,” Katy said sharply, “please don't. I know he's rude, but he's only
afraid.”

Buckbeak snapped his beak irritably and shot Harland a menacing look.

“This way,” said Firenze, trotting to the opposite side of the clearing. “She is not far.”

The elf was only about a hundred feet away, huddled by a bush in a tiny pile of leaves.

“She has a broken leg,” said Firenze, “I saw it fit to bind it for her, but my herd would not
allow me to take her beyond this clearing.”

“Dilly did not get the mushrooms back,” mumbled the house-elf sadly, gripping her long, dog-like
ears in her hands, “Dilly was frightened and ran, ran, ran—but too far—“

“It's all right,” said Katy, kneeling beside the little elf, “I'm going to take you back
to the castle.”

“Dilly is very sorry that the goulash has no mushrooms,” squeaked Dilly, “Her leg hurts, and she
tries to Apparate, but she coulds not… no—“

“I'm sure it tasted fine without mushrooms,” said Katy, who would not have gone near goulash
anyway, “I'm going to pick you up. Is that all right?”

“Miss is very kind,” Dilly murmured, her big blue eyes glassy, “Miss is—but miss is—miss is
*Harry Potter's* daughter!”

Suddenly the elf looked at her with a mottled glow of reverence.

“All the houses elves know of Harry Potter's great kindness to elves, but Dilly never
*dreamed* of Harry Potter's daughter having the same kindness—and Miss is so very
brave—“

Katy blushed, a great warmth spreading across her.

“She is very tired,” said Firenze as Katy got to her feet. “You should return to the castle
quickly.”

**^*^*^*^**

Harland did not take to the flight very well. Katy was, despite her irritation, somewhat
sympathetic to the boy's fear, and she allowed him to sit in the front where he could grip
Buckbeak's neck.

The moment they touched down by Hagrid's hut, they were set upon by Hagrid, a very relieved
Ben and a severe Professor McGonagall.

“Dunno what yeh were thinking,” growled Hagrid crossly, as Harland slid off Buckbeak's back,
looking green. “Ruddy *stupid* thing to do—like yer father, yeh are—always in trouble…”

“And *furthermore!* Approaching a hippogriff without supervision was a *very* foolish
thing to do!” Professor McGonagall's glasses quivered at the end of her nose as Katy looked
down guiltily. “Hagrid has been searching the grounds for you since you took off so recklessly—your
parents have been alerted, and Merlin knows how your mother feels—“

“Half-proud of you,” Ben told her under his breath, “and half-terrified out of her mind.”

“…fifty points from Gryffindor!” pronounced the professor finally, “Yes, *fifty*, Miss
Potter, though I've half a mind to make it seventy-five—“

Katy swallowed hard.

“…but you did what you felt was right,” said McGonagall, her heart softening in spite of
herself, “just like your parents, I suppose. So—twenty points to Gryffindor for sheer courage, and
ten points to Gryffindor for your selfless motives.”

Katy had never felt quite so brave in her ten years of life; before she could think about it,
she threw her arms around the Headmistress and hugged her tightly.

Professor McGonagall did her best to look severe, but it was very hard. After all, she thought
rather guiltily, she was secretly glad to see that Katy was going to follow in her parents'
footsteps.

**^*^*^*^**

“I really don't know what to say,” said Hermione as she released Katy from her tight hug.
“I'd like to scold you, but then—“

“It really wouldn't be fair,” finished Harry, grinning. “My guess is—minus the flying—your
mum would have done the exact same thing.”

“As if you wouldn't have been right there with me,” Hermione said, casting a sideways glance
at her husband. He shrugged. Even Teddy appeared to be smirking.

“I'm sorry to have frightened you,” said Katy to Ben, “I heard you got to Professor
McGonagall's office just as Hagrid did.”

“Yeah,” said Ben, “I told Mama and Dad first, though—the two-way mirror, you know.”

Just then, the door to the Headmistress's office swung open and Professor McGonagall swept
in.

“I can't say I was entirely surprised,” was all she said, as she sat down at her desk, “she
*is* your daughter. Now, you two, off to bed. No dawdling in the corridors, and I expect to
see your essay on my desk tomorrow morning, Miss Potter, regardless of how late you've been
up.”

“Good night,” Hermione said to Katy and Ben, kissing them both on the forehead and hugging them
quickly. “We'll write.”

“Good night, Mama,” they said together.

After bidding goodnight to Harry and Teddy, they shuffled out of the office together, looking
rather inappropriately happy.

“Well,” said Professor McGonagall to the remaining Potters in her office, “I see this family has
no intention of letting me have any peace.”

Harry and Hermione laughed. Teddy yawned, clearly not entertained, and dozed off promptly on
Harry's shoulder.

“Now how has your training been, Mrs. Potter?”

“Oh, it's been wonderful,” said Hermione.

“Still the head of the class, I hear.”

“Yes,” said Harry, as Hermione opened her mouth with a modest look on her face. “But she'll
deny it.”

“Ah,” said the professor, looking amused. “And you, Mr. Potter. I hear your program at Padfoot
Hall has been wildly successful.”

“Well—“ Harry began, but Hermione interrupted him.

“He's started to receive applications from the top defense organizations in the world,” she
said, “and though he won't tell you, he's also received several job offers from almost
every country you can think of.”

“Is that so?” said Professor McGonagall, “Well, I suppose I shouldn't have expected any less
from either of you.”

“Thank you,” they said together.

“And I suppose this is Remus Lupin's son?” Professor McGonagall said, motioning to the boy
in Harry's arms. “I thought so—he looks very like you, Mr. Potter. Except for the eyes. He has
your wife's eyes.”

“Now why does that sound familiar?” Harry said dryly. Hermione nudged him.

“Harry, be polite.”

“I expected as much,” said Professor McGonagall, “Metamorphagi often take the appearance of
their most familiar relatives as their natural appearance—“

“Until the age of three,” Hermione finished.

“Very good. Ten points to Gryffindor, as I used to say,” said Professor McGonagall with a wry
smile. “Well—I'd best let you two go. You both look tired.”

“Thank you, Professor,” said Hermione, smiling.

“We owe you a lot,” said Harry, putting his arm around Hermione. “We haven't forgotten
that.”

Minerva McGonagall surveyed them fondly, feeling an inordinate amount of pride sweep over her.
She smiled.

“It was my pleasure.”

-->



9. untitled
-----------



A/N: Whew. Well, it has been a good long while since I've updated this story. For that, I
offer my heartfelt apologies. I hope you have a little interest and a little time left for the
Potters and their friends. There is still a story left.

Chapter 8

Hermione was buried in a veritable paper fortress. There were tottering stacks of books on one
end of the desk with stacks of scrolls on the other; one long piece of parchment floated in front
of her, and a levitated quill quivered expectantly against it, waiting to add to Hermione's
already-expansive notes.

“Come in,” Hermione said absently when she heard the knock. “I'm sorry about the mess, I—
oh, hello, George! ”

“They said I'd find you in here.”

She shut her book and stood, waving her wand and letting the parchment settle onto the desk.

“I'm having a research day,” she said, making George smile.

“I can tell.”

“You look ill,” she said, “Please— won't you sit down?”

“No thanks,” he said, locking his hands behind his back and tensing his jaw noticeably. “Er…
look, Hermione, I'd crack a joke about this if I didn't feel so damned awkward
already—d'you mind if I…”

He motioned aimlessly.

“Whatever you need.”

“Thanks,” he said, and he shut the door behind him. “You've got an office here already?”

“Healer Pruitt is letting me use his office.” Hermione waved her wand, and the books on the desk
began shelving themselves with quiet thunks. He cleared his throat.

“Hermione, you don't need to stand.”

He extended a hand, motioning for her to sit down. After a moment, she did, looking puzzled and
concerned.

He took a deep breath.

“I reckon I don't need to tell you I've been…having trouble, then?”

“What sort of trouble?”

“That's the thing. I don't know.” He pulled up a chair at last and sank into it, looking
worn. “Mum sent me to talk to you. She thought it'd do some good.”

“Do you think it will do you any good, George?” said Hermione softly, “That's the important
thing.”

“I don't know what will do me good anymore, not since…” he shrugged. “I dunno. I guess
everyone expected me to— come back, you know. Faster than I have.”

She waited.

“I don't feel like doing anything anymore,” he said. “And…this is going to sound stupid—but
I… well, I don't know if I can be myself. Without—“

He stopped.

“Bloody boring, aren't I?”

“No,” she said simply. “You aren't.”

“D'you know, you're the first one who hasn't told me that feeling this way is
normal?” George stood and began pacing. “Normal, that's what everyone says. `You're
grieving'. I've grieved before, Hermione, and that's not what this is. This is…well,
look at me.”

He laughed bitterly.

“You know I've never been anything other than `Fred and George'? I hated that. People
mixing us up, like we weren't two completely different people—and now he's gone. Godric,
Hermione, you know… you know what I think sometimes? Sometimes— I wish it would have been… someone
else. Anybody else. Bloody hell. I'm a right bastard.”

“No, you're not. I—“ she paused and took a deep breath. “I've had similar thoughts
before.”

He stopped pacing and looked over at her.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I've felt the same way. I would have never admitted it, but— but my first thought,
whenever we heard of a death— my first thought was `Anyone but Harry— let it be anyone but
Harry—I'll be all right if only he's still alive'.”

He sat down again. A solemn, fragile understanding had settled over both of them.

“And…” George looked up so that their eyes met. “And when we thought he was gone?”

She shook her head.

“Ron could tell you that,” she said, slowly, “I… I lost control. I didn't breathe—I
couldn't breathe. All I could see was Harry. There weren't any thoughts or tears left in
me. Everything inside me was collapsing and I… I didn't care, not really. I knew I'd have
to get used to it—the collapse and pain and cold— if he was gone…”

She shuddered.

He looked away.

“What…” he began, his voice coarsened with pain. “What would you have done…if he hadn't made
it? If he really had been…?”

Hermione paused.

“I don't know. I had thought about it once or twice. What would life be like without Harry?
If he left me, too? I'm not sure. I wish I could tell you something inspiring, George, but— but
I think I would have pretended to be all right. I was good at pretending, then. I mean, honestly.
Sometimes I wonder how I did it all those years, fooling myself into `just-friendship' with
Harry.”

He half-smiled, painfully. “We wondered, too.”

She tilted her gaze up, frowning in thought.

“I think…I would have fooled myself into `living without' Harry. I don't like that. I
don't think— it should be that way. It wouldn't have had to be, really. I would never find
anyone to be Hermione `with' again— not like I am with Harry—but I think… I think I could have
learned to be myself somehow. If only to hold onto Harry a little longer. But… I'm sorry,
George. I don't think this is really the answer your Mum wanted you to hear from me today.”

He forced a laugh.

“Never mind what Mum wanted,” he said, “This was what I needed.”

She reached out and took his hands.

“I know we haven't any idea what you feel, but you don't have to be the same person you
were before. Just… just try to look for yourself, now—whatever that looks like.”

He pulled his hands away.

“Thanks, Hermione,” he said, trying to force his voice into calm again. “Harry's lucky to
have landed himself such a smart woman. He needs it.”

She laughed a little.

“He does occasionally,” she said. “But I need him, too.”

She studied him for a moment.

“Is there anything else… you wanted to say?”

His stomach twisted, but he forced himself to smile.

“No,” he said, “no. That's all.”

He stood up and pushed his chair in.

“Thanks for everything, Hermione. I hope your research goes well.”

“Thank you,” she said, coming around to his side of the desk. “Do you know where you're
going?”

“Yeah,” said George hastily. “You don't need to walk me out or anything; I don't want
to— you know. Anyway.”

She looked at him carefully.

“If you're sure.”

“I'm sure. See you.”

Unexpectedly, before he could leave, she hugged him.

“Goodbye, George. Harry and I… we'll always be here, you know.”

He smiled then.

“Thanks, Hermione. I know.”

With that, he turned and left, shutting the door on a very troubled Hermione.

****

A whisper of magic ran through the large chamber. Luna made her way through the soft blue light,
running her hands along the black stone walls. Her fingertips tingled as the memory stones—vigiles
memoria—warmed under the magic's influence.

“How is it?”

She glanced up, seeing Amanda Levenburn entering the room.

“Beautiful,” Luna murmured. Both women smiled.

“Astonishing, isn't it?” Amanda said, brushing the wall herself. The stones warmed again
beneath their hands. “You would do well to pursue this work. You have a gift.”

Luna gazed at the glimmering stones.

“Believe me, Luna,” said Amanda, placing a hand on Luna's shoulder. “It sounds cold and
arbitrary to those outside, but this is not a work you learn. It is a work to which you are
born.”

“You make us sound like Seers.” Luna laughed, and the blue light around them rippled with sudden
gold.

Amanda smiled.

“We do not seek the future here,” she said, laughing too. “The present is mysterious
enough.”

Luna considered the stones as Amanda lifted her wand, murmuring a soft-sounding spell.

Bird-song filled the room, and the shadows of forest trees seemed to sprout from the walls,
climbing through the air and falling over the two women.

“Your friend,” said Amanda after a moment, “Hermione Potter. You say you've been working
with her?”

“That's true,” Luna said, as a flower-fragrant breeze danced through the chamber. Amanda
paused.

“I suppose you know her significance to us.”

Luna smiled at Amanda fondly.

“There's no need to look embarrassed. I know.”

“I'm not fond of case studies,” Amanda said. “People should be loved, not charted. But…”

The forest shadows receded, and a soft, uncertain mist swirled softly about them.

“But Hermione Potter is…much like her husband…an exceptionally fascinating person,” Amanda
finished after a long pause. “What do you see in her, Luna?”

Luna considered.

“Compassion. Deep compassion.”

“Certainly. I would have guessed as much.”

Luna glanced at Amanda.

“You were hoping for a different answer.”

Amanda hesitated, then took Luna's arm. “Would you mind if we walked for a while? I'd
like to talk to you about something.”

With that, the two women walked on, disappearing into the mist.

****

“Dusty, it's time for bed.” Hermione put an arm about him gently. “I've already let you
stay up.”

He leaned his cheek against her side, paintbrush still in hand, and he sighed deeply in
protest.

“I know, but you do need your rest.”

She studied the canvas in front of her.

“That isn't…”

Dusty looked up at her with soft eyes.

“It's all right?” he asked, his voice sounding small and fearful in the candle-lit
workroom.

Hermione nodded.

“It's beautiful, Dusty. But how did you…?”

Dusty ducked his head. She considered him for a moment, realizing then that Dusty could have
very easily heard her telling Harry about George's visit.

“I see,” she said at last.

He looked so ashamed that she decided that rebuke was unnecessary. Eavesdropping was a small
offense, and his actions were kindly meant.

“How did you know what he looked like?”

Dusty looked relieved and pointed to the small photograph on the table beside his easel. She
recognized it as one from her album.

“You like painting for people, don't you?” she said, and he nodded vigorously. “I think
that's wonderful. You have a very good heart.”

He flushed.

“You know,” she said quietly, “George has been having a very difficult time recently.”

He nodded.

“He's very sad and very confused. Do you remember how we all felt when Andromeda died?”

She knelt and took his hands, and he nodded again, his dark eyes sorrowful.

“And do you remember how hard it was for you to look at the portrait you made for her?”

One last time, he nodded.

“This is a beautiful painting,” she said gently, looking at the picture of the Weasley twins,
laughing by the oak tree. Both faces were haloed in golden sunlight, and her heart gave a deep
twinge of pain—as it always did when she thought of how the war had changed them all. “It looks so
like them.”

Dusty smiled with pleasure.

“Dusty,” she said, taking a deep breath. “I know you love George and want to see him happy. So
do I. But… I think it might be best to wait for a little. Until you give it to him.”

Dusty looked down and she reached up, framing his face with her hands.

“Your painting is wonderful, Dusty. But maybe it isn't the time for it yet. Do you think you
can wait?”

He looked away, his lip trembling unexpectedly.

Then he threw his arms about her neck and buried his face in her shoulder. She pulled him into
her arms and rocked him gently.

“I know you were excited—that shows what kind of a person you are, you know. And I promise
we'll give it to George someday—perhaps someday soon—“

Suddenly, through the tears, she heard him speak—an agonized, childish moan of compassion: “Why
must people hurt so much? Oh, Mama, make it stop—can't you make it stop?”

“Oh, Dusty!” was all she could whisper, as he curled up against her and cried. “Oh, Dusty, tell
me what's wrong—what…”

“It's not fair that people hurt,” he sobbed, “It isn't. And I can't do anything but
paint!”

She wrapped her arms around him tightly, shaking her head and stroking his hair.

“You make people better,” he cried into her shoulder, “You help them get better, and…and all I
can do is—is—is paint—and paint—and it doesn't help—it doesn't change anything—“

“That's not true,” she broke in firmly, “You know that isn't true—oh, sweet, sweet
Dusty—look at me.”

Once again, she cradled his face in her hands, using her thumbs to dry his flushed, tear-glazed
cheeks. She knew she was close to tears herself, but she forced herself to keep her voice steady
and gentle.

“You're right, dear,” she said softly, “there is a lot of pain and sadness in the world. And
it isn't right or fair. There are a lot of very good people who suffer terrible, terrible
pain.”

“Like you?”

She started, and he placed a fingertip on her neck. His tear-stained eyes locked upon the pale
raised scar there, and she closed her eyes briefly.

She should have expected Dusty to notice.

“Did they hurt you, Mama?”

“Yes, they did,” she said, “there were a lot of people that they hurt.”

“And it wasn't right or fair,” he repeated her words, fearfully. She took a deep breath and
let it out slowly.

“No, it wasn't. But you know why we kept on, all that time?”

He shook his head.

“It's because we held on to what was right and true and beautiful. You see, Dusty, it may be
hospitals and Healers that make us well, but it is beauty and conviction that makes us brave. Art
reminds us of who we are and what we have—all the wonderful, beautiful things we have seen and all
the beautiful hopes we want to see come true. It makes us strong when we are sick—stronger inside,
stronger in the soul. You know that's the part of us that lasts. Right here.”

She touch his chest with a finger, right where that sorrowing heart lay beating underneath.

“But I couldn't help Teddy's grandmother. She…she died.”

She brushed a hand against his forehead.

“You know,” she said, “a very wise person your father and I knew once told us, `To the
well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure'. Andromeda went on an adventure—and
you made her brave enough to go on it. Do you understand what I mean? She went on an adventure,
knowing that Teddy was going to be loved and cared for, and that gave her courage. I would say
that's quite a bit of help, wouldn't you?”

He scrubbed at his eyes, and burrowed into her embrace again, sniffling.

She held him until he grew still and limp, wondering at the depth of his compassion and
heart-broken at the pain he had shared that night, not in pictures or gestures but in words— words
which seemed so hard for him to say, words that he rarely used. She supposed this was why the sound
of his broken voice— “Can't you make it stop?”— sent a deep, aching chill through her. And how
she wished she could make it stop! She wished she could give him a world of light and warmth and
love, an eternity of golden days and starry nights, a world where cruelty was a figment of the
imagination and evil was nothing but a shadow that disappeared with the sunrise.

But for now…for now, all she could do was let him sleep secure in her arms.



10. Chapter Nine 
-----------------



A/N: Hello, everyone! I'm back. As you can tell, updates will continue to be slow on this
story-- though not for any lack of love on my part. I hope you enjoy!

Chapter Nine

Ron still laughed at them for doing dishes “the Muggle way,” but Harry always looked forward to
dishes. He washed and Hermione dried, and finally—the kids in bed, the dog dozing in the
corner—they could talk.

Or not talk, as the case had often been in the past few days.

“How was your day?” he asked at last, dunking a plate in soapy water. She put a glass away.

“Long.”

He nodded.

“Mine, too.”

Another minute of silence.

“I saw George today,” said Harry after a moment. “He dropped by for lunch.”

“How is he? Is he…”

“He says he's been better,” said Harry, “I got the feeling he was… trying to tell me
something, though.”

She frowned thoughtfully.

“Do you suppose it was the same thing he didn't tell me?”

“Yeah,” said Harry, “Yeah, I do.”

The way he said it piqued her curiosity.

“You know something,” she prompted. He looked over.

“He's been having trouble,” he said.

`That's what he said. He's grieving Fred.”

“But not only with that.” She looked up sharply. “That's why Mrs. Weasley sent him to you.
It's his magic, Hermione. It's… it's gotten bad. Mr. Weasley says he wouldn't have
written to me, but you were the only person at St. Mungo's that George would even consider
asking about it.”

“Oh, Harry…!“

“I know.” He scraped potatoes off the plate. “He's embarrassed, I guess. Ashamed.”

“What has he been doing?”

“Managing the store by owl,” said Harry, “business is fine, but his employees are worried. And
Mr. Weasley's afraid that George might not… recover.”

“When you say… `it's his magic'…” Hermione said, “What… what does that mean,
exactly?”

“I guess… he Splinched himself pretty badly last week, and he's having trouble with the
simplest charms— alohamora, wingardium leviosa… that's all Mr. Weasley wrote in his letters,
but… but I'm sure there's more.”

“I should write to him.” Hermione put away the last plate. “But he really should see a real
Healer.”

“He should see you first.”

She laughed.

“I'm flattered, Harry, but I'm not qualified—“

“You're his friend,” Harry said, “You knew Fred. That's better than qualifications.”

“Not always,” she said gently. “I'll do my best, regardless. Something has to be done.”

He looked at her fondly and kissed her forehead.

“You're beautiful,” he said, and she smiled.

“I'm lucky. That's all.”

“Oh, no, it isn't,” Harry said. “Lucky is different.”

“And what does that mean?”

“I mean, `lucky' would be…would be someone who's known happiness their whole life.
Someone who hasn't got a right to complain. You've got every right, and you don't.”

“I think you may very well be talking about yourself.” She put down her dish rag.

“Hermione.” His eyes were serious now. She looked up at him, and he reached up, cradling her
cheek tenderly. “I know you're modest to a fault, but… but I mean it. When I say things like…
like you're the most wonderful woman in the world. When I tell you that you're
beautiful.”

“I know you mean it—“

“Please listen.” She stopped, and he dropped a kiss on her lips.

“I don't talk about it very often. All the things before. I don't like to be… you know.
A victim. I had a lot of things to be grateful for.”

“Your aunt and uncle—“ she began indignantly, and he shook his head.

“Don't you start,” he said, grinning a little, “or we'll be stuck on them all
night.”

She bit her lip.

“I appreciate it,” he added, “but I did have things to be grateful for. I had food. Clothing.
Things like that. Some people… some people don't even have that. All I mean is, I didn't
have anything really good in my life, something I could look at and say `Now what did I do to
deserve that?' People act like having something you don't deserve is unpleasant, but… but
the more I look at you the more I think— not deserving things… really good things, things you
couldn't earn or deserve, not if you worked for a dozen lifetimes— those are the things that
make us grateful. Humble, even.”

He kissed her again.

“Let me talk about you, Hermione,” he whispered, “Not because you're perfect. I know
you're not.”

“How did you find out?” she quipped, making him laugh.

“It's not because you're perfect,” he repeated, “it's because— somehow— we chose
each other, and I'm grateful.”

“I'm grateful for you,” she returned. “And I am lucky, Harry. I haven't got much of a
right to complain—not when I have you.

His eyes twinkled.

“You have a strange idea of treasure, Hermione,” he laughed “But I guess I'm in no hurry to
change that.”

“As if you could,” she murmured, before he kissed her quite thoroughly into silence.

****

“She has taken quite a liking to you, hasn't she?”

“Mrs. Longbottom!” Hermione jumped to her feet.

“I apologize,” said Mrs. Longbottom stiffly. “I meant to tell you I was coming.”

“That's quite all right,” said Luna, smiling in welcome. “Come see Alice.”

“Thank you, but I can see her from here. I wouldn't want to interrupt your work.”

There was an uncomfortable pause as the autumn sunlight wavered over Alice's face.

“There's some color to her,” remarked Mrs. Longbottom presently. “Whatever you're doing,
it's working. Neville was right.”

“Would you like a chair?” Hermione offered after a moment.

“Thank you,” said Mrs. Longbottom, nodding. Hermione drew up a chair beside Alice's bed. “I
see she still insists on looking out that window?”

“Oh, yes,” said Luna, “she loves to sit in the sunshine. Whenever it's sunny, she sits right
where the sun falls.”

“Healer McDonough wrote me,” said Mrs. Longbottom abruptly, “He says there's been a
change.”

Hermione and Luna exchanged a look.

“You aren't going to try to keep this from me, I hope?”

“Of course not, Mrs. Longbottom,” said Hermione quickly, “I'm afraid Healer McDonough
doesn't tell us what he thinks very often.”

“He says—“ and she drew a letter from her handbag, unfolding it with sharp, brisk movements.
“…'Your daughter-in-law has made obvious improvement, I think, although it is the kind of
improvement I observe that most fascinates me. She has formed a noticeable attachment to young Mrs.
Potter— the kind of attachment that indicates the development of self-awareness and face
recognition. I will openly admit to having had my doubts at the beginning of this enterprise, but I
am beginning to have what one might call a suspicion of hope—I am not entirely sure what these two
young women are doing so differently, but I am starting to believe that it is working.' There.
What have you to add?”

Again, Hermione and Luna glanced at each other.

“Is he right?” Mrs. Longbottom asked more insistently. “I expect complete honesty from you.”

“Hermione is very special to Alice,” Luna said, after a moment.

“So are you,” Hermione protested, and Luna smiled, shaking her head.

“She enjoys my company, it's true. But she gravitates toward you—as if the room is dark and
you're the light.”

Mrs. Longbottom looked at Hermione shrewdly.

“Is this true?”

“You needn't take my word for it,” said Luna, laughing quietly, “just watch.”

She got up and walked toward the door. Mrs. Longbottom stared.

“Nothing happened.”

“That's right,” said Luna, coming back. “She didn't look up, did she?”

Mrs. Longbottom shook her head. Luna didn't seem to notice her impatience.

“Now,” said Luna, “Hermione, if you wouldn't mind taking a few steps toward the door? Three
should be enough.”

Hermione rose and, looking flustered, began to walk toward the door.

One.

Alice started.

Two.

Alice turned.

Three.

Alice got up, staring in Hermione's direction.

Hermione turned back, and Alice's eyes flickered back and forth across Hermione's face,
as if she was trying to make eye contact with Hermione from kilometers away.

“I'm staying, Alice,” Hermione said at last, reassuringly, and she took a step forward.
Immediately, Alice's features relaxed, and she sat back down, gazing motionlessly out the
window.

It was as if nothing had happened.

“As I said,” Luna said, after a moment, “Alice has special regard for Hermione.”

“And why,” said Mrs. Longbottom, “do you suppose that is?”

“It is mysterious, isn't it?” said Luna vaguely, and she glanced at Hermione with a
significant twinkle in her eyes. Mrs. Longbottom didn't notice.

“It is fortunate you are an Unspeakable, then, Miss Lovegood, is it not?”

“Maybe,” said Luna, smiling. “I think it is just as fortunate that Hermione is a Healer.”

Mrs. Longbottom sighed.

“I came hoping for an explanation, but I see that's not a priority here. Very well. I've
seen enough. Good day.”

With that, she turned and left, though not quickly enough for Hermione to miss the bewildered,
oddly hopeful look on her face.

“Luna, what on earth are you getting at?” Hermione asked as soon as Mrs. Longbottom was out of
earshot.

Luna looked back, and her eyes softened.

“I have something to ask of you.”

“Yes?”

“Not today,” said Luna, “but if you agree, we won't be meeting here tomorrow. We'll be
going somewhere you have been before—and…” she touched Hermione's hand gently. “Not for
pleasant reasons.”

“You mean the Department of Mysteries?”

Luna nodded. “I understand if you would rather not.”

“I don't mind,” said Hermione, “That was nearly four years ago.”

“Time tends to bend in the Department,” Luna said gently. “I only want to warn you. For most,
going back to the Department of Mysteries is a neutral or even happy experience.”

She looked at Hermione softly.

“But this could be… very different for you.”

***

“I suppose you know about George, then.”

“He's talked to me, yes.” Hermione adjusted her scarf as she and Ginny walked along the
lane. “Is that why you wanted to meet?”

“Well, not really,” said Ginny, tugging at her hat. “Awful wind, isn't it?”

“It's rather strong,” Hermione agreed, inwardly grateful she hadn't brought any of the
children along. Goodness knows how many caps and gloves would have been lost. “We're almost
there.”

“No one's home,” said Ginny, squinting. “Mum and Dad decided to take George out to eat. I
think Bill's along, too.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows but refrained from commenting.

“Anyway, I just….” Ginny unlocked the front door and stood aside, letting Hermione into the
Burrow. “Here, let me make some tea. D'you mind if we talk in the kitchen?”

“Not at all.”

As soon as they walked into the kitchen, Ginny busied herself with the kettle and Hermione sat
at the kitchen table, tugging off her gloves and hat.

“We haven't talked in a good while, you know,” said Ginny, after a minute or two. “Don't
apologize, I know you've been busy.”

“Well, I'm sorry anyway,” Hermione said, “You're right. We haven't talked. I never
heard how the article turned out.”

“It was dreadful.”

Hermione blinked.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, Editor Webb took it and burned it,” said Ginny bitterly, “And the worst part of it was,
I didn't care. I don't care. I thought I wanted to be a writer, you know. It seemed
so…ideal.”

“I'm sorry—“

“Don't be. I'm glad I found out.”

Ginny handed Hermione a mug of steaming tea.

“Anyway— I quit yesterday.”

“Oh, Ginny.”

“Dad's pretty disappointed. He thought I could `straighten out the newspapers', you
know. Singlehandedly.”

“But you're sure you don't want to write?”

“Positive.” Ginny took the seat next to Hermione, turning it sideways so that they were facing
each other. “I don't have the knack or the passion. I had the idea, that's all.”

Hermione's look softened sympathetically.

“It still hurts, though, doesn't it?”

“My pride's bruised,” Ginny confessed. “Dean was right. I hate it when my exes are
right.”

Hermione laughed.

“You don't know what it's like,” said Ginny, smiling in spite of herself. “You've
had—what? Viktor… and Ron?”

“They were both right,” said Hermione. “They both knew that I was far too focused on Harry to be
a good girlfriend for either of them.”

Ginny sighed.

“Hermione, what in Merlin's name am I going to do?”

She sipped her tea and smiled, shaking her head.

“I can't tell you that. You know I can't.”

“But don't you have any idea…?”

“Gin,” said Hermione patiently, “Now is your chance to study yourself. Don't give that
opportunity to anyone else.”

“I'm boring,” Ginny said.

“Now that certainly isn't true,” said Hermione. “I can promise you that.”

She took another sip of tea, seemingly content to let the conversation dwindle for a while—and
then, just as Ginny was about to beg her for advice, Hermione sat up straight and leaned forward
excitedly.

“What?” Ginny asked.

“I have an idea,” said Hermione, her eyes dancing, “And as long as you promise not to mention
the fact that I'm about to contradict completely myself, I'll—“

“I promise,” said Ginny quickly, starting to feel excited herself. “What's your idea?”

“Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes!” Hermione said, “I don't know what George would say,
but—“

“You're brilliant!” Ginny said in awe. “Of course! I've always loved that kind of
thing—I…”

She trailed off.

“I'm not Fred, though,” she said in a low voice. “George might not…”

“All he can do is say `no'.” Hermione leaned forward. “You won't replace Fred, of course
you won't, but— but it might be good. For both of you.”

“I'm not sure.”

“Think about it,” Hermione persisted. “That's all I'm suggesting.”

Ginny stirred her tea slowly, staring ahead of her thoughtfully.

“Hermione,” she said, “what do you think about me?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, as a person,” Ginny clarified. “Am I that awful to be around?”

“You're not `awful to be around,'” Hermione said, “You're a good friend.”

“All I know is that I bore myself to death,” Ginny said, “I don't know. Now that I've
graduated… I've started to realize I never had any interests. I wasn't fond of
school—Quidditch was a hobby—and then…there was the war.”

“Yes,” said Hermione, shadowy thoughts flitting across her face. “There was that.”

“I mean, really. Before the war, what did I do other than study, date, and play Quidditch? I
mean, for Merlin's sake, while I was off snogging Michael Corner, you and Harry were organizing
the D. A.—fighting back—“

“You were a part of that too—“

“I was a member, sure. I went to the meetings.”

“Those weren't our `interests', Gin,” said Hermione dryly, “I was never a really brave
person. If it wasn't for Harry, I would have lived in my books. A proper Ravenclaw.”

“You are brave. Besides, you were Sorted into Gryffindor.”

“I was nearly a Ravenclaw.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes,” said Hermione, “The Sorting Hat found me to be quite an interesting case,
evidently.”

“Harry, too, I heard.”

“Yes, Harry too.”

“Are you sure there isn't a prophecy about you two somewhere?” Ginny said.

“I don't set much store by them anyway,” said Hermione. Ginny looked incredulous. “Well, I
don't.”

“They come true, though. You of all people should know that.”

“I haven't heard of a single instance where trying to meddle with a predicted future has
turned out well,” said Hermione. “I don't think the prophecy has any power in itself. The
future isn't meant to control us, Ginny, we're meant to control our futures. Perhaps it
will turn out like someone predicted. But it's not because the prophecy says so. Humans do all
that work themselves.”

“Suppose someone predicted your death?” Ginny said, still skeptical.

“I would do my best to stay alive,” Hermione said, laughing a little. “And suppose someone did
make a prophecy about Harry and I, hundreds of years ago—what does it matter? I love him anyway.
The end result is the same whether we know the future or not.”

“Why didn't the Sorting Hat put you in Ravenclaw?” Ginny asked, shaking her head and
abandoning the topic on which she and Hermione would never see eye to eye.

“I'm not sure,” said Hermione. “I suppose he saw how badly I wanted to be in
Gryffindor.”

“You wanted…?”

“I wanted to be brave,” said Hermione, “I wasn't brave then. I was only bossy.”

Ginny laughed.

“It's true. Ron will attest to it.”

“And Harry?”

“Oh, Harry didn't like me much, either. He was quieter about his dislike, though.”

“I can't picture it.”

“Oh, I was used to it,” said Hermione, “And I didn't even like myself.”

“I liked you.”

“You met me later,” Hermione said, “I was a little better then.”

She paused.

“And you did have a very difficult first year,” she said, very gently. Ginny looked down.

“I'm fine with it now. It was a long time ago.”

Ginny sipped her tea—it was cold and so was she. She didn't usually think about her first
year at Hogwarts— there were too many spaces. Too many holes.

It was hard to catch herself from being swallowed up by the emptiness.

“You didn't exactly have an easy year, either.” Ginny put down her tea. “I cried for weeks
after you were Petrified. I knew something then. I was afraid that I—“

“It wasn't your fault,” said Hermione, so sharply that Ginny started. “None of that was. You
were being manipulated by a powerful wizard who was nearly three times your age.”

“Still, I let him in.”

“You wrote in a diary,” said Hermione, “It wasn't as if you were dabbling in the Dark Arts,
Gin. It wasn't a wise decision, but it was a very small one with very unusual
consequences.”

Ginny was grateful for the way she said it, but she didn't know how to respond. So she
simply looked down at her tea, wondering why she couldn't taste it at all.

“Give yourself some grace,” Hermione said quietly. “The last thing you need is blame you
don't deserve.”

They sat in silence for a while, listening to the wind and leaves sliding against the windows.
Hermione placed two fingers against her lips, tilting her eyes thoughtfully toward the grandfather
clock in the corner.

Ginny stood after a moment, going to the kitchen window and looking out at the garden, the bare,
raggedy plot of land her father was so fond of.

“I don't know what I deserve anymore,” she said. “I've never really worked hard for
anything, you know.”

Hermione stood too, following her to the window and placing a hand on her shoulder.

“But I'm going to try,” Ginny said, steeling herself. “I'm going to find out how much
there really is to me. I'm tired of being bored with myself.”

Hermione didn't respond. Ginny didn't look back, but if she had, she would have seen the
soft glow of pride that had entered Hermione's eyes.



11. Chapter Ten
---------------



A/N: Hello, everyone! I'm happy to announce that reports of my death (or perhaps this
story's) have been greatly exaggerated. I've been working on this chapter for ages, as you
can tell, and I've wrestled with it quite a bit. Hopefully there are enough of you still
interested in reading it! Enjoy. Thanks for your patience.

Chapter Ten

George said he thought it would be good exercise, hefting box after box into his arms and
staggering up the (dusty) stairs of the shop. Ginny joined him, tucking her wand into her robes and
pretending not to notice the cold (the shop's heating charms hadn't been reactivated).

“Put the snack-boxes in the corner. Yeah.”

She followed instructions, stacking the final beaten box in the corner.

“Great,” he said, without enthusiasm. “Thanks for your help.”

“You're paying me.”

“Thanks anyway.” He turned away, pretending to reorganize a few boxes. She crossed her arms and
bit her lip, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“So what's next?” she asked with false cheeriness. “We could dust the stairs—“

“You can turn the heating charms on,” he said abruptly, brushing past her and heading down the
stairs. “It's freezing in here.”

“George—“

“Turn the damn heating charms on, Ginny!”

She moved forward and leaned over the railing of the second story, looking down at him.

“Mind not biting my head off, big brother?”

“Mum would kill me if you caught a cold,” he said icily, slamming a drawer shut. “Cast the
bloody charm.”

She pulled out her wand and muttered the activation charm, torn between frustration and
fear.

“I don't know why you're here,” he said, “As if you couldn't get a job elsewhere.
Was it Mum's idea?”

“No, it wasn't,” Ginny snapped. “I—“

“Hermione's, then?”

He stiffened at her silence.

“This was Hermione's idea?”

“It's not what you think,” said Ginny immediately.

“This is part of my… cure, then?” George turned and lead against the counter. “Hermione's
got a funny way of—“

“I went to her for help,” said Ginny. “I needed a job. I quit my writing, and I… well… I
couldn't think of anything I was good at—except… well… I was really one of the only people who
ever pranked you and Fr—“

“So you thought you'd come and take his place?” George snapped upright. “Is that it?”

“No!” said Ginny angrily. “I'd never replace Fred. No one could.”

“That's what everyone says.” George seized a broom and took to sweeping a random section of
the floor. “As if they know.”

“George—“

“Godric, Ginny!” he snapped. “I've already got a mother.”

“Would you mind?”

She glared down at him from the balcony.

“We're worried for you, George,” she said, “and I know it's annoying, okay? I know Mum
can be… overbearing. But give her some credit. She cares, all right? And the last thing she wants
is to lose another son.”

He stiffened visibly. After a pause, he said, mutinously, “She's not losing another son. But
I wish she'd give me time.”

Ginny stared at the back of his head.

“No one blames you for grieving, George,” she said, finally. “Don't take it that way.”

“How else is there to take it?”

Ginny swallowed.

“Whenever Harry starts feeling…bad,” she said after a moment, “Guilty or down, I mean--Hermione
takes him on a walk. Just around the house a few times. Adrian told me he asked Hermione about it
once.”

“I don't know why you're telling me this—“

“Just listen,” she said, not precisely sure why she was telling George this either. “Adrian
asked because—well, the kids were worried, you know? And Hermione said, `Sometimes, Adrian, your
dad needs to be reminded of all the things he loves that are right in front of him. It helps him
mourn the things he has to love from a distance.'”

Ginny paused, and— surprised to find her voice shaking, she added, “D'you know what she
means?”

He didn't reply, and she gazed at the cold light pooling on the shop's floor, darkened
by her brother's shadow.

“George?”

A deep sigh dragged the whole of his body downward, and he leaned heavily against the broom, in
a swirl of cold dust.

“Go home, Ginny,” he said, and he began sweeping again, without a sound.

********

Ginny didn't go home.

She stood outside the shop for a long time, scarf tied slightly too tightly around her neck. She
looked down the street, sleepy in the late afternoon lull. Failure knifed through her chest and she
covered her face in her hands, biting her lip to keep from crying.

She didn't know where to go. Home was bound to be haunted by her mother, who spent hours
knitting furiously by the window. Ginny knew when her mother was grieving—by the way the needles
clicked and flashed in the light filtering into the kitchen. Heart Haven was empty, as the Potter
children were on an outing with their grandparents. Hermione was working with Luna all
afternoon.

And she couldn't go back inside.

She took a deep breath, both calmed and pained by the thinking.

Then, on a whim, she Apparated.

*******

She knew it was a mistake the moment she saw them sitting there with tomato and cheese
sandwiches, cuffs unbuttoned and sleeves turned up. Neville had a splatter of tomato across his
cheek, and Harry was methodically tearing the crust off of his sandwiches, eating each crust like
it was a carrot stick. They looked relaxed, and with their ties askew, almost like schoolboys.

“Ginny,” Neville spoke first, and the illusion broke. He straightened, almost as if he were
about to get up. “Hi.”

“Hi,” she managed. And she stood there, stupidly, clutching at the stray end of her scar for
dear life. Neville frowned, put down his sandwich and approached her.

“Is something wrong?”

“No.” The word came out too brittle to be convincing, and Neville tilted his head a little to
look at her, wiping the tomato from his cheek. She flushed.

Neville had a way with looks— frank, open, curious. It was something he'd practiced at
school—not being one whose opinion was looked for, he made an art form of studying others instead.
And he was good at it.

Which made this difficult.

“Ginny?” he said, and this time he spoke for her to hear— Harry had gotten up and moved away
slightly, toward the water cooler. “Mimbulous mimbletonia.”

She gaped at him, and though his expression did not alter, his eyes crinkled in gentle
humor.

“Wh-what?”

“Come on, Ginny,” he said, and he put his hand on her shoulder. “I have something to show
you.”

She allowed him to lead her out of the hallway, into an office she only half-recognized as Harry
and Neville's, and he motioned her into a squashy red chair in front of the desk.

He turned toward his desk and pulled out a book, thumbing through it absently.

She sat and waited, and unexpectedly, as she gazed around Neville's corner of the office,
the knot in her chest began to loosen.

“Tea?” Neville asked, still holding the book. He waved his wand before she could answer.

She almost asked him what he wanted to tell her, but knew better. He had used their signal, the
one they'd used in `class' during the war—the one they had used to alert each other to
trouble. And sometimes, when they were both exhausted and beyond conversation, Neville would say,
“I have something to show you.”

And he would. They would sit in the Room of Requirement, and he would show her plant after plant
after plant, almost exclusively in books, and he would only occasionally tell her about one of
them. Sometimes, when no one was paying attention, he would read to her. And she would listen. Or
sometimes, she would wait, and he would thumb through pages, eyebrows furrowed, and—as they found
out—no one would bother them.

And Neville always knew, it seemed, when Ginny needed to see something.

“Gillyweed,” said Neville presently, making Ginny start. “Here.”

He handed her the book and leaned over her shoulder as she read.

“Weird,” said Ginny, her voice sounding strangely relaxed in the quiet office. “It
looks…well…”

“Harry ate it,” said Neville. “I knew it after he got in the water, of course—the gills were a
dead giveaway.”

She smiled, almost despite herself.

She always enjoyed Neville's moments of being a know-it-all. It was more out of enthusiasm
than pride, and she found it… oddly encouraging.

“During the Triwizard Tournament, you mean?”

“Yeah,” said Neville. “You know, the first wizard who ate it thought it was going to make him
impervious to water. It didn't end well.”

He grimaced, and she laughed.

He smiled broadly.

“Funny how things work,” he said. “Anyway, I'll get your tea—“

“Oh,” she said, and suddenly, she remembered where she was. “No, that's—that's really
okay.”

He paused with a mug in one hand.

“Oh,” he said. “Are you sure?”

She stood.

“I—“

And she looked at him, the familiar curve of his jaw and the long pale scar running down his
cheek, the wand he'd tucked into his pocket and the mug dangling from his thumb—and she
couldn't move.

He hesitated, looked away, and cleared his throat.

“I'm sorry,” he said in a low voice. “I… I didn't mean to— never mind.”

The confidence was gone, and somehow she couldn't bear that. The moment he'd apologized,
something very special to her had disappeared— maybe it was the comfort, maybe it was the safety,
maybe it was even…

“Neville,” she blurted. “I— really don't have anywhere to be. I… if you don't mind—“

He looked up, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Are you sure?”

“It's— it's nice of you to offer,” she said. “And… well, we haven't talked in a
while.”

“No,” he said. “We haven't.”

That was the way Neville was. Sometimes, when he stated the obvious— stated a fact— he managed
to imbue it with meaning.

It had its downsides.

“But,” he said, as he reached for the teakettle on the windowsill, “we can talk now.”

Ginny wasn't sure how she felt about that.

“So,” he said, “I… guess you don't want to tell me why you're here, or anything?”

She took the tea from him, which he had managed to prepare the way she had always liked it.

“Family stuff,” she said. “So… not really. But thanks.”

He nodded, sitting on the edge of his desk.

“I understand.”

And Ginny felt comforted by the idea that Neville really did understand.

“Neville,” she said. “How— how are your parents?”

He flinched.

“Oh.” He rubbed at his scar. “Well, you know Hermione and Luna are working with them. With Mum
mostly.”

“Yes, but— in the meantime.” Ginny said, not sure if she was pushing it. “You visit them
still.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Gran's not often up to it anymore.”

He reached for an unwrapped Honeyduke's bar on his desk. He offered her some: the hazelnut
creme bar, which happened to be her favorite. She wondered if he remembered. She broke off a
section.

“But I… well, I think it's helping,” Neville said, putting the chocolate down. “I don't
know. It's hard to tell. But— I just hope she understands. Mum, I mean. I don't want to
disappoint her again.”

She frowned, and some odd jolt of pain went through her.

“Nev, you're not a disappointment to anyone.” The nickname slipped from her quite without
her consent, but she didn't care. He looked up, and he smiled— sort of.

“Thanks.”

“You don't believe me?”

“I said thanks,” he said, stating the obvious again.

“Neville,” she said. “I know I'm not exactly your best friend, but… believe me. Your mum—
she would be proud. Really proud.”

She paused.

“I'm… I'm proud of you. I don't have any right to be—“

“Don't say that,” he said, and he was standing straight now, standing in front of her, with
his familiar eyes fixed on her. “I'm glad you're proud. I've always…”

And he flushed vividly pink.

“Valued—your opinion,” he finished, lamely.

Her heart was beating so fast— and she was clutching her tea so tightly she was surprised she
hadn't broken the mug.

What did he mean?

Probably what he said. Neville had never been one for subtlety. He said what he meant.

…Usually?

“You shouldn't,” she heard herself say. She wasn't quite sure how she'd managed it,
as her mouth had gone incredibly dry. She took a gulp of her tea and tried desperately to laugh.
“I'm not a very good judge of character.”

“I never said that,” he said, and she really did laugh this time, hoping he didn't notice
the mug shaking in her hand.

The tension had passed and she shook her head, trying to take a few deep breaths. This
hadn't been what she'd bargained for.

“Ginny?”

She started, sloshing a bit of tea over the edge of the mug. Neville handed her a napkin without
remarking on it.

“Yeah?” she said at last, struggling to be casual.

He swallowed, studying her face quickly, nervously. It was the way he studied lessons, back and
forth and up and down, fighting not to miss a thing.

Then he bent and kissed her on the cheek.

“Ginny, I'm… I'm so sorry,” he said, almost in a whisper. “For what I said.”

He pulled back.

Both of them were very red, Ginny guessed. But at the moment she didn't care.

“It's okay,” she said. “It's— it's always been okay. Honestly. I was… being
stupid.”

“No,” he said, firmly. “I shouldn't have said any of that. I've— I've thought about
it a lot.”

“You shouldn't have,” she said. “It wasn't… I—“

“It wasn't right. I was wrong. I'm always wrong. Godric.”

She shook her head.

“You're not always wrong, Neville,” she said. “You were smart enough to stay away from
me.”

He looked down.

“I never meant to stay away,” he said, after a moment. “I mean… I just thought… you wanted me
to.”

“I did,” and she cursed herself. “I mean— don't take it like that. I was… I was angry, but—
you're still one of my closest friends. I missed— writing to you, and everything.”

His eyes brightened.

“Even though my letters were boring as Binns?”

“They weren't `boring as Binns,'” she said, smiling. “I liked them. They were…
comforting.”

“I'm glad,” he said quickly. “If you want—I could—“

He took a deep breath, as if he were about to dive off a cliff.

“…write you again?” he said, and he looked up at her. Her heart beat fast again, painfully, but
it warmed her to the core.

“I'd— really like that, Neville,” she said, and promptly spilled her tea all over her lap.
“Oh—Merlin. I didn't mean to—“

“That's okay,” he said quickly, and suddenly, he laughed. A warm, rumbling laugh— one she
hadn't heard in a long time. And it made her laugh, too.

“Erm—“ he said. “Here. Let me take that mug.”

He took the mug and waved his wand, clearing the lukewarm tea in an instant.

“I spill things all the time,” he said.

“I know,” Ginny said. “But you're good at cleaning things up.”

He smiled.

“Lots of practice,” he said. Then he glanced at the clock. “Er… speaking of which…”

Her smile faded slightly.

“Practice?”

“Teaching,” he said.

“Oh,” she said. “Yeah, of course. Er… I'll be going now. Tell Harry goodbye.”

“I will,” he promised. He glanced at her shyly, and tilted his chin a little. “Goodbye,
Ginny.”

“Bye, Neville,” she said. He opened the door to his office, letting her walk in front of him.
She looked back at him and waved.

He waved back.

“I'll write,” he called. “I won't forget.”

It was something he'd taken to writing at the end of her letters—something about forgetting
and remembering. I won't forget to write again. I'll never forget how brave you are.
I'll always remember the way the rain smelled, when you told me my ribs were broken and that I
looked— well, you said I looked like hell. I didn't feel it, though. Do you remember that?

Again, that odd sparkling of hope tingling through her body. He was still standing at the
doorway, and she felt a blush cross her cheeks.

“I know you won't,” she said.

She turned on the spot, Apparating into the Burrow kitchen. Mrs. Weasley was knitting at the
corner, gazing out the window.

“Hello, dear,” she said, and she turned. Suddenly, she smiled. “I haven't seen you smile
like that in a very long time, Ginny! Did things go well at the shop?”

“Oh,” Ginny said, “No, not really.”

“But—“

“Mum, would you mind if I went upstairs for a bit?” Ginny interrupted. “I— have to write
someone.”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Weasley, and the knowing look in her eye made Ginny blush furiously. “Oh, yes,
of course, dear. We'll talk about George later.”

She lowered her knitting and smiled at her softly.

“It's about time we had some happiness in this family.”