1. Hermione

The Elder Wand

Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe and all the characters in it belong to J.K. Rowling. This story is a work of imagination and is directed solely at readers of this website. No infringement of any rights is intended and no criticism of J.K. Rowling or her work should be considered to be stated or implied.

Author’s note: an alternative reality story, taking all of the books into account.

Part 1. Hermione

“I’m putting the Elder Wand back where it came from,” Harry told Dumbledore. “It can stay there. If I die a natural death like Ignotus, its power will be broken, won’t it? The previous master will never have been defeated. That’ll be the end of it.”

“Are you sure?” Ron said, as Dumbledore nodded. He looked longingly at the wand, imagining the power that it would give him and what he could do with it.

“I think Harry’s right,” said Hermione quietly.

She uttered the words almost involuntarily and inwardly castigated herself as soon as they had left her mouth. After 18 months of trying to accept her situation; of attempting to do what seemed right and sensible; of recognising that Ron wanted her, while Harry didn’t; when it came to a choice, it was still always Harry that she sided with.

But what else could she have done? As usual, Harry was right and Ron was reverting to type; needing recognition and craving attention. Ron had been different lately, more resourceful and kinder. But she couldn’t escape the feeling that it was all false; an act that she fancied was being put on for her benefit and if that was the case, then what was the point? Yet those same qualities that seemed contrived in Ron came naturally to Harry and she loved him for it. And, before Voldermort had started to intrude into his mind, she and Harry had generally been on the same wavelength, agreeing on ideas and together working to solve Harry’s many problems; sometimes even completing each other’s sentences – they were so close. She thought of the two of them as a team and she hated the idea that all of this was about to change. Hermione had dedicated so much of her time and resources to Harry over the last few years, that she couldn’t imagine a life without him. Her obsession – because that was how she often thought of it – had begun earlier than anyone knew, since Hermione had been infatuated with the story of Harry Potter before she even knew the boy.

Hermione vividly remembered the day when she had received her letter from Hogwarts. She had been sitting at the breakfast table in the family kitchen, absently toying with some breakfast cereal, a book propped up against the toast rack in front of her. It was the start of a beautiful summer’s day and sunshine was streaming through the kitchen window, casting vivid shadows and making Hermione squint as she tried to read. Her mother had brought in the post and placed the official looking cream envelope, with the Hogwarts seal, in front of her, encouraging Hermione to open it in an excited voice. Hermione had done as she was instructed, carelessly ripping through the thick parchment, and devoured the contents of the letter with increasing amazement. It was the first time that she had been given some explanation for the strange things that sometimes happened around her and she had been both scared and relieved to realise that she was a witch.

Of course, her parents had known for a while; ever since Professor McGonagall had visited them. Hermione’s mother had told her all about that occasion and the thought of it still made Hermione smile. Minerva had introduced herself as an “educational consultant” and had clearly tried to dress in the Muggle fashion to avoid undue alarm. However, Hermione’s mother couldn’t help laughing as she described the long, flowing bright red tartan skirt and matching jacket that the stranger had worn over an elaborately frilled white blouse. Her outfit was so outlandish that she had only succeeded in engendering the exact reaction that she had taken such pains to avoid. She fitted the role of a school teacher perfectly, however, enunciating her words very precisely in a high pitched voice with a strong Scottish inflection. Hermione could picture the scene perfectly. Minerva McGonagall perched stiffly in the chocolate-brown single armchair by the fireplace in the Granger’s sitting room, her hands folded carefully in her lap; Hermione’s parents trying to seem relaxed as they lounged in the matching sofa opposite, but growing more anxious and uncomfortable by the minute. Professor McGonagall had begun carefully, asking if Hermione’s parents had any concerns about their daughter and how she was fitting in with main-stream education; whether they had noticed anything unusual. From there, things had progressed fairly naturally to an acceptance that Hermione had special talents and needed a special type of education and, although her parents had been shocked at first, they had gradually come to accept the idea. Hermione’s mother had confessed that they were even quite proud to know that they were slightly different and unusual, even though they were sworn to secrecy and couldn’t reveal Hermione’s true nature to any of their friends or relatives. Hermione suspected that they would have been less thrilled if they had been aware of the enchantments that were put in place to enforce their discretion.

Hermione had insisted on an early visit to Diagon Alley and had not only purchased all of her recommended school text books but also many other books, particularly those concerning the history of the magical world. She had wanted to know everything possible about the new environment that she was entering and had intensely studied every word, committing it all to her formidable and almost photographic memory. Hermione’s attention had been immediately drawn to recent history and the rise and eventual fall of the most notorious dark wizard who had ever existed, Voldermort. As a result, she had discovered the story of the “boy who lived”, Harry Potter. She was enraptured by his mother’s sacrifice and was intrigued to find out that the boy was almost her age but that nobody seemed to know what had become of him since that fateful night in Godric’s Hollow. Hermione fantasised about meeting this incredibly romantic figure someday and possibly becoming his friend, or perhaps even more. She imagined the pair of them performing amazing feats of magic and ridding the world of Dark Magic for ever. These daydreams surprised and worried her, since she generally regarded herself as a practical and sensible person, who wasn’t prone to flights of fancy. But the story of Harry Potter resonated with her and she couldn’t help but draw parallels between herself and Harry’s mother. Both Muggle born and both, at least she hoped, brilliant witches who had excelled at Hogwarts.

The reality, when she finally met Harry, had been extremely disappointing. He was not at all like she had imagined. Harry Potter was scrawny and underfed, with untidy black hair and old-fashioned round spectacles. Even more surprising than his appearance, however, was his lack of knowledge and his seeming diffidence. He wasn’t the imposing, powerful figure that she had envisioned. At first, she couldn’t understand what made this boy so special. But this negative opinion hadn’t lasted for long. Harry soon started to show that he was different. Firstly, there was his flying ability, which he demonstrated on their very first lesson, but he had also stuck up for Neville against Draco Malfoy and showed that he wasn’t easily cowed. At the time, Hermione had been angry with him, thinking that he was acting irresponsibly and risking getting them all into trouble. Then something had happened that had completely changed her opinion of Harry and the love that she still felt for him had begun to develop.

Hermione’s first weeks at Hogwarts were a miserable experience. Her knowledge didn’t seem to impress any of her fellow students and indeed she found that she was shunned and generally disliked, particularly by Ron Weasley. She remembered crying silently as she lay in bed at night, longing for her parents and home, but determined to prove that she belonged in this new, strange world. Then on Halloween, Professor Quirrell had let a troll into the school and, alone and upset in one of the girl’s bathrooms, she would probably have been killed if Harry hadn’t come to save her. To be fair, Ron had helped, but he had later confessed to her that he was present only under duress and that Harry had been the one who had thought about her and sought her out. That was typical of Harry; compassionate and caring, always thinking of others less fortunate than himself, even if he disliked them. From that point on, in Hermione’s eyes at least, the two of them had become inseparable and had formed their friendship, although, unfortunately, Ron’s presence had seemingly been an unavoidable consequence of the arrangement. Even so, in spite of their frequent quarrels and the fact that they had little in common, she had grown used to having Ron around and came to rely on his support, particularly in the later years when Harry was often unwilling to listen to her advice.

During their second and third years at Hogwarts, Hermione had continued to support Harry and she considered that they had grown noticeably closer, culminating in her use of the time-turner to help Harry rescue Sirius. However, through all of that time, she had never noted any sign of anything more than friendship directed towards her from Harry, although she hoped that in time this might change. Then in their fourth year, Ron and Harry quarrelled because Ron believed that Harry had deliberately entered the Tri-Wizard Tournament without telling him and, for the first time, Hermione was able to spend long periods of time alone with Harry. Rumours started to circulate that they were a couple and not just friends and for a few weeks Hermione basked in this mistaken perception of their relationship. But it couldn’t last. Harry and Ron were reconciled and she was pushed to one side. Then, as if to emphasise the wretchedness of her situation, the Yule Ball had been announced and, even though she had managed by chance to have her front teeth – her singularly most unattractive feature – shortened and straightened, Harry had not considered her even fleetingly as a potential partner. Worse was to follow, as Hermione was given a clear indication of the type of girl that Harry was drawn to.

Cho Chang was one of the most attractive and popular girls in the school. She was highly intelligent – she was in Ravenclaw after all – but, apart from that single quality, Hermione and Cho had nothing else in common. Where Cho was beautiful, Hermione thought of herself as plain; where Cho was athletic, Hermione thought of herself as ungainly; where Cho was outgoing and friendly, Hermione thought of herself as introverted and awkward. Hermione could remember feeling intensely disappointed that Harry‘s choice in women was so conventional. She expected nothing more of Ron. She knew that he was superficial and crude. But she had thought that Harry was different and might value her friendship enough to overlook her physical short comings.

Hermione tried to drop a few hints, both verbal and physical, to ensure that Harry might recognise her true feelings – asking him to knit house-elf hats with her; kissing him on the cheek when they parted at Kings Cross – but she didn’t dare to be too obvious for fear of rejection and nothing seemed to work. Harry appeared to remain oblivious. He hadn’t even shown any signs of jealousy when Viktor Krum, a figure that both Ron and Harry greatly admired, had invited Hermione to the Yule Ball; although strangely enough Ron had been distinctly hostile – the first obvious sign of his developing affection for her, even though his general attitude had remained as unpleasant as before.

Harry’s obsession with Cho had continued and had eventually led to a brief and seemingly shallow relationship that was doomed to failure. Once it ended, Hermione’s hopes had been briefly revived. After all, she and Harry had been closer than ever during their fifth year; forming Dumbledore’s army, ridding Hogwarts of Dolores Umbridge and battling together against the Death Eaters at the Ministry of Magic. However, to Hermione’s dismay, during the following summer, Harry had simply transferred his affections from Cho to Ginny Weasley.

Ron’s little sister had developed into a beautiful young witch and, in fact, had become a red-headed clone of Cho Chang, with a slightly more forceful personality and a mean Bat Bogey hex. So, Hermione had finally conceded that her position was hopeless. She needed to move on and, since he was now pursuing her more openly, she had begun to be more tolerant towards Ron. But with Harry’s situation becoming more dangerous, Hermione’s emotions were raw and she found herself acting irrationally, needing Ron’s support and validation, and often becoming openly hostile towards Harry. She had even hugged and kissed Ron right in front of Harry in an unguarded, stressful moment; actions that she now regretted. Ron had clearly been misled and would now be more attentive than ever, something that she didn’t really need at present. Harry had looked really annoyed when it had happened, but that was just because he thought that they were wasting time and so she knew that she shouldn’t read anything more into it.

Harry’s relationship with Ginny had been interrupted by the hunt for the horcruxes but now showed every sign of being revived and so, for Hermione, with the final demise of Voldermort, the picture had become crystal clear. Any more serious relationship that she developed with Ron would mean remaining close to Harry, watching him and Ginny together, and that just wasn’t possible. Now that the objective that she had focused on for all of these years had been achieved, she couldn’t just be “friends” with Harry. She cared too much about him. Hermione knew that she must go away and start again somewhere. Perhaps reunite with her parents and even leave the magical world for good. Her parents were still confunded and were living with no knowledge that they even had a daughter. With Voldermort gone, they were no longer in any danger and Hermione needed to find them and restore their memories. She missed them.

However, she still felt uneasy. There was work that needed to be done. She just had to sort out the matter of the Elder Wand and then she would leave.

Hermione glanced over at Ron. He scowled back at her, looking distinctly displeased.

3. Harry

The Elder Wand

Author’s note: my first attempt to load this chapter failed, so here it goes again!!

Part 2. Harry

“Are you sure?” Ron said, as Dumbledore nodded. He looked longingly at the wand, imagining the power that it would give him and what he could do with it.

“I think Harry’s right,” said Hermione quietly.

Harry closed his eyes and sighed quietly. He was so relieved to hear those words. If Hermione agreed with him, then he was certain that he had made the right decision. They hadn’t always agreed, but over the years he had come to realise that when they did not, it was generally because he was in the wrong. His insistence on dashing off to the Ministry of Magic to try to rescue Sirius, who wasn’t even there at the time, still haunted him and Hermione had also been right about the dangers of the Half-Blood Prince. Their most recent disagreement about whether to pursue the Deathly Hallows or the horcruxes was too close to call, since the two things had turned out to be related, but he knew that he could generally rely on Hermione’s advice. In fact, he knew that he could generally rely on Hermione, period.

She had always stuck by him and had been by his side every step of the way in his fight against Voldermort, since their first year at Hogwarts. Even when Ron had waivered, Hermione had always been there, helping him and coming up with ideas to move things forward. Harry knew that Hermione was logical and careful by nature and those qualities sometimes annoyed and frustrated him. However, in the last few months, after their nearly disastrous visit to Godric’s Hollow, he had come to realise that even when she had good reason to doubt him, Hermione had never let him down; had never refused to help him, even though she knew that she was often putting her own life at risk. That made her very special and, for some reason, until recently, he hadn’t really appreciated just how exceptional she was and how lucky he was to have her as a friend.

Now, with Hermione’s agreement and with Dumbledore’s acquiescence, there would be no more argument. The Elder Wand would be laid to rest, well out of harm’s way. Harry looked across at Hermione gratefully. She was staring down at the floor, a seemingly lonely and isolated figure, her face framed and partially hidden by the brown curls hanging down in front of her. Her shoulders were slumped, a slight frown creasing the bridge of her nose, and she was clearly deep in thought. As he often did, when he looked at Hermione, Harry felt a great warmth building inside him. He wanted to comfort and protect her; to hug her and make her serious, thoughtful expression dissolve into a smile. Strangely, he had always felt this way about Hermione, virtually from the time that he had first met her.

At the beginning, he had taken an instant dislike to her. In some ways, during those first weeks, she had been as much his nemesis as Snape. Hermione was always straining to answer the questions that the Potions Master addressed to Harry, invariably supplying the correct answer and making Harry seem stupid and awkward. He had thought that she was bossy, arrogant and annoying but, for some reason, he had been drawn to her; watching her and thinking about her, realising that, like him, she was uncomfortable and just trying to establish herself in a strange and alien environment. So, when the troll had been let into Hogwarts on that first Halloween, he had worried about her and gone to look for her. And hadn’t he been rewarded a thousand times over for that act of thoughtfulness. Without Hermione’s friendship, Harry knew that he could never have defeated Voldermort. Dumbledore had known it too.

Yet, he had never “desired” Hermione. Not in the way that he had desired Cho and Ginny. She had always been a special friend who happened to be a girl and not his “girlfriend”. There had just been the occasional hug or peck on the cheek, always instigated by Hermione, but nothing more. He had never experienced those butterflies in his stomach when he looked at Hermione in the way that he had when seeing Cho or Ginny; although he was still slightly bewildered at the suddenness and intensity of his attraction to Ginny. He couldn’t explain why he seemed to be so indifferent. Hermione was certainly attractive – he remembered how his jaw had dropped when he saw Hermione descending the stairs to meet Viktor Krum before the Yule Ball and he also remembered how pleased and surprised he had been to find out that Viktor considered him to be a rival for Hermione’s affections.

It wasn’t that he didn’t care about Hermione. In fact, he felt closer to her than he had ever felt to anyone. He remembered the sense of despair that had pierced him when Hermione fell under the Death Eater’s curse in the Ministry of Magic. That feeling had been as strong as the one that enveloped him later when Sirius toppled backwards through the veil. The only difference had been that in Hermione’s case the despair was quickly followed by immense relief as Neville confirmed that she was still alive. He also recalled the comfort that he had derived from holding Hermione’s hand as they stood before the grave of his parents in Godric’s Hollow. He couldn’t think of anyone who he would have rather shared that moment with than Hermione. The truth, however, was that Harry knew that Hermione thought of him just as a friend, almost like a brother, and, in any case, he had realised a long time ago that Ron fancied her. Since Ron had been the first to make his interest in her clear, for the sake of their friendship, it was necessary for Harry to leave the field open for him.

That was all very well, but he knew that he still needed Hermione and wanted her friendship. With Ron and Ginny already showing exaggerated signs of jealousy over his close relationship with Hermione, he couldn’t envisage how that was to be achieved. However, there was another problem that concerned Harry. He had been feeling increasingly uncomfortable observing the developing closeness between Ron and Hermione over the past months and when Hermione had hugged and kissed Ron, just a few hours ago, he had been surprised by the sudden thrust of jealousy that had welled up in him. Then, just before he left to walk into the Forbidden Forest to meet his almost certain death, he had thought about the people that he loved and longed to see one last time. The image of Hermione’s face had been the first to come into his mind and had lingered, forcing others into the background. These new feelings had been unexpected and worrying and Harry wasn’t sure what they meant and how he could deal with them. Now, looking at Hermione, standing solemnly, still lost in thought, Harry felt more confused than ever.

Harry shook himself out of his reverie. What was the point of this? Hermione also had a say in the affair and, although she might sometimes agree with him, she had chosen Ron and that was all that really mattered. He had to accept that he had lost Hermione and that things were going to be different from now on. After all, he wanted Ginny, although now, when he thought about her, Harry didn’t get the same feeling of exhilaration and excitement that he had experienced in the past.

“Right, well now that’s decided, I’m going to check up on things,” he said hesitantly, attempting to get back down to the business in hand. “Are you two coming?”

“You go ahead,” Ron replied, tetchily. “I just want to have a word with Hermione.”

Hermione, who had taken half a step forward at Harry’s words, froze in place.

“You go on, we’ll catch up with you later,” she muttered and Harry again felt that tug of jealousy as Hermione appeared to defer to Ron, pushing him away.

“OK, see you in a little while then,” Harry responded and taking up the Elder Wand, together with his own mended Holly wand, he stalked out of the headmaster’s study and noisily descended the spiral staircase.

As Harry walked back through deserted corridors, the signs of battle were still all around him. Dust and debris crunched under his feet, walls were damaged and pitted, statues were toppled or in pieces and pictures were torn or hanging askew. Harry could still hear Peeves singing nonsense rhymes in a deliberately high pitched voice somewhere in the distance, occasionally stopping to cackle over some spark of his imagination that he found particularly amusing. It saddened Harry to see the building that had been home to him for so many years in such a dishevelled state, but he knew that, with powerful magic, things could be restored to their former glory within days.

Harry reached the foot of the stairs, leading towards the Great Hall, but before he could go any further he was accosted by a figure in a flowing black cape; their hair and most of their face obscured by a matching, deep hood.

“Harry, I’ve been looking for you.”

Harry recognised the soft, husky voice of Narcissa Malfoy.

“Narcissa,” Harry responded coolly, “I wouldn’t advise you to go wandering about. There are too many people around who might just bare a grudge. You and Draco, and particularly Lucius, should get away as soon as you can. There will be plenty of time to build bridges when everyone has calmed down a little and the grief isn’t so raw. At least, there is if that’s what you want.”

“Yes, yes,” Narcissa replied hastily, throwing back her hood to reveal her long blond hair and the sharp beauty of her features. “We will go soon enough, but first, I wanted to thank you for saving Draco. He has told me everything that happened and how you rescued him after what that stupid boy Crabbe did in the Room of Requirement.”

“Well, if I saved Draco, I hope that I won’t have cause to regret it,” Harry answered. “Anyway, I think that you’ve already repaid any debt that you might owe me. You could have betrayed me back there in the Forbidden Forest. It took a lot of courage to do what you did and I’ll make sure that people realise that.”

Narcissa smiled and Harry realised for the first time how similar her mouth and eyes were to those of Sirius.

“There was something else, as well,” she continued. “You and Miss Granger should be on your guard against any lingering enchantments that might still be attached to you.”

“Lingering enchantments?” Harry queried, looking puzzled. “What on earth does that mean?”

“The Dark Lord was very aware of how important Miss Granger was to you, Harry. Draco had made a point of emphasising that Dumbledore relied on her to balance your impetuous streak and we all knew that she is a talented and resourceful witch. It was also clear that the Dark Lord had some sort of connection with you. Over the last few years, he would complain of severe headaches and while he suffered he could often be heard muttering your name. But I got the impression that he also had other connections and the summer before last, he became very excited, almost joyful, claiming that he had found a way to reduce Miss Granger’s influence and possibly put an end to it altogether.”

Harry frowned, taking in what Narcissa was saying, without really understanding what it could mean.

“I don’t know any more than that,” Narcissa concluded, “and I have no definite proof that any enchantments were used by the Dark Lord or whether he devised some other means of separating you from Miss Granger. But I thought that you should know all the same. I would not wish for any harm to come to either of you. Not after what you did for Draco.”

“Why are you telling me this now?” Harry asked, perplexed.

“I already told you. You saved Draco and, anyway, I don’t think that it will be too wise to be your enemy in the future. Bellatrix was mad, you know. I may not have much regard for Muggles or Mudbloods but I’m not like her. I’ve only ever desired what was best for my family and now I want us to make a fresh start.”

The answer was delivered smoothly, without a flicker of emotion and Harry was immediately suspicious of her motives. However, he couldn’t detect any obvious hint of deceit in her manner and so he didn’t challenge her further.

Narcissa smiled again and reached out a slender, pale hand to brush Harry’s cheek gently.

“You are a good wizard, Harry Potter,” she murmured. “Don’t think too badly of Lucius and Draco. It wasn’t easy to stand up to the Dark Lord.”

“Severus seemed to manage it,” Harry answered with a dismissive shake of his head. “It just took courage, Narcissa.”

Narcissa’s smile faded.

“Just remember what I’ve told you,” she said as she turned and hurried back into the Great Hall to seek out her husband and son.

Harry stood in the hallway for a few minutes, trying to digest the implications of what Narcissa had told him but he couldn’t think of any enchantments that might have been used. He also couldn’t understand why Voldermort should have been so pleased when, in fact, he had clearly failed to drive Harry and Hermione apart. He contemplated going into the Great Hall, perhaps even sitting with Ginny for a while. People were still moving around between the long tables and there was a constant drone of voices as the survivors veered between despair at their losses and euphoria at their deliverance.

Harry realised that he didn’t want to be with people right now. He needed time to think about Narcissa’s advice and then, once he had a better idea of what might be involved, he would go and find Ron and Hermione. Harry turned and started back towards the stairs, following the familiar, shifting pathways that led to the Gryffindor Common Room. With luck, he thought, the fat lady would have fled and there would be no need for a password to gain entry.

However, he never got far enough to find out. His mind was racing as he made his way steadily upwards and, as he was ascending the final staircase, taking care to avoid the gaps and holes that opened up as he approached, an intriguing possibility suddenly occurred to him. With this realization, Harry immediately turned and hurriedly began to retrace his steps. He must find Horace Slugghorn.

4. Ron

The Elder Wand

Author’s note: an alternative reality story, taking all of the books into account.

Part 3. Ron

“Are you sure?” Ron said, as Dumbledore nodded. He looked longingly at the wand, imagining the power that it would give him and what he could do with it.

“I think Harry’s right,” said Hermione quietly.

Ron tried to maintain an indifferent look on his face as he heard Hermione’s words, but inwardly he was seething.

There it was again; Hermione’s disapproval. Why did she always have to side with Harry? Didn’t she realise that Harry was wrong this time? It was utter madness not to use the Elder Wand. Just think what they could do with it. No Dark Wizard would stand a chance against them. They could make the world safe; safe for all of his family. Nobody else needed to die like Fred or be maimed like George and Bill.

Not for the first time, where Hermione was concerned, Ron felt a sense of despair enveloping him. Couldn’t she see that he was the one who had always liked her? (Ron wouldn’t allow himself to even think the word ‘love’ let alone say it). Harry didn’t really care about her and never had done. Harry was in love with Ginny and hadn’t he told Ron just a few months ago that he thought of Hermione like a sister. He had assured Ron that Hermione was his friend; nothing more. What was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she see what was so obvious to everyone else? After all, she had finally kissed him, something that he had only been able to dream about during the past few years. That must mean something, surely.

Yet, when he needed her support, she wasn’t there for him. It was just like the Triwizard Tournament all over again. When he had fallen out with Harry, Hermione had chosen to devote herself to helping Harry to prepare for the first task and had hardly seemed to care about him at all. Then, in that horrible tent during the previous year, when he had become so frustrated with Harry that he had to get away, Hermione had refused to come with him, preferring to take her chance out in the wilderness. Whenever it came to a really important decision, Hermione always seemed to choose Harry. There had been many other occasions as well – less significant perhaps, but still hurtful. Those times when Harry and Hermione were closeted together, making plans, and he was left on the side line – a spare part; a gooseberry; like a little kid with his nosed pressed up against the window pane, trying to get a view of what the adults inside are doing. He could remember the time that Hermione was made a prefect at Hogwarts and she was so excited about sharing her duties with Harry; because she was so certain that Dumbledore couldn’t have failed to make Harry a prefect as well. The jubilant smile soon faded when she learned that it was Ron and not Harry who would be joining her. She had tried to hide her disappointment and surprise, but it was clear – there for all to see. It seemed to Ron that he had spent most of the last seven years living in Harry’s shadow. But Hermione was the one thing that Ron thought that he had been able to steal from Harry. Now, it seemed that even that small achievement was to be snatched away from him.

Things had begun to look so promising. Hermione had been impressed at how he had come up with the idea of using the Basilisk’s fang to destroy the Horcrux in the Hufflepuff cup. Ron had to admit that as ideas went, it was certainly one of his better ones. It also helped that Hermione had believed that he could imitate Parseltongue. He was surprised that she had accepted this so readily and he was certain that she would realise her error in time. Parseltongue was a gift and the sounds were completely alien to a normal wizard. Ron could no more imitate them than suddenly become an Animagus. The truth was that Hermione had been intent on making sure that they weren’t being followed and Ron had reached the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets ahead of her. He found that the enchantment on the door had been removed, probably by Voldemort himself to allow access by his minions. The two halves of the door were already cracked open when he approached and slid smoothly aside when he pushed. Coming up behind him, Hermione, who had been worrying about how they could force an entry during the whole of their descent, was incredulous and, when she challenged him, he found himself making up the lie on the spur of the moment. Now, he wished that he hadn’t, as it seemed too ridiculous a proposition, even to him, and he was certain that Harry must have realised it. Ron knew that his pathetic attempt at imitation couldn’t possibly have fooled Harry for one second. He had noted the questioning frown that had appeared on Harry’s forehead as Ron had made random hissing sounds at Hermione’s request and he had been relieved that Harry had obviously decided that it was not the time or place to challenge him about it.

Ron heard Harry let out a gentle sigh in response to Hermione’s agreement to his proposal about the Elder Wand. He glanced up at him and saw that Harry was looking gratefully at Hermione. She was staring at the floor, deep in thought. Nobody said anything for a long time and Ron glared at Dumbledore’s portrait imploringly; willing him to change his mind about the Elder Wand. But Dumbledore only smiled back at him and shook his head knowingly.

“Right, well now that’s decided, I’m going to check up on things,” Harry said eventually. “Are you two coming?”

“You go ahead,” Ron replied, controlling his rising temper with difficulty. “I just want to have a word with Hermione.”

Hermione, who had taken half a step forward, stopped, as she looked towards Ron, a puzzled expression on her face.

“You go on, we’ll catch up with you later,” she mumbled.

“OK, see you in a little while then,” Harry responded moodily and grabbing the Elder Wand, together with his own Holly wand, he quickly walked out of the headmaster’s study and noisily descended the spiral staircase.

“Thanks for your help,” Ron furiously challenged Hermione, as soon as he was certain that Harry was out of ear shot.

A few murmurs of disapproval emanated from the portraits surrounding them and, glancing at the walls, Ron turned and stormed from the room to get away from the reproachful gaze of the old headmasters. He paused on the stairs waiting for Hermione to catch up. Hermione followed him through the doorway looking confused.

“Ron, what is it? What’s the matter?”

“Oh, don’t pretend that you don’t know,” he rounded angrily on her. “Why do you always have to side with Harry? Is it too much to ask that just for once – just one time – you might take my side against him?”

“I don’t always side with Harry,” Hermione pleaded. “In case you haven’t noticed, he doesn’t take too much notice of what I say lately. Anyway Ron, Harry is right about the Elder Wand.”

“Right! I don’t think so. In fact, he couldn’t be more wrong. Just think what we could do with it. No Dark Wizard would have a chance against us.”

“Ron, this is crazy. You know the history of the wand. It has always brought its owner bad luck.”

“Oh, you’ve changed your tune, haven’t you? I thought that you didn’t believe in superstitions…in curses.”

“I don’t, but it’s just the way things are. Nobody can be on their guard all of the time. Look at Dumbledore; one of the greatest wizards who ever lived and even he couldn’t hold on to the Elder Wand. And who took it off of him? Draco Malfoy – hardly the most powerful adversary!”

“That’s just nonsense and you know it.” Ron was growing angrier. “Dumbledore was old and he had been weakened by that potion. Harry isn’t like that and neither am I.”

“Ron, now you’re scaring me. You don’t seriously want the wand for yourself?” Hermione said incredulously.

“Why not? Don’t you think that I’m good enough? I suppose that you don’t think that I’m as talented as the great Harry Potter?”

Hermione just shook her head, knowing that anything that she said might only make matters worse.

Ron stared at her coldly, his breathing deep and rapid.

After a few moments, he turned away.

“I’m going back downstairs,” he said sulkily, without looking back and quickly trotted down the spiral staircase before disappearing out into the corridor.

“Oh Ron,” Hermione sighed, looking after him but she didn’t follow immediately. Instead, she stood thoughtfully reviewing all that had just happened, before turning and going back into the headmaster’s study. She had decided that she needed to have another word with Dumbledore’s portrait before she left.

Meanwhile, Ron headed back along the same deserted and damaged corridors that Harry had passed along only a short time before and then descended the main stairs leading towards the Great Hall. He was angry and disconsolate and took little notice of his surroundings on the way. As he carelessly approached the doorway, he bumped into a startled Luna Lovegood coming in the opposite direction. Her long blond hair looked unkempt and one of her radish earrings was missing but her slightly protruding blue eyes were still bright and she smiled as she recognised Ron.

“Where are you going?” Ron blurted out, his anger still evident in his tone.

“Ron, what’s the matter? Are you OK?” Luna replied, a concerned expression spreading across her face.

Ron massaged his temples with the thumb and middle finger of his left hand in an effort to relax and ease a pounding headache that was starting to develop.

“Oh, sorry, I’ve just been having a bit of a bad time. I didn’t mean to snap at you,” he relented. “It might help if some of my friends didn’t treat me like a complete idiot all of the time.”

“I’m sure that they don’t Ron. Look, do you want to talk about it?” Luna gestured back inside.

Ron smiled. “No, I don’t think that would be very wise at the moment; perhaps another time. Anyway, I’ll ask again. Where are you going?”

“Well, people are starting to disperse now. Everyone is feeling exhausted. I’m not really of much use here, so, I thought that I might go and try to find my father. I haven’t heard from him for a long time and he didn’t turn up today. I’m a bit worried about him.”

“I hope that he’s OK.” Ron was genuinely concerned, knowing the anguish that Xenophilius Lovegood had been in the last time that they had met. “I’ll probably be heading back to the Burrow later on, so in a couple of days I might come over to see how you get on.”

Luna smiled, and squeezed Ron’s arm shyly. “That would be nice,” she said. There was an awkward silence and Ron felt that he should say something more, but his throat suddenly seemed dry and his mind had gone blank.

“See you soon then,” Luna finally offered and walked towards the main door of the castle, turning to wave just before she disappeared from sight.

Ron watched her leave, feeling strangely sorry to see her go, and then turned and entered the Great Hall. There were far fewer people in there now. Isolated groups were still scattered around, talking animatedly or sitting stunned and silent and as Ron looked around, several people got up wearily and started towards the exit. He saw that his mother was still sitting at the end of one of the long tables about half way down the room, together with Ginny, George and Percy. Ron moved over to join them.

“Hello, how are you all?” Ron asked.

“Oh, there you are Ron,” Molly replied quietly. It was clearly evident from the puffiness under her eyes that she had been crying recently. “What have you been up to?”

“Nothing much,” Ron replied with a shrug. “I’m just feeling really tired,” he said slumping down into the chair next to Percy. “Where’s Dad?”

“He’s already gone back to the Ministry,” Molly responded. “They have to make sure that what we’ve started here is carried through and that all of Voldemort’s supporters are ousted. This isn’t over yet, you know. Not by a long way.”

They all sat in silence for a little while engrossed in their own thoughts. Ginny, who could hardly keep her eyes open, reached out to rub her mother’s hand comfortingly.

“So, what are you all going to do now?” Ron asked eventually.

Molly looked down at the polished wooden surface of the table, unable to answer.

“We’re going to take Fred’s body back to the Burrow,” Percy replied. “We need to make arrangements for the funeral.”

The silence grew even heavier and none of the Weasleys noticed Hermione coming in through the entrance and gingerly approaching their table.

“Hello,” she said tentatively. “Mrs. Weasley, I’m so sorry about Fred.”

“Thank you dear,” Molly answered wearily. “Sit down. You look worn out.”

Hermione took the chair opposite Ron, who was pointedly refusing to look at her.

“Where’s Harry?” Ginny asked her, suddenly perking up.

“I don’t know. He said that he was coming down here.”

“You know Harry,” Molly said, managing a strained smile, “he’ll have been side tracked by something or someone.”

“We’re going to take Fred back to the Burrow now,” Ron muttered. “Are you coming?”

He finally looked up at Hermione as he asked the question and his expression was challenging – daring her to refuse.

“Oh, I hadn’t really thought.” Hermione was flustered. “Perhaps, I’ll join you later. I had better see if Harry needs any help first,” she finished weakly.

Ginny looked up at her sharply, a frown forming, but didn’t say anything.

“There’s a surprise. I didn’t see that coming,” Ron hissed sarcastically.

“Don’t be rude Ron,” Molly chastised him. “What on earth is the matter with you?”

“Oh, nothing Mum. I’ve been stupid, but that’s all over now,” Ron retorted, staring directly at Hermione. “If anyone wants me, I’ll be just outside.” With a final angry glare at Hermione, he pushed back his chair noisily and stalked out of the Great Hall.

5. Slughorn

The Elder Wand

Author’s note: Sorry for the mix up on Ch 2, which didn’t load the first time that I tried. I hope that it doesn’t put too many of you off.

Part 4. Slughorn

As he had expected, Harry found Horace Slughorn hiding away in the Potion Master’s office. The office looked much as Harry remembered it from his sixth year at Hogwarts, appearing more like a cosy sitting room than a place of work –a far cry from its appearance when Severus Snape was in occupation. Almost every inch of the walls was covered by Slughorn’s trophies – photographs of him with various celebrities and other former students. Harry was disturbed to notice that pride of place, above the fireplace on the far wall, went to a picture of Harry and Slughorn together. He also saw a picture of Slughorn with Hermione close by. In the picture, Hermione was smiling and looking radiant, a far cry from the care worn girl who Harry had left only a few moments before. He couldn’t help reflecting that Hermione’s suffering during the whole business with Voldemort had been almost as great as his own; another bond between them.

Slughorn’s comfortable winged armchair still occupied the centre of the room, facing the fireplace but positioned at a slight angle. It was surrounded by smaller straight-backed, upholstered chairs, where his favoured students would perch during their meetings. Against a wall, to one side, was a dark wooden desk. A few papers were strewn carelessly across the surface and perched on one corner Harry could see an open metal tin, lined with waxed paper, containing a bright yellow confection, which he supposed was crystallised pineapple, a particular favourite of the Professor.

Slughorn was slumped in his armchair, staring blankly at a roaring fire and evidently oblivious to the figure now standing in the doorway. He was still dressed in the ridiculous bright green pyjamas and maroon dressing gown that he had worn during the fighting that had taken place. The dressing gown had clearly once been quite stylish with a shiny velvet collar and cuffs, but was now becoming threadbare in several places. Slughhorn’s bald head looked even more like a creased, pink egg than usual and the sparse semi-circle of wispy grey hair that stretched from ear to ear was sticking out in all directions. His face was flushed, he was perspiring and he was in the process of imbibing a steaming, yellow potion from a glass beaker, presumably in an attempt to calm his apparently shaken nerves.

Although Harry could only guess at his emotions, inwardly Slughorn was almost in a state of shock. He had always attempted to “collect” future heroes as his acquaintances but he had never harboured any desire for personal heroism. The thought of himself standing toe to toe in battle with Voldemort, albeit in conjunction with Professor McGonagall and Kingsley Shacklebolt, now that the desperation of the moment had faded, left him feeling so nauseous that he could almost vomit.

“Professor…”

The sound of Harry’s voice seemed to startle Slughorn and the glass beaker rattled briefly against his teeth before he set it unsteadily down on a small occasional table next to his armchair and glanced up towards the sound.

“H-..Harry,” Slughorn stammered, composing himself. “There’s no need to be so formal. You’re not a student now you know. Please call me Horace.” He was almost babbling and Harry could sense his unease.

Harry attempted to form the sound of his old Professor’s first name but the idea of addressing this rather pompous elderly man in such a familiar fashion seemed to defeat him.

“I think that I would rather stick to Professor Slughorn, if you don’t mind,” he muttered in embarrassment.

“As you wish, dear boy. As you wish,” Slughorn now exuded an air of forced joviality, “but what on earth can I do for you?”

Harry said nothing for a while, gathering his thoughts, before beginning to speak in a serious, questioning voice.

“Why did Tom Riddle come specifically to you to ask about Horcruxes?” he asked.

Slughorn was visibly shaken by the question and his thick, silvery moustache seemed to droop but he struggled to regain his composure quickly.

“What a strange question to be asking at a time like this,” he stalled, a false smile beginning to form. “Well, I suppose that it was because I was his Head of House. Who else was he likely to turn to?”

Harry was prepared for Slughorn to be evasive. He had been rehearsing his approach since he had the sudden epiphany just before he had reached the Gryffindor Common Room and he thought that he already knew the true answer to his question.

“You’ve always sought to form friendships with those of your students that you perceive might achieve great things, haven’t you?” Harry said thoughtfully. “I suppose that being associated with such people, even perhaps after your death, could be considered to be a form of immortality, couldn’t it?”

Slughorn just stared at him, wide-eyed, horrified at the direction that the conversation was taking, and made no attempt to reply.

“I’m willing to bet that when you were younger, mortality might have been a concept that troubled you quite a bit,” Harry continued in the same measured tone.

“What you are suggesting is quite preposterous…” Slughorn finally managed to bluster.

“You know the symbol for the Deathly Hallows, don’t you; a circle, divided by a line, nestling inside of a triangle?” Harry appeared not to have heard Slughorn’s attempted interruption. “Well, there’s a symbol for a Horcrux as well isn’t there?”

Slughorn sank back into his chair looking defeated.

“Horcruxes represent one of the most extreme examples of Dark Magic and so they are mostly of interest to those who practice the Dark Arts – pureblood families like the Blacks,” Harry reasoned. “The last time that I was at Grimmauld Place, I found an interesting photograph. It had been taken in the family library and showed Sirius and Regulus as young boys. Sirius was waving a thick, ancient-looking book gleefully at Regulus, who was cowering and appeared to be frightened – a typical picture of an older sibling teasing a younger one with a scary story. There was a symbol embossed on the spine of the book – a square sitting inside of a circle with its four corners touching the circumference. The square was bisected by a jagged line. That’s the symbol for a Horcrux isn’t it?”

It was clear that this was a rhetorical question but Slughorn couldn’t help nodding weakly in agreement as Harry continued speaking.

“I looked everywhere in the library for that book, but I couldn’t find it, although I was sure that I had seen that symbol somewhere before. With everything that has happened since, it went completely out of my mind. Then, just a few moments ago, I suddenly remembered where I had seen it. It was in the memory of your meeting with Tom Riddle. A book exactly like the one in the photograph was sitting in a pile on your desk. I remember that my attention was drawn to it because it was on the very top of the pile and it looked as if it might topple off at any second. I think that Tom Riddle must have seen that book sometime when he was visiting your office and that is why he sought you out.” Harry paused, looking directly into Slughorn’s watery eyes. “You’ve made quite a study of Horcruxes, haven’t you Professor? You are a bit more of an expert than you like to make out. In fact, you probably know as much about Horcruxes as anyone alive, don’t you?”

Slughorn leaned forward, his face becoming suddenly animated.

“Things aren’t what they seem, Harry. You must realise that I never had any intention of making a Horcrux in the conventional sense,” he gabbled. “I just wanted to understand the process better; to see if it might be possible to overcome mortality without taking anyone’s life. My study was all perfectly innocent, I can assure you.”

“Look Professor, I’m not interested in what you’ve done in the past or in your motives,” Harry reassured the worried older man. “I just want to pick your brains because there are many things about Horcruxes that I don’t really understand and they could be important.”

Slughorn appeared to relax slightly and his expression became calmer.

“I’ll be happy to help if I can. Ask me anything, anything at all,” he enthused desperately.

“Well, for a start,” Harry began, “Voldemort made Horcruxes to gain immortality and yet, after his own Avada Kedavra curse rebounded on him that night at Godric’s Hollow, he endured a virtual non-existence for over 12 years and even then he needed a great deal of help and some powerful magic to get a proper body back. Is that really how a Horcrux is meant to work, because if it is, then I am not sure why anyone would take the risk involved of being left in some sort of limbo?”

Slughorn visibly brightened at the seemingly benign topic that was of interest to Harry.

“That’s a very intelligent observation Harry but you must remember that Voldemort’s example is far from typical.”

He brought his hands together in front of him, in a thoughtful pose, and proceeded in his most scholarly manner.

“When a wizard or witch dies, their soul becomes irretrievably separated from their body. Now, normally this is a fairly passive and gradual process. However, if they are murdered or perhaps involved in a violent accident, the soul can literally be ripped from the body and in this process a great deal of corporeal energy is released – there is actually a mathematical formula that relates the amount of energy released to the violence of the assault involved. If they know the appropriate Dark Magic, a murderer can use this energy to split their own soul and encase the unattached half in some inanimate object as a Horcrux.”

Slughorn paused briefly, as if checking that Harry was able to follow what he was saying.

“The important point is that if something happens that would normally result in the death of the originator, then they can’t die because their soul cannot be fully separated from the body since an external link to the Horcrux still remains. A rudimentary life form is left behind, just like Voldemort when you first met him, and if it can attach itself to a less powerful living wizard, it can force their soul to leave and take over their life force; a very unpleasant experience for the wizard concerned.”

“But when Voldemort joined with Quirrel, he was able to control him but he didn’t use him to regain his own body, did he?” Harry interrupted.

“Well, it was never intended that anyone should attempt to split their soul more than once. Voldemort had made his soul so unstable that he probably found that he couldn’t use this option to regain his body any longer and that must have frustrated and angered him greatly.”

Slughorn was silent for a short time, but then he appeared to be compelled by conceit to reveal more of his knowledge.

“There is another way in which the originator of a Horcrux can regain their body. If something happens that would have normally resulted in their death, then the Horcrux becomes activated and the part of the sole that resides in it can also then take over another individual if it can form a close emotional bond with them. Under those circumstances, the wizard will take on the form that they had at the time that the Horcrux was made. This is very unusual, however, as the Horcrux will generally be hidden away somewhere for safekeeping and is therefore unlikely to gain sufficient proximity to a suitable donor.”

“Is that what almost happened to Ginny?” Harry asked suddenly.

Slughorn looked surprised. He hadn’t expected any comment from Harry and he had no idea what he was referring to. His mouth opened and closed with no sound emerging. Harry noted his discomfiture and quickly added some further explanation.

“Voldemort’s first Horcrux – the one that he made soon after that conversation with you – took the form of a diary. Dumbledore thought that was unusual as it seemed as if Voldemort wanted it to be found so that everyone would recognise that he was Slytherin’s heir because the Chamber of Secrets had been opened again. He supposed that since Voldemort had already decided to make six Horcruxes he wasn’t too concerned about the risk involved. Anyway, Lucius Malfoy made a major error of judgement and passed the diary, which Voldemort had left in his safe keeping, on to Ginny Weasley. Tom Riddle came to possess her through it and was on the point of resurrecting himself when I discovered them and managed to destroy the Horcrux.”

“Well, that’s amazing.” Slughorn seemed to be horrified by what he had just heard. “I never realised that. If Riddle had succeeded then what remained of Voldemort would have been absorbed and there would have been no need for him to try such desperate measures as he eventually had to take. He would have never taken in your mother’s blood protection and would probably have been able to kill you. What an awful prospect!”

“But if things were too unstable for Voldemort to take over Quirrel,” Harry pondered, “how could the Horcrux have almost been able to take over Ginny?”

Slughorn scratched his ear and his forehead creased in concentration.

“That’s a tricky one, but I can hazard a guess. As I mentioned, it was only ever intended that a wizard should make one Horcrux and so the magic involved simply divides the soul into two. Just because Voldemort had decided that he wanted extra insurance doesn’t mean that he could divide his soul into seven equal parts. The first Horcrux would contain 50% of his soul, the second 25% and so on. That is why Voldemort gradually began to look less and less human as he continued to divide his soul; he had so little of it left within his body. So, I suppose that it was only when the second Horcrux was made that things started to deteriorate. That first Horcrux was probably perfectly stable and would have been activated as soon as Voldemort was hit by the Avada Kedavra curse at Godric’s Hollow. After that, it would just have been waiting for someone to open the diary and start to use it.”

Harry and Slughorn remained silent for a while as they both contemplated the implications of this new piece of conjecture.

“There’s something that I still don’t understand,” Harry eventually said, a puzzled expression on his face. “Voldemort accidentally turned me into a Horcrux and there was a connection between us that we could both sense, but there didn’t seem to be any connection between Voldemort and the other Horcruxes. He didn’t notice when one of them was destroyed, for example. Why was that?”

“Another interesting question, Harry and I can only guess at the answer,” Slughorn replied. “I think that it is just the difference between an animate and an inanimate object. One can establish a mental connection with the former but not the latter. But don’t run away with the idea that the originator isn’t connected to their Horcruxes because they almost certainly are. It is just that the connection does not usually reach a conscious level.”

“But once the diary was destroyed, there wouldn’t be any lingering connection with Ginny, would there?” Harry asked, thinking of what Narcissa Malfoy had said to him.

“I doubt it, but if, as you say, she was nearly completely taken over, then I suppose that some link might still linger on and feed back to the originator, but obviously that will have disappeared now that Voldemort is gone.”

“But if such a link did exist, would Voldemort have been aware of it?”

“Well, it’s possible, but only if he came into close contact with Ginny at a time when she was in a highly emotional state. Why? Might that be significant?”

“I’m not sure. I just need to think about it.”

Harry stood, looking down at his feet, a frown creasing his forehead. Slughorn heaved himself out of his armchair and walked across to put a consoling hand on Harry’s shoulder. His breathing was heavy but he seemed much calmer than he had been when Harry entered. Harry raised his head and smiled reassuringly at him.

“Thank you Professor. You’ve been very helpful.”

He squeezed the older man’s hand and then turned and walked through the open door, leaving Slughorn staring after him with a concerned and thoughtful expression on his face.

Harry didn’t go far before he stopped and leaned back against the wall, his hands pushed deep into his pockets. He closed his eyes and tried to think. He knew that Voldemort had been able to use their connection to deceive him when he had conjured up the image of Sirius being tortured in the Department of Mysteries. Was it possible that he had fooled him again and toyed with Harry’s emotions to try to separate him from Hermione? That same ill-fated trip to the Ministry had also brought Ginny and Voldemort into reasonably close contact. Could a tenuous link, still surviving from her possession by Tom Riddle, have come to Voldemort’s attention at that time and if so, had he used it to manipulate Ginny’s behaviour? Ginny had certainly seemed far more confident and self-assured when she returned to school the following year.

Harry knew that he definitely felt different now that Voldemort was gone; he could think of Ginny without the excited pounding in his chest that he had experienced over the past two years. Would Ginny’s passion also have cooled when he was finally alone with her again?

6. A change of plan

The Elder Wand

Author’s note: an alternative reality story, taking all of the books into account.

Part 5. A change of plan

As soon as he had managed to gather his thoughts, Harry decided to put the concerns about Ginny, raised by his conversations with Narcissa Malfoy and Professor Slughorn, to the test straight away. He therefore somewhat hesitantly, almost fearfully, made his way back towards the Great Hall, worrying about what he should say and what he might discover.

Harry’s footsteps resonated on the stone floor as he crossed the threshold of the hall. An eerie silence surrounded him, making him suddenly aware of the vastness of the space, the ceiling a blur far above his head – a very dark blue with innumerable tiny sparks of bright white light at this time of the night. The Great Hall appeared to be deserted, apart from one lone figure. A girl was seated near the centre of a table in the middle of the Gryffindor row. She was leaning forward with her head cradled on arms that were crossed in front of her. Long, wavy brown hair fanned out across the polished, wooden surface of the table top and she appeared to be asleep. Harry recognised almost instantly that it was Hermione.

Harry crept closer, trying to make as little noise as possible. He got as far as the end of the table, looking for signs of movement from the apparently slumbering form but as Hermione didn’t stir he turned, intending to retreat and leave her in peace. Unfortunately, Harry’s foot snagged on a leg of the nearest chair, dragging it across the stone behind him with a high pitched screech. Hermione immediately sat upright, staring in the direction of the noise. Her cheeks were red and her eyes were bloodshot. It was easy for Harry to discern that she had been crying. Although he could only guess at the reason, he wasn’t at all surprised or worried; it had been an emotional night for everyone.

“Harry, where have you been?” she mumbled.

“Nowhere in particular,” Harry answered evasively, disentangling his leg as nonchalantly as possible and moving quickly along to where Hermione was seated. “Where is everyone?” he asked as he sat down next to her, pointedly looking around the empty room to give added emphasis to his question.

“Oh, most of the parents have taken their children home. I suppose that the few that are left have gone up to the dormitories.” Hermione suppressed a yawn.

“Where’s Ron and the rest of the Weasleys?”

“They’ve taken Fred’s body back to the Burrow.”

“Why didn’t you go with them?”

“I thought that I should wait… to see if you needed any help. What are you planning to do now anyway?”

Harry hesitated. He had only really been thinking about the need to confront Ginny.

“Well, first, I am going to put the Elder Wand safely back in Dumbledore’s tomb,” he quickly improvised, “and then I suppose I’ll make my way to the Burrow. I need to see Ginny.”

“Hmm...” Hermione looked away, suddenly appearing to take a great interest in the colourful house banners that adorned the wall above the teachers’ table at the far end of the hall. The bold scarlet of Gryffindor, the tranquil blue of Ravenclaw, the bright yellow of Huffelpuff and the deep green of Slytherin; the latter the only colour that would have remained if Voldemort had prevailed and completed his plans for the school. As she dwelt on Harry’s words and their implication, Hermione’s vision glazed and the strong colours of the banners and the grey stone of the intervening wall merged to form a single, blurry striped mural as she miserably thought, “He needs Ginny. He doesn’t need me anymore. I can’t stay here like this. I really have to get away as soon as things are sorted.”

“Why don’t you come with me? Ron could probably do with your support at the moment.” Harry’s voice suddenly penetrated Hermione’s consciousness.

“I don’t think so. I’m probably the last person that Ron wants to see right now,” she blurted out, without thinking.

“Oh Hermione, you and Ron haven’t been rowing again, have you?” Harry sighed in exasperation but he was ashamed to realise that, as he posed the question, he felt just a small tinge of hope rising in his chest. It was becoming more and more obvious to him that he disliked the idea of losing Hermione.

Hermione shook her head looking even more distraught, if possible.

“I don’t think that Ron and I are ever going to agree on anything important. He thinks that you are wrong not to use the Elder Wand.”

“But, what about you?” Harry asked quickly, a slight note of panic in his voice. “You still agree with me, don’t you?”

“Well Harry, I’ve been thinking…” Hermione began tentatively.

“Oh, I don’t believe it,” Harry interrupted, his voice rising dangerously. ”Not you as well! Surely, you can see how stupid it would be to use the Elder Wand. Dumbledore agrees. You saw him nodding.”

“If you would just let me finish,” Hermione said crossly. “I’m not saying that you should use the wand, I’m just not sure that hiding it away in the hope that you meet a natural death is a particularly good idea. Let’s face it, there will always be dark wizards about and you will always be Harry Potter, the man who defeated Voldemort. Whether you like it or not, you are a marked man Harry and so I don’t think that relying on you meeting a natural death is the wisest choice to make. If – and obviously I hope that nothing will ever happen – but if anything was to happen to you, the Elder Wand could fall into the wrong hands and Merlin knows what we might be faced with then. No, we need to find some other way of putting an end to its power; and incidentally, for your information, Dumbledore agrees with me about the danger of letting the wand lie dormant. I spoke to him about it after you had left the Headmaster’s study.”

Harry glared at Hermione for a few moments, before his gaze softened and he sighed, looking down at his hands, resting on the table in front of him.

“Thanks for that,” he said with heavy irony. “I’m glad that you and Dumbledore have such high hopes for my survival.”

“It’s not like that Harry. You know that I would do anything to keep you alive, but we have to be realistic. The stakes are just too high for anything else,” Hermione pleaded.

Harry shook his head, sighing even more deeply, and his shoulders slumped in defeat.

“I suppose that you’re right but what do we do then; destroy the wand?”

“I’m not sure that will even be possible,” Hermione confessed.

“What? You don’t believe that the Hallows really were presented to the Peverell brothers by Death, do you?” Harry asked incredulously. “Dumbledore thought that the brothers probably created them themselves. He told me so.”

“Of course I don’t, but they are very strange and unique objects. Who knows what magic resides in them? Look at how the Elder Wand was able to repair your broken wand when nothing else could. It might be that the Elder Wand is linked to its owner in ways that we can’t begin to imagine. Trying to destroy it might hurt you in some way; perhaps even kill you.”

They settled into a gloomy silence, both trying to think of something reassuring to say.

“So what are we going to do?” Harry eventually repeated.

“I don’t know. We have to find some acceptable way of destroying or deactivating the wand,” Hermione was at her most thoughtful. “I’ve never really had the time to research the Deathly Hallows much. I suppose that if you’re going off to the Burrow tomorrow, I could spend some time in the library here to see if I can dig up any clues.”

Harry considered this proposition moodily for a few moments, before suddenly brightening as an idea occurred to him.

“Look Hermione, you’ve got to come to the Burrow with me, regardless of what is going on between you and Ron. We don’t know when Fred’s funeral will be and you can’t miss it. In any event, who did we go to the last time that we had a question about the Deathly Hallows?”

Hermione frowned. “You mean Xenophilius Lovegood? But we don’t even know whether he survived that brush with the Death Eaters.”

“Well, the Lovegood’s old place was really close to the Burrow, so we can go over there and find out, can’t we? If Xenophilius is there, it will be as good a place to start as any.”

Hermione looked doubtful. Her frown deepened and she reached up casually to twirl a strand of her hair around one index finger, while Harry watched her with an air of eager anticipation.

“I suppose that we could,” Hermione eventually admitted. ”Although, I doubt that it will do much good. The Lovegoods have such extreme views about everything that I can’t imagine that Xenophilius will come up with anything worthwhile, even if we can find him.”

“Well, what harm can it do?” Harry replied brightly. “At the most, we’ll lose a couple of days and hopefully I can survive for that long, even if I keep the Elder Wand with me.”

Hermione couldn’t help smiling at his enthusiasm and the thought of spending a bit more time with Harry wasn’t something that she found in the least bit displeasing.

Having determined on a course of action, they both decided that they needed to get some rest before they could set off for the Burrow. Hermione summoned one of the Hogwarts’ post owls – they had mostly remained in the Owlery, safe from the fighting – and Harry sent a message to Ron telling him that they would arrive the next day. With that bit of business taken care of, the two of them agreed that there should be plenty of room to sleep in the Gryffindor dormitories and left the Great Hall together in a much more hopeful mood.

The castle was completely silent and their footsteps echoed off stone and wood as they made their way along corridors and up flights of stairs, their fused shadows, cast by the myriad of burning torches that lined the walls, drifting ahead of them. They continued their conversation making plans for the next day and wondering, as Harry had wondered earlier, whether the Fat Lady would have fled leaving the entrance to the Gryffindor common room unguarded.

Unfortunately, when they reached the portrait hole, the Fat Lady was in residence, her clothes slightly rumpled and her hair untidy but otherwise looking as haughty and disinterested as ever.

“Password,” she demanded, her nose in the air, not even glancing in their direction.

“Sorry, we don’t know it,” Hermione replied sheepishly.

The Fat Lady glanced down at them dismissively. “Well, in that case you can’t come in. How do I know that you are true Gryffindors?”

“Oh, don’t be so ridiculous,” Harry responded irritably. “You know both of us very well. This is Hermione Granger and I’m Harry Potter and considering that we have just been disposing of Voldemort – a fact that you are obviously well aware of – I don’t think that there can be any doubt that we are true Gryffindors. Do you?”

The Fat Lady pursed her lips and raised one index finger to her plump cheek in a gesture that suggested that she was carefully considering extremely important and complex matters.

“Oh, I suppose that you had better come in then, but don’t think that you can make a habit of it,” she eventually said, conveying as much reluctance as she could muster. The portrait swung to one side and Harry and Hermione tumbled into the Gryffindor common room, giggling together.

The common room was deserted, any students who still remained having long since headed up to the dormitories. Harry and Hermione were pleased to see that not much had changed over the previous year. The round room was just as welcoming with its assortment of squashy armchairs dotted about and a roaring log fire casting dancing shadows on the curved walls. Hermione conjured up two steaming mugs of hot chocolate and they sat on opposite sides of the fireplace sipping the warm, sweet liquid while they reminisced about happier times that they had spent at the school. Although they made no conscious agreement, they both avoided the topic of relationships and neither Ron nor Ginny was mentioned. They chuckled as they talked about the way that Hermione had set fire to Professor Snape’s robes when she mistakenly believed that he was threatening Harry during the Quidditch match against Slytherin in their first year and recalled how they had both been put in detention after aiding the escape of Norbert the Norwegian Ridgeback dragon, which Hagrid had foolishly tried to keep as a pet. They laughed at the memory of their first attempt to use Polyjuice Potion and Harry became so animated that he blew chocolate down his nose when he tried to describe Hermione peering from the toilet cubicle in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom with the black fur and yellow eyes of Millicent Bulstrode’s cat. They smiled at the thought of Hagrid’s unconventional teaching methods when instructing them in the Care of Magical Creatures, remembering how difficult it had been to handle the biting Monster Book of Monsters. This reminiscence brought them inevitably onto the topic of Buckbeak and their night ride to rescue Sirius. The memory was a particular favourite of Hermione’s and she was able to recall even the tiniest detail with great relish. As she talked, Harry was surprised to find that the recollection of Hermione’s arms clasped tightly around his waist, while the soft curls of her hair tickled his neck, caused feelings to stir within him that were definitely far from brotherly and he gazed dreamily into the fire, imagining that its heat was the warmth of her body pressing against him. Only when they got onto the subject of their fourth year at Hogwarts did they fall silent. The memories were too recent and too painful.

As Harry slurped the last mouthful of his drink, he yawned loudly.

“If I don’t get to bed soon, I’m going to fall asleep here.”

“Well, we should head up to the dormitories. There will be plenty of empty beds. Probably your old bed will be free,” Hermione replied almost as sleepily.

In unison, they pushed themselves out of the cosy embrace of their armchairs and made their way towards the point where the stairways to the girl’s and boy’s dormitories diverged. They stopped briefly and hugged in a drowsy, friendly fashion.

“Good night Hermione,” Harry mumbled.

“Good night Harry. Sleep well,” Hermione whispered in Harry’s ear, before loosening her embrace.

Harry turned and started to make his way slowly up the boy’s staircase, while Hermione busied herself using her wand, out of habit, to tidy up any remaining signs of their presence. After a few steps, Harry turned and looked down affectionately at her.

“Thanks,” he said.

Hermione, who was just in the process of removing a chocolate stain that she had just noticed on the carpet next to Harry’s armchair, looked up in surprise.

“What? What for?”

“Oh, for everything really,” Harry replied, smiling. “I don’t know how I would have managed without you.”

He blew Hermione a kiss and then turned and continued up the stairs, leaving her standing dazed at the bottom, her eyes glistening, wondering why she always seemed to be so tearful lately.

7. Xenophilius Lovegood

The Elder Wand

Author’s note: thanks to all of you who have posted reviews and for those who are just reading along, let me know what you think. All comments are useful.

Part 6. Xenophilius Lovegood

The next morning, Harry and Hermione made their way, more in hope than expectation, down to the Great Hall. They were delighted to find that the Hogwart’s kitchen elves were obviously not to be deterred by any amount of fighting and disruption and that the tables in the Great Hall were filled, as usual, with all of the paraphernalia associated with a good, hearty breakfast. There were only a few other students dotted around, generally sitting in small, huddled groups, looking tired and apprehensive. The teacher’s table, at the top of the hall, was deserted at present, much to Harry and Hermione’s relief. They were keen to get to the Burrow as quickly as possible and didn’t wish to be delayed by bumping into Professor McGonagall or Hagrid, or perhaps even Professor Slughorn, who might want to pry into their plans. They therefore just grabbed their normal breakfast fare – two sausages, three rashers of bacon and a fried egg sandwiched between two thick slices of crusty white bread for Harry; a low-fat yoghurt, a pain au chocolat and some fruit for Hermione – and headed back up to the Gryffindor common room to consume the food. Once they had finished, Hermione threw a few essential items – mostly books – into her travelling bag and they took a leisurely stroll into Hogsmeade. There, holding hands in front of the Three Broomsticks, they disapparated to the Burrow.

They appeared in the front garden of the Burrow just as Ron was closing the front door behind him. A surprised look momentarily transformed Ron’s expression before he quickly replaced it with a scowl directed in their general direction.

“I didn’t expect you to arrive so early. I’m just on my way out.”

This information was conveyed grudgingly and Harry formed the distinct impression that Ron had been intending to be away from the Burrow long before they arrived.

“Well, it’s lucky that we caught you then,” Harry said in a falsely cheerful voice. Hermione surveyed the upstairs windows, deliberately keeping her gaze away from Ron.

“Mum, Percy and George have already gone out to see about arranging Fred’s funeral, Dad’s at work and Ginny isn’t feeling well – she’s upstairs in bed,” Ron volunteered, appearing to try to end the conversation so that he could continue on his way.

“Oh… and where are you going?” Harry asked, unwilling to let Ron off of the hook so easily.

Ron looked down at the ground and remained silent for a few moments before reluctantly mumbling, “I told Luna that I might look in to see how Xenophilius is doing. I bumped into her just before we left Hogwarts.”

Harry knew that he should really check on Ginny but this seemed like too good an opportunity to miss.

“Hermione and I were only talking about Xenophilius last night. We never did find out what happened to him. Do you mind if we join you?”

“If you like,” Ron’s frown deepened and he finally looked directly at Hermione. “Are you sure that you want to come along?”

“Yes Ron,” Hermione replied despairingly, “let’s not fall out at a time like this, please.”

Harry looked quizzically at Ron, raising his eyebrows. “How about it, mate?” he asked.

Ron made a point of shaking his head in apparent frustration before conceding with a shrug, “I suppose so, but I still think that you’re both wrong about the Elder Wand.”

Ron disapparated without another word, leaving Harry and Hermione staring at the blank space where he had just been. They could only hope that he was going to the hill overlooking the Lovegood’s property that they had stood on just a short time before. Harry shrugged his shoulders, glancing at Hermione with a resigned expression on his face. Hermione looked upset by Ron’s reaction but gave Harry a weak smile. She reached out and clasped his hand and they disapparated together.

When they arrived, Ron was already striding down the hill and, after taking a quick look around to assess the situation, the pair headed off after him. The Lovegood’s house sat at the bottom of a deep valley surrounded by hills. A small stream ran along the bottom of the valley floor, skirting behind the house at a slightly lower level and partially hidden from view by clumps of trees that were dotted along its bank. The house that they had previously visited had been a tall black cylinder, with a ghostly moon hanging behind it, which Ron had described as looking like a chess rook. Now, they could see that only the ground floor of the building was still intact, as a result of the explosion caused when Xenophilius’ own stunning spell had hit the Erumpent Horn that had been mounted on an upstairs wall. The spiral staircase could still be seen protruding upwards, amidst the remnants of the ruined upper walls, surrounded by a haphazard framework of metal scaffolding that had apparently been hastily assembled to support the crumbling structure. A plume of grey smoke was rising into the air somewhere to the back of the ruin.

It had rained heavily in the area the previous day and the ground underfoot became progressively boggier as they descended the hill, until their shoes were sinking well into the mud, with a disconcerting squelch, at each step. The broken down wooden gate that marked the entrance to the property was still standing and its rusting hinges squealed loudly as they opened it and walked up the overgrown zigzagging path that lead to the iron studded, heavy, black front door. The two ancient bent crab-apple trees still framed the doorway, although their tips had been singed by the explosion and fresh shoots were just starting to appear at their crowns. Ron reached the door first, with Harry close behind, and rapped heavily on it three times with the eagle shaped knocker. Hermione, picking her way carefully over the jagged edges of the stones that formed the path, joined them just as the last echoes of the sound were fading away somewhere inside. They waited expectantly for a few minutes before Ron knocked again, harder this time, and they were finally rewarded with a muffled angry response from inside.

“All right, I heard you! Show a bit of patience, can’t you?”

They recognised the voice as that of Xenophilius Lovegood, but it was accompanied by a strange squeaking sound that grew louder as something approached the entrance from the other side. The door slowly creaked open a fraction and the three of them found that they were staring at empty space where they expected Xenophilius’ face to be.

“Oh! Wh…what do y…you want?” stammered Xenophilius’ voice, its pitch noticeably higher and sounding slightly frightened. “I’m sorry for what happened. They had Luna. I couldn’t do anything else.”

The three of them directed their gaze downward towards the sound and found themselves looking at the familiar fluffy, long white hair and slightly cross-eyed glare of Xenophilius Lovegood. As he pulled the door further open, they could see that he was sitting uncomfortably in a wheelchair, one arm and one leg, swathed in stained, cream-coloured bandages, sticking out at odd angles. The arm, bent at the elbow, was held at the level of his shoulder on a raised arm rest, while the leg was supported in a metal brace and was positioned horizontally straight in front of him. His chair was turned so that his good arm and leg faced the door, causing him to swivel awkwardly at the waist in order to look at his visitors.

“It’s OK Mr. Lovegood,” Harry quickly reassured the older man. “We haven’t come seeking revenge. We understand why you did it.”

Ron’s scowl, however, wasn’t so reassuring.

“Where’s Luna?” he asked gruffly.

“Eh, she’s down at the stream, fishing for Freshwater Plimpies,” Xenophilius answered hesitantly, only too well aware of the irony of the situation. “It’s a favourite pastime of hers, honestly,” he added hurriedly.

“Well, if you don’t mind, I think that I’ll just check this time,” Ron pointedly remarked and he turned and stumped off towards the rear of the house.

“Could we come in to wait, Mr. Lovegood?” Hermione asked sweetly.

With evident reluctance, Xenophilius manoeuvred his wheelchair away from the front door so that Harry and Hermione could enter the peculiar circular kitchen, which had not changed much since their previous visit. If anything, it was a little more untidy and a few battered armchairs had been dragged in and scattered around – presumably as a result of the destruction of the upstairs combination living room and workplace – making the room extremely cramped. Harry closed the door behind them and Xenophilius gestured towards the armchairs, silently suggesting that they be seated. The three sat awkwardly without speaking for a long time until Harry couldn’t stand it any longer.

“It doesn’t look as if you came out of things too well,” he offered, gesturing towards Xenophilius’ injuries.

“This? It’s just an inconvenience that will soon heal. Things could have been much worse,” Xenophilius answered with a shrug. “I suppose that I should thank you for saving my Luna,” he added, after a prolonged pause, conveying little of the warmth that would be expected from such a declaration.

“Oh, think nothing of it,” Harry replied, trying to sound as friendly as possible. “After all, your information on the Deathly Hallows was a great help to us. They turned out to be very important in the battle against Voldemort.”

“Is that so? Did you by any chance find any of the Hallows?” Xenophilius asked with a hungry, ingratiating smile.

“Well, let’s just say that we have a very good idea where they are,” Harry replied evasively. “In fact, we’re trying to find out how they were made; what sort of magic was used.”

“Made? Made, did you say? Didn’t you listen to my tale? They were given to the three brothers as a forfeit by ‘Death’,” Xenophilius shouted incredulously.

“Now, that doesn’t seem very likely, does it?” Hermione interjected. “I mean, surely you don’t think that ‘Death’ is a person or an entity of some type?”

“I remember that Luna warned me about you, young lady,” Xenophilius responded patronisingly. “You don’t believe in anything that you haven’t experienced for yourself. No imagination.”

“We were told that the Peverell brothers were very talented wizards and made the Hallows,” Hermione continued, ignoring the criticism.

“Humph!” Xenophilius dismissed the notion with a frustrated wave of his hand. “Do you really think that three brothers, even if they had the talent, all decided to make three entirely separate and very different magical objects at the same time and that these objects lead indirectly to the premature death of two of them? How likely is that? No, the Hallows had a single creator and that creator was ‘Death’. That is why they are so mysterious and deadly. History teaches us that they have brought nothing but bad luck to their owners.”

Xenophilius had a covetous glint in his eye as he talked in such negative terms about the Deathly Hallows and it was clear that he was also under their spell and would love to possess them.

“Now, tell me more about how they were involved with Voldemort,” he asked breathlessly.

“Oh, I think that I can hear Luna coming,” Hermione said suddenly, jumping up. “Let’s go and meet her Harry.”

She bundled a startled Harry out through the door, throwing a hurried, “Goodbye and thank you Mr. Lovegood”, behind her as she went.

“I didn’t hear anything,” Harry said in puzzlement as he stumbled into the garden, while Hermione closed the front door behind her.

“Well, I thought that we should get out of there. Didn’t you see the look in his eyes? I wouldn’t want him to have any idea that you possess some of the Hallows. Who knows who he might tell?” Hermione said sounding agitated.

“I told you that it was a waste of time,” she added crossly. “I knew that we wouldn’t get anything useful out of him. I should never have left Hogwarts. We need to get back right away and do some proper research.”

“We can’t. We have to go back to the Burrow. We don’t know when Fred’s funeral will be and I need to see Ginny,” Harry responded. “Anyway, Xenophilius might have a point. It is strange that the Hallows had three entirely separate makers, don’t you think?”

“Oh Harry, he’s just rambling as usual. ‘Death’ isn’t someone who comes to get you. It’s just something that happens for a perfectly logical reason. Look, you can do what you like.” Hermione sounded exasperated. “Fred’s funeral won’t be for days and I can’t stand to stay here for that long. You’ve seen what Ron is like and I’m sure that Ginny won’t be overwhelmed to see me. I’m going back. Send me an owl when you have a date for Fred’s funeral.”

Harry started to protest but with a final deep sigh, Hermione disapparated and Harry was left with his mouth still open staring at the Lovegood’s front door. It was now his turn to sigh in frustration and he was tempted to follow Hermione but at that moment Ron and Luna came around the corner of the house, deep in conversation. Luna was carrying a large glass jar filled with water and containing a number of fluorescent green, oval-shaped objects, which moved slowly in circles. Harry assumed that these must be the notorious Freshwater Plimpies. Harry and Luna exchanged a few pleasantries before Harry announced that he should be getting back to the Burrow. He asked Ron to come with him and, after some hesitation, Ron reluctantly agreed.

“You to seem to be getting along well,” Harry commented as the pair trudged back up the hill. “I didn’t think that you liked her.”

“Oh, she’s all right. Mad…but nice; and you know where you stand with her, unlike some people that I could mention,” Ron replied with a sneer.

Harry picked up on his inference.

“So, what’s going on between you and Hermione? Why the glum face when she’s around?”

“Hmm…that’s all over now,” Ron answered ruefully. “I’ve given it my best shot but I’m not wasting any more time on her. We just don’t agree about anything.”

Ron was silent for a moment and the only sound was that of their laboured breathing and the squelching of their footsteps as they battled upwards.

“You know that stuff about opposites attract?” he eventually continued. “Well, it’s all nonsense, isn’t it? They might attract for a while, but they’ll never stick together, will they?”

Harry didn’t answer but he was aware of an increase in his heart rate that had nothing to do with the physical exertion of the climb and his face had become warm and flushed as he realised that Ron might not be an obstacle to the development of his relationship with Hermione any longer.

When the pair of them finally made it back to the Burrow, they found that Molly, Percy and George had already returned. Wizarding funerals are normally arranged quickly because they generally take place at a person’s home or a place that had special meaning for them. Fred’s funeral was therefore to take place at the Burrow but Molly was determined that it would be a grand affair and, given the large numbers of their acquaintances, including Remus and Tonks, who had died in the battle at Hogwarts, scheduling had proved difficult. It had been agreed that Fred’s funeral would not take place until the middle of the following week, with the funerals of Remus and Tonks also being held at the Burrow on the day afterwards. Harry was undecided about what he should do and so he nervously made his way up the creaking stairs to Ginny’s bedroom to find out how things still stood between them.

Ginny’s bedroom presented a stark contrast to most of the rooms in the Burrow. It had a large window that looked out over the rear garden and it was bright and airy, decorated in pale floral patterns that were complemented by a matching floral aroma. Harry found Ginny propped up on her pillows, wearing a flimsy nightdress that displayed her breasts admirably and, in the past, would have provoked an immediate reaction in Harry. As he entered, Ginny quickly fussed with her hair, which was as beautiful and lustrous as ever, and pushed herself up further, leaning forward and displaying even more cleavage in the process.

“Harry…” she gasped in surprise.

“How are you feeling?” Harry asked, finding that he had more pressing matters on his mind than the display of feminine attributes that he had just witnessed.

“Oh, not too bad,” Ginny replied rather sheepishly in a quiet voice. “I feel like a bit of a fraud now, actually.”

“So, what happened?”

“Well, afterwards…after the battle…you know, while we were still at Hogwarts…I just felt really sleepy, but then, as soon as we got back here, I started to feel most peculiar. I had a splitting headache and I was dizzy and then, Mum says, I just passed out. When I woke up, they had put me to bed. Now, I just feel woozy and everything seems hazy. There are big chunks of time that I can’t seem to remember. It sounds stupid doesn’t it?”

Harry, who didn’t think that it sounded in the least bit stupid, was intrigued and sat down on the edge of the bed, involuntarily taking hold of Ginny’s hand, which was resting on top of the covers.

“Are they recent things that you can’t remember or things in the past?”

Ginny frowned as she thought about Harry’s question.

“Well, I can remember quite clearly up until we went to the Department of Mysteries at the end of my fourth year, then I start to have blank spaces and some of what I do remember seems vague and strange, as if it happened to someone else.”

“What sort of things?”

“Well, I remember using a Bat Bogey Hex on someone, just because they annoyed me slightly, and I remember being very rude to Hermione, which isn’t like me…and I can remember making potions in secret, although I can’t remember what they were or why I was making them. I think that it had something to do with a cake…but that doesn’t really make sense, does it?”

“Ginny, please try to remember. Did you ever think about giving me a potion?” Harry asked, attempting to keep the sense of anxiety that he was now feeling out of his voice.

“Oh no, I wouldn’t…I’m sure I didn’t…I’m positive,” Ginny hurriedly stammered but Harry could see the look of doubt in her eyes.

“Have you ever felt like this before, Ginny?”

“It’s funny that you should ask,” Ginny replied quickly, glad to move away from the subject of potions. “It feels a bit like it did in my first year…you know…when I had that diary. But that’s silly, because Voldemort is dead and all of his Horcruxes are destroyed, aren’t they?”

Harry was deep in thought and didn’t answer.

“You know, I wish that I had a Pensieve or some sort of portrait, like those of the Headmasters at Hogwarts, that I had carried around and that could fill in the blanks for me,” Ginny continued wistfully.

As she spoke, an idea flashed into Harry’s mind, just like the unexpected inspiration about Slughorn that he had experienced the day before.

“That’s it!” he suddenly cried, causing Ginny to lurch back in surprise. “Look Ginny, I’ve got to go, there’s something very important that I’ve got to do. You take good care of yourself, get plenty of rest and we’ll talk again later. I’ll be back for Fred’s funeral.”

Harry grabbed Ginny’s face with both hands and leaned forward to kiss the startled girl full on the lips. Although Ginny quickly responded, the former magic was no longer present and Harry knew without a shadow of a doubt that what they had shared had been false and that, at least for him, none of the old desire remained.

8. The Hallow's maker

The Elder Wand

Author’s note: thanks to those of you who have posted reviews and for those who are just reading along, let me know what you think. All comments are useful.

Part 7. The Hallows’ maker

As soon as Harry got back to Hogwarts he went straight to the library. Sure enough, he found Hermione seated at a table in an otherwise deserted room, surrounded by a pile of ancient looking books. She was sucking on the end of her quill and reading intently, with a familiar thoughtful expression on her face. Harry felt a great sense of tenderness as he studied the slender but determined figure that had hardly left his side over the past seven years.

Hermione looked up as Harry crossed to the table and pulled out the chair opposite her with a loud creak.

“Harry…what are you doing here? I thought that you were staying at the Burrow.”

“Have you turned anything up?” Harry asked, ignoring her question.

“Not really,” Hermione answered with a sigh. “Most of the references to the Deathly Hallows just direct me to the children’s story from Beedle the Bard, although there are a few books where it mentions that some people believe that the Hallows really exist. I even came across one account that purports to trace the early owners of the Elder Wand and describes their fates. There is a fair bit of information about the Peverell family and I found genealogy tables tracing the Potters back to Ignotus Peverell and the Gaunts back to Cadmus Peverell. Evidently, the Peverells were a very well-known and prominent family in and around Godric’s Hollow, but there is nothing to suggest that they were at all unusual in terms of their magical abilities. I have located one reference that speculates about the Peverell brothers being the original owners of the Hallows. Presumably, that is where Dumbledore and Grindelwald got the idea from, or someplace like it. When we spoke to him, Xenophilius also seemed to be well aware of the connection between the Hallows and the Peverell brothers, so I suppose that it’s common knowledge amongst those who take an interest in such things.”

“Look Hermione, I might have an idea that could be better than looking at books,” Harry interrupted excitedly before Hermione could recite any more information. “Can you remember the dates for Ignotus Peverell that we saw on his headstone back in the graveyard at Godric’s Hollow?”

“Well, I think that it said that he died in 1291,” Hermione recalled, her brow creasing with the effort.

“That’s what I thought,” Harry said enthusiastically. “Well, Hogwarts was founded, what…about 1,000 years ago, right? That means that it had been in existence a long time before Ignotus lived. So, I’m reasoning that there will have been a headmaster or headmistress at Hogwarts at that time and that means that there should be a portrait of them somewhere. Now, if the Peverells were such a famous family and they did create the Hallows, it might have been known about in the elite magical circles of the time and those circles should certainly have included the head of Hogwarts, don’t you think?”

Hermione was impressed by Harry’s reasoning and sat stunned as she completed his thought process, inwardly castigating herself for not making the same connection.

“You mean that if we could find that portrait, it might be able to give us some information about the Hallows that we won’t be able to find anywhere else.”

“It’s a long shot, I know,” Harry said more calmly now, “but it’s worth a try, don’t you think?”

“It certainly is, but I’m sure that the portraits in the Headmaster’s study don’t go back that far. The older ones might be held in store somewhere though,” Hermione added thoughtfully.

“Well, let’s go and ask Dumbledore.”

Hermione, however, had pushed her chair back and was heading towards the bookshelves behind them, her footsteps intruding loudly on the silence of their surroundings.

“Fine, but first let’s check in ‘Hogwarts – a history’ to see who the head was at that time.”

She went straight to the correct place on the library shelves and pulled down the heavy, well-thumbed book that was one of her particular favourites. Bringing it back to their table and resuming her seat she opened the book carefully and flipped through a few pages until she found the information that she was looking for.

“1245 to 1283, the Headmaster of Hogwarts was one Anticious Magister.”

She gasped.

“You’ll never believe this! He came from Godric’s Hollow. So, he must have known the Peverells really well. This is perfect Harry!” she exclaimed joyfully as she leapt to her feet, pushing her chair noisily out of the way, and headed for the door, leaving opened books strewn all over the desk and Harry trailing behind, trying desperately to catch up.

Dumbledore’s portrait was able to confirm that indeed there wasn’t enough room on the walls of the Headmaster’s study to display all of the portraits of past headmasters and headmistresses of Hogwarts since its foundation. The earliest portraits were housed in an historical archive chamber that was situated way in the depths of the castle, and which Dumbledore admitted few people visited or were even aware of. In fact, he confessed rather sheepishly that he had only been down to the archive twice during his whole tenure as headmaster. The key to the chamber, a rather large and ungainly object made from tarnished brass, was kept in the bottom drawer of the Headmaster’s desk and after some ferreting around, while Dumbledore’s portrait grew increasingly agitated, it was finally unearthed by Hermione.

Harry and Hermione made their way along the deserted corridors and down the seemingly unending stairways that lead them to their destination, far down beneath the upper works of the castle. Eventually, descending the final and longest stairway, they reached a tunnel-like corridor that seemed to be hewn from the natural stone upon which the castle stood. The short corridor was cold, dank and pitch black but the smooth, even floor was easily traversed, guided by the light from their wands. At the end of the corridor was a large wooden door made from rough planks of darkened oak. The door was approximately oblong in shape and the matching wooden doorframe was curved on one side to fit the contours of the walls and ceiling. A pair of heavy, black-painted metal hinges held the door in place and a matching round metal door knob was positioned on the opposite side, above a similarly decorated keyhole. Harry inserted the key into the lock and turned it stiffly, grimacing with the effort as the underused mechanism resisted. Using both hands, he turned the large door knob a fraction and by bracing one foot against the doorframe he was able to slowly pull the heavy door open, with a high-pitched squeal of protest.

The room that they entered was warmer than the corridor and, although the air smelt musty, it seemed surprisingly dry. It was almost square in shape, with a high ceiling and, in contrast to the corridor, both the walls and the ceiling were covered with an uneven coat of plaster that had been painted in a dull grey, which had only become darker with the layers of grime that had accumulated over the years. The floor was a continuation of the natural stone of the corridor. Empty metal brackets, designed to hold flaming torches, were dotted along the walls at roughly chest height, while the edges of the room were lined with a variety of ancient wooden tables and cupboards upon and in which a variety of relics were displayed or stored. All of the surfaces were covered with a deep layer of dust and cobwebs hung down from the ceiling, draping the four upper corners of the room. Hermione sneezed loudly as the weak flow of air, formed by the difference in temperature on either side of the open door, caused a cloud of fine dust to rise up and envelope them. Positioned around the walls was a row of portraits, each set in an ornate, carved golden frame and, as Harry and Hermione shone the light from their wands around the room, muffled cries of protest and alarm came from their subjects.

The pair walked slowly along, as close to the walls as they could get, examining the inscription beneath each portrait until Hermione triumphantly announced, “Here it is. ‘Anticious Magister. Headmaster 1245-83’.

They both shone their lights directly at the portrait, which showed a kindly-looking wizard with long, white hair, a matching drooping moustache, a rather pointed nose and twinkling pale blue eyes. He was resplendent in deep blue robes, patterned with silver, a matching tall, pointed hat perched precariously on his head. The subject of their attention blinked as the light hit him and he raised one hand to shield his eyes.

“Merlin’s beard…a light! There hasn’t been a light down here for an age,” he said in a surprisingly deep voice that seemed to belong to a much larger and more rotund wizard.

“Put it out. Some of us were sleeping,” a grumpy voice shouted from a portrait nearby.

“Oh, you’re always sleeping,” Anticious retorted. “That’s all most of us can do down here, unless we’re fortunate enough to have a portrait that is actually on display somewhere else…perhaps even somewhere with windows,” he added rather wistfully.

“Sorry,” Harry said in a muted tone, reaching awkwardly across the table in front of him to unhook Anticious’ portrait from the wall.

“Anticious, we would like to have a word with you if we may. Let’s move you over here, where we won’t disturb the others so much.”

Anticious, who had been a very sociable fellow during his life and was therefore overjoyed at the notion of making some new acquaintances, beamed at the prospect.

“Certainly, my dear boy. It’s been years since I’ve moved. I don’t think that I can even remember what this side of the room looks like. Now, who might you be and what on earth do you want?”

Harry carried the portrait to a table that was positioned just inside the door, where there were no other portraits in the immediate vicinity. He propped it up against the wall and he and Hermione perched, with some difficulty, on the edge of the table, turning stiffly at the waist so that they could look directly at Anticious.

“You won’t know me,” Harry began, “but my name is Harry Potter and this is my close friend, Hermione Granger.”

Hermione’s ears pricked up at Harry’s use of the word ‘close’ and she found that she was sitting up slightly straighter than before.

“Well, I’m a descendant of Ignotus Peverell and my father passed the Cloak of Invisibility, one of the Deathly Hallows, on to me,” Harry continued.

“The Deathly Hallows?” Anticious queried. “They were just called the Hallows in my day.”

“That’s because now, most wizards don’t believe that the Hallows actually exist. There’s a morality tale for wizard children that claims that the Hallows were presented to three brothers as a reward for cheating ‘Death’. However, we know that the Hallows are real and we believe that they were made by the three Peverell brothers – Antioch, Cadmus and Ignotus.” Harry explained, before pausing briefly to gather his thoughts.

“You must have known the Peverells…or at least known of them. Do you have any knowledge about how they managed to create the Hallows, as it must have involved some very complex and unusual magic?”

Anticious had been listening intently and smiled at Harry’s question.

“You are quite correct that I knew the Peverells – after all I lived in Godric’s Hollow until I came to teach at Hogwarts – and it is true that they owned the Hallows, but they didn’t create them. No, that would have been quite beyond their abilities. Let me explain.” Anticious took a deep breath composing himself for a lengthy narrative.

“I believe that things are different now, but in my day Wizards and Muggles often lived in the same communities and it was quite common for Muggles to be tied to some of the oldest wizard families as servants or even slaves. The Peverells were a very wealthy and powerful family and they had many Muggle servants. At the time that the grandfather of the three brothers was the head of the family, there was also a Squib – a girl. She came from a pureblood wizard family who were so ashamed by her lack of magic that they sold her into servitude with the Peverells. This Squib married one of their Muggle servants and became pregnant by him. Unfortunately, however, the father was killed in a hunting accident before the child –a boy – was born. The Squib named her baby Factoris and it was quite clear from a very young age that, although he was a Mudblood, the child had a quite exceptional magical talent. His mother was so grief stricken by the death of her husband that she seemed to waste away and died while still very young, even for a Squib, and so Factoris was brought up by the Peverells. Since both his father and mother had been bound to the family in servitude, he was also considered to be their property. Factoris became a favourite of the Peverell brothers’ father, who made him his personal servant. He was a great traveller and took Factoris everywhere with him. When Factoris was approaching middle age, the two of them spent a great deal of time in Africa. Now, Africa is the home of the most ancient magic in the world and it is believed that, while he was there, Factoris was able to delve into the very secrets of life and death and the magic that can be used to influence destiny. In any event, he came back from Africa as an even more accomplished wizard than before, but he was still tied by a magical contract of servitude to the Peverell family and they refused to release him from it because he was so useful to them. Soon after they returned from Africa, Factoris’ master died and his allegiance was therefore transferred to the eldest of the three brothers, Antioch Peverell, who became head of the family. It is believed that Factoris was not particularly pleased by this, since Antioch was still a young man and very conceited, but he had no choice other than to endure this new state of affairs. Anyway, this situation continued for many years as the brothers matured and, largely due to the abilities of Factoris, even though the two eldest brothers, Antioch and Cadmus, were only concerned with their own pleasures, the family estate still thrived. Then, when Factoris was an old man, he became withdrawn and preoccupied and he started to spend many hours each day in a workshop that he had at the back of his cottage. Eventually, he presented Antioch with the three Hallows. He told Antioch that these three items would make him Master of Death. But Antioch just thought that this was the raving of an old man whose mind was becoming weak and, since he had a great love of duelling, he was only really interested in the Elder Wand. Therefore, when his brother Cadmus asked if he could have the Resurrection Stone for himself, Antioch gave it to him willingly and, so that his younger brother, Ignotus, wouldn’t feel slighted, he gave the Cloak of Invisibility to him. That is the story of how the three Hallows were created and how they came to be separated.”

“But why did he need three Hallows. I can see that the Resurrection Stone has a link with life and death, but what have the Elder Wand and Invisibility Cloak got to do with it,” Harry asked after a time.

“Ah well, three is a very important number where matters of life and death are concerned,” Anticious replied instantly. “There are three distinct elements that are involved in destiny…”

Hermione, who had an excellent memory, suddenly recalled a favourite book that she had read many times as a child.

“You mean like the Three Fates from Greek mythology; the Moirai – Clotho, Lechesis and Atropos?” she interrupted.

“Exactly,” Anticious exclaimed with appreciation. “We have different names for them of course, but each of the three Hallows represents one of those goddesses. Clotho – the spinner – makes the threads of destiny and starts the process of life – she is represented by the Resurrection Stone; Lachesis – the measurer – controls the length of the thread – how long we will remain hidden from death – she is represented by the Cloak of Invisibility; and Atropos – the cutter, the undefeatable – cuts the threads – she is represented by the Elder Wand. So, the magic that Factoris employed was woven around these ancient concepts and, for this reason, whoever is the rightful owner of all three of the Hallows can control death itself. Unfortunately, as Antioch split up the Hallows, he never became the true Master of Death and we all know what happened to him.”

“And, do you believe that all of this is true?” Hermione asked sceptically. “I’ve never come across a mention of Factoris in any reference to the Peverells."

“Believe! I know that it is true. I was there, young lady,” Anticious replied indignantly, before continuing in a more conciliatory tone. “I am not surprised that there is no mention of Factoris in any historical works. Although he was well known by people locally, the Peverells did not exactly advertise the fact that much of their latter renown resulted from the abilities of one of their servants. In fact, they kept it as quiet as possible.”

Hermione looked at Harry and frowned, seemingly unconvinced. Harry just shrugged.

“Thank you Anticious,” he said graciously. “You’ve been very helpful. Can we come back and talk to you again once we’ve had time to think about what you’ve told us?”

“Certainly, we get so few visitors nowadays that it will be my pleasure.” The old man positively glowed as Harry carefully picked the portrait up once more and hung it back in place.

Harry gestured silently to Hermione and the pair left the chamber closing and locking the door quietly behind them, almost with an air of reverence.

“Who was that you were talking to?” asked the figure in the portrait to the immediate right of Anticious, after they had gone.

This was the portrait of the headmaster who had succeeded Anticious at Hogwarts, who just happened to be his younger brother, Sequis Magister. Sequis had taught at Hogwarts under his brother, before succeeding him as headmaster when he died. However, he had originally remained in Godric’s Hollow for a time after Anticious had left to take up a teaching position at Hogwarts and therefore he knew just as much about the history of the Hallows and the Peverell family as his brother did.

“It was a very pleasant young couple. Harry and Gaynor, I think that they said their names were,” Anticious replied cheerfully. “It’s all right for you, Sequis; you have that other portrait up in the corridor outside of the Headmaster’s study, so that you can keep in contact with the outside world. I have to stay cooped up in here all of the time.”

His brother did not appear to be particularly impressed by this argument and continued to question him, sounding far more serious.

“I couldn’t help noticing that you were talking about the Hallows. Why didn’t you tell them the real reason that Factoris made them?”

“Well, for one thing, they didn’t ask,” Anticious responded defensively. “In any case, I’ve never believed that nonsense anyway,” he scoffed. “Why? Do you think that it might be important?”

9. The Master of Death

The Elder Wand

Author’s note: Sorry for the delay in updating. Blame the Olympics and pressure of work. At least that’s my excuse. Please review.

Part 8. The Master of Death

Harry and Hermione spent the next few hours discussing what they had learnt from Anticious and trying to think of what they should do next. At first, Hermione remained sceptical and wasn’t convinced that they could trust his information since she had found no reference to Factoris in any of her previous research on the Peverell family. She therefore insisted on returning to the library, much to Harry’s annoyance, as he considered that they were just wasting valuable time. Finally, however, in a book entitled ‘Great Wizarding Families Through the Ages,’ Hermione found a paragraph that described how Peregrin Peverell, father of Antioch, Cadmus and Ignotus, had brought new magical ideas back to England when he returned from travelling in Africa with his faithful servant, Factoris.

That was enough to satisfy her completely and with Hermione now as convinced as Harry that they could trust the information from Anticious, the two of them returned to the Gryffindor common room to consider how this new knowledge could help them. The Fat Lady had relented and whispered the current password in Hermione’s ear as she left the previous morning and so they could now come and go as they pleased.

“Well, we can at least dismiss ‘Beedle the Bard,’” Harry said after a while, “and it makes a lot more sense that one person was responsible for making the Hallows.”

“But it doesn’t really get us any further in trying to negate the potential danger of the Elder Wand, does it?” Hermione countered.

They sat silently for a while, both churning over thoughts in their minds.

“How much do you know about African magic?” Harry eventually asked.

“Not much. I know that the first ever recorded trace evidence of magic was found in Africa and that some of the darkest magic ever practiced originated there. But you’re right, that’s where we have to start. I need to go back to the library and see what more I can find out.”

“OK,” Harry agreed reluctantly, not wishing to spend another minute in the library. “What can I do to help?”

“Why don’t you send an owl to Ron and keep him up to date. I know that he doesn’t agree with us over the Elder Wand, but you know how he hates to feel left out. You never know, he might change his mind and come back to help. It has happened before, after all,” Hermione said with a grin.

Harry was relieved that Hermione didn’t want him to go to the library with her. The thought of spending more time trying to read through material that he found incredibly boring and didn’t really understand was not particularly appealing. He was also starting to find it difficult to concentrate when Hermione was around. Since Voldemort had been vanquished, Harry was becoming more and more aware of Hermione’s physical presence. He found himself stealing hidden glances at her, acutely conscious of the curves of her figure, the softness of her voice, the smoothness of her skin and the bushy, brown curls of her hair. Harry had realised that Hermione was a very attractive girl quite a long time ago – since he first saw her descending the stairs before the Yule Ball to be precise. Not conventionally beautiful, like Cho Chang or Ginny, but, to Harry’s eyes, she had a tranquil, understated beauty that he found particularly appealing. Did that make him shallow, only being interested in women because of their appearance? He didn’t think so, since he had always valued Hermione’s other qualities – her intelligence, her trust and her integrity – more highly than the way that she looked and his high regard for her had never wavered, even during the past two years when he had been besotted with Ginny. Harry could remember that his dependence on Hermione and his attraction towards her had grown during their fifth year at Hogwarts, particularly after his brief flirtation with Cho, but by that time he had become acutely aware of Ron’s feelings towards her and the jealousy that he could manifest if he considered that he was being ignored. Then things had changed and Harry had become obsessed with Ginny and had started to feel increasingly annoyed by what he perceived as Hermione’s sudden reluctance to accept his point of view. But Harry was now convinced that Voldemort had been behind that. He was sure that Voldemort had gained a hold over Ginny and caused her to entrap him in some way but he also believed that Voldemort had used the personal connection that he and Harry shared to implant negative thoughts about Hermione. Now that he was free of that influence, Harry realised that he wanted to change the nature of their friendship but he was filled with uncertainties.

When they were walking back to the Burrow after the visit to Xenophilius Lovegood, Ron had indicated that he had abandoned any hopes for a relationship with Hermione. But could Harry really rely on that and how would Ron feel if Harry and Hermione became a couple? Would all of the old jealousy resurface? Ron had always been Harry’s best male friend and he didn’t want to damage that bond. Then, what about Ginny? Harry knew that she had always liked him and, although he now realised that his feelings for her had been false, how would Ginny react to rejection? Would that drive a wedge between him and the rest of the Weasleys, his surrogate family and his main support network in the wizarding world? Most importantly, what were Hermione’s feelings? She and Ron had always seemed an unlikely couple to Harry but he was sure that Hermione liked Ron. Why else would she have put up with some of the abuse that she had suffered at his hands over the years? What if she didn’t return Harry’s feelings? If he got things wrong, he could damage their friendship irrevocably and he couldn’t afford to risk that.

The fate of the Elder Wand slipped from Harry’s mind as he worried about these issues but, as Hermione had suggested, he took the time to write a brief note to Ron on a piece of parchment and carried it up to the Owlery to send off to the Burrow. In the note, he described their discussion with Anticious and what they had learned about the history of the Deathly Hallows. He also asked Ron to let him know what his plans were and whether he would have the time to join them. Harry really hoped that he would. The three of them had been through far too much together for Harry not to want Ron to be involved in what he hoped would be the final act. After sending the note, Harry realised that it was now early evening and, feeling rather guilty about his inactivity, he made his way over to the library to meet up with Hermione. However, he was surprised to find that the room was completely empty when he arrived and that there was no sign of Hermione anywhere nearby. But she didn’t prove to be too hard to track down. Harry found her curled up in an armchair next to the fire in the Gryffindor common room, engrossed in a very ancient and ornate book that was thicker than any he had ever seen.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Oh, I couldn’t find too much in the library, just this book on African legends, and so I decided that I would bring it back here and read it in comfort,” Hermione replied distractedly, not lifting her eyes from the page that she was studying.

Harry meandered over to the armchair opposite her and slumped down, draping one leg over an arm of the chair and sighing loudly.

“So, what have you found out?”

Hermione carried on reading, her index finger tracing the lines of text as she went. When she got to the bottom of the page, she looked up for the first time.

“Well, it’s quite fascinating really. Just as Anticious said, there are plenty of stories about the wizard equivalents of the Three Fates but they had different names. The stories also shed some light on where the symbols for the Deathly Hallows originate. In the legends, the spinner was called Kuzaliwa and she was represented by a circle – an infinite number of possibilities radiating out from a central point at the beginning of life; the weaver was called Maisha and she was represented by an equilateral triangle – indicating how our life choices gradually narrow down to a single point over time; and the cutter was called Kifo, represented by a straight line – a life coming to its end. That is probably where Factoris got the idea for the three items that he was going to create.”

Hermione paused, looking back down at the book.

“There is one legend that you might find quite interesting.”

Her eyes briefly scanned the page to locate the passage that she was searching for and, giving a little cough to clear her throat, she began to read.

“There was once a very powerful wizard whose wife unfortunately died while she was still quite young. Grief stricken, the wizard searched for and found the halls where the Three Sisters of Fate resided. There, he came across Kuzaliwa, wandering alone in the gardens and, taking her unawares, he placed an enchantment on her and instructed her to bring his wife back to life. Kuzawila was compelled by the enchantment to obey and she fulfilled the wizard’s wish and resurrected his wife. However, the woman came back as only a shadow of herself and she was miserable and listless. Maisha and Kifo came across the three of them and removed the enchantment from Kuzaliwa, while subduing the wizard. Kifo laughed at the wizard and told him that matters of destiny could only properly be adjudicated by the three sisters working together and so Kuzawila was never going to be able to restore his wife properly to life without the assistance of the other two sisters. She told him that he could only have achieved what he desired by cooperation and agreement, rather than by trying to use force and guile. The three sisters therefore sent the wizard’s wife back to the place of the dead and, since the wizard had been so keen to be reunited with her, Kifo cut the threads of his life much earlier than had been his original destiny and he was forced to return with his wife to the place of the dead as punishment for his misdeed.”

Hermione stopped reading and looked up at Harry.

“You see, that fits in with the story of the Deathly Hallows. Cadmus couldn’t bring his love properly back to life, just like the wizard in the legend, because he wasn’t master of all three of the Hallows.”

Hermione paused, looking expectantly at Harry, as if anticipating that a sudden realisation must dawn on him. Harry however stared back blankly, unsure of what Hermione was wanting from him.

“Don’t you see,” she eventually continued, frustration evident in her voice. “That wouldn’t apply to you. You are the rightful master of all three Hallows, so you should be able to bring people back to life properly using the Resurrection Stone.”

Harry still said nothing. For once he was lost and couldn’t follow Hermione’s reasoning. He didn’t understand why any of this was particularly important.

“Look, your original idea was that if you died a natural death as the owner of the Elder Wand, then it would lose its’ power.”

Harry nodded vacantly.

“It wouldn’t actually lose anything really; not in the physical sense,” Hermione went on, “but since nobody could take it off you any more, you would remain the rightful owner, even though you were dead.”

“Yeah, that’s about it really,” Harry finally found that here was an idea that he could comprehend and agree with. “Nobody could use it any longer, so, in effect, it would have lost its power.”

“But waiting for that to happen is too risky,” Hermione pressed on remorselessly. “We need to speed things up, so what if we were to arrange for someone to take the wand off of you, knowing that they were just about to die?”

Harry looked puzzled.

“What are the chances of that? Surely, that would be even more risky. Firstly, how could you be sure that the person wouldn’t recover from whatever health problem that they had or that someone else might not take the wand from them before they died?”

A sudden realisation came to Harry, an idea that shocked him. He couldn’t believe that Hermione could even be contemplating such a thing.

“That is, unless you planned to kill them,” he answered his own question almost in a whisper. “That’s murder, Hermione. I don’t want any part of that.” Harry’s voice rose almost to a shout.

“Don’t be silly, Harry. I would never suggest such a thing. How could you even think it? But what if the person was already dead? You’re the ‘Master of Death’, Harry. You could bring a dead person back to life again with the Resurrection Stone and they could take the wand from you. Then, I’m sure that by changing the direction in which you rotate the stone you could reverse the process,” Hermione said triumphantly. “With their agreement of course,” she added hastily.

“But who would agree to something like that and who could we trust to stick to their part of the bargain?” Harry asked.

“Dumbledore!” they both cried in unison.

“But what if it didn’t work? What if rotating the stone backwards didn’t reverse the process?” Harry could still see massive flaws in the suggestion.

“I am positive that it will. All of the legends that I have read point to the fact that bringing a person back from the dead is the difficult part. Reversing the process is pretty easy, provided that all of the Fates agree. In any case, if it didn’t work nobody apart from the three of us would know. Everyone would still think that Dumbledore is dead and he could remain hidden somewhere safe. Nobody would know that he was now the master of the Elder Wand and Dumbledore is much older than you, Harry, and a far more powerful wizard, so there is far less likelihood of someone taking the wand from him before he died for a second time.”

Harry had to admit that, when Hermione explained it in those terms, it did seem like a better option, although he still felt very uneasy about the whole idea.

“But if Dumbledore had taken the Elder Wand from me, I wouldn’t be ‘Master of Death’ anymore,” Harry reasoned. “I couldn’t reverse the process.”

“I’ve already thought about that,” Hermione responded enthusiastically. “There is another African legend that says that because the sisters could only control destiny if they constantly worked together, then they were never able to get any rest. Therefore, it was decreed that they could occasionally give permission for another god or goddess to take over their powers for a short while, although the sisters could take control back whenever they wished and only one of them could be substituted at any one time. It’s likely therefore that the same thing will apply to the Hallows. Dumbledore should be able to give you permission to take over control of the wand for a short time. Of course, if I’m right, that means that even after he is dead, Dumbledore’s portrait would still be able to give his permission for someone else to use the Elder Wand, which could be a problem.”

Harry, who was still trying desperately to determine why he felt such a strong sense of unease, wasn’t particularly concerned about this new issue that Hermione had raised.

“I don’t think that’s very likely, is it? Dumbledore isn’t stupid and, anyway, we could hide the wand so that even if Dumbledore ever gave someone his permission to use it, they wouldn’t have much chance of ever finding it.”

Hermione seemed satisfied with this, but as Harry continued to ponder the idea, he realised that there was a major issue that Hermione clearly wasn’t aware of.

“There’s one big problem,” he said sheepishly. “I don’t have the Resurrection Stone anymore.”

“What?” Hermione’s voice came out almost as a squeak; she was so surprised by this completely unexpected revelation.

“I dropped it in the Forbidden Forest, when I was sure that I wouldn’t have any further need of it,” Harry confessed.

“Can you remember roughly where you dropped it?”

“I think so.”

“Well, in that case, we will have to go and find it, won’t we?” Hermione said, recovering her composure. “It’s too late now; it will be better to do it in the daylight. First thing tomorrow, we will go and find the stone and then we’ll put our plan to Dumbledore. What do you say?”

Harry nodded uncertainly. He still had a bad feeling about the whole situation but he couldn’t really explain why and he couldn’t think of any better ideas. With their plans for the next day decided, the pair went down to the almost deserted Great Hall for their evening meal and then returned to the Gryffindor common room for, what seemed to be becoming, their ritual evening together in front of the fireside, chatting about whatever occurred to them over mugs of hot chocolate. Harry found that he could really relax in Hermione’s company, even though she was as edgy and mildly neurotic as ever. These personality traits seemed to balance his more laid back and sometimes careless approach perfectly and Harry felt completely at ease, letting Hermione do the majority of the talking and mostly being happy just to listen to the familiar and reassuring pitch of her voice. Their Muggle upbringing was always a reassuring source of unity and they understood each other very well. It was true that Hermione didn’t share Harry’s obsession with sports but, even here, she had watched enough Quidditch to be able to hold her own in any discussion that might wander in this direction. Their disagreements were mild, having none of the venom of Hermione and Ron’s arguments and, surprisingly, they laughed a lot together. Harry couldn’t remember a time when he had felt happier than he had during these past few days spent virtually alone with Hermione and he was disappointed to think that their time together would not last for too much longer. He thought that Hermione also seemed content, although he couldn’t be sure if she was just humouring him, as he believed that she probably had done many times before.

When it was time for them to go to bed, they parted, as usual, at the division of the dormitory stairs. As Hermione methodically went through their proposed timetable for the next day for one last time, stressing that Harry should get an alarm call and not just rely on waking up at the correct hour. Harry found that his eyes were fixated on the movement of Hermione’s lips. Harry noticed for the first time that, although Hermione had a fairly small mouth, her lips were full and an inviting light pink colour. They looked soft and moist as they alternately parted and came back together and Harry, in an almost trance-like state, found that he was longing to kiss them. He moved his gaze upwards, taking in the whole of Hermione’s face, looking for any hint that she might be receptive to such an idea; a slight movement towards him, a gentle tilting of the head, perhaps – but there was nothing; no sign to offer him any encouragement.

“Harry, is something the matter? Are you all right?” Hermione’s worried voice penetrated his thoughts. “You weren’t listening to a word that I was saying, were you?”

“S…sorry…sorry, I was miles away,” Harry stammered, reddening. “I’m just so tired.”

“Well, get some sleep then and I’ll see you in the morning.”

Hermione leaned forward, stretching up on her toes to kiss Harry quickly on the cheek, before turning and heading up the girls’ staircase. She left Harry slouching on the bottom step of the boys’ staircase, watching her go, feeling foolish and more of a coward than he had ever felt when facing Voldemort.

10. Finding the Stone

The Elder Wand

Author’s note: Special thanks to my regular reviewer pawsrule. All reviews, good or bad, are appreciated.

Part 9. Finding the Stone

Harry found it difficult to get to sleep, fretting about his growing attraction to Hermione and reviewing ways in which he might broach the subject with her without the risk of suffering rejection and causing sufficient embarrassment to both of them that their friendship would be damaged. Soon after midnight, he finally decided that their friendship, in its current form, was doomed in any event and so he might as well take the plunge. He dropped off to sleep relatively easily after reaching this resolve but his dreams were troubled and by the time that he woke up in the morning he once again felt nervous and all of his previous doubts were returning.

As a result, he said little to Hermione as they made their way down to breakfast, just responding to her comments and not daring to look directly at her. Their conversation over breakfast, therefore, lacked the spontaneity of the night before and remained stilted and superficial. For her part, Hermione seemed edgy and was keen to get the meal over with so that they could go and find the Resurrection Stone. Harry, however, decided that his nervous stomach could best be settled by eating a hearty breakfast and so, while Hermione nibbled on a piece of wholemeal toast and drank black coffee, he was reaching for his second fried egg when an owl flew in through the open doorway and settled on the table in front of him.

Harry immediately recognised the owl as the one that he had sent off to the Burrow the day before with his message to Ron. Dropping his fried egg with an unpromising squelching sound onto the table top just to the side of his plate, Harry reached excitedly for the small piece of parchment that was wrapped around the bird’s left leg. Hermione looked at him expectantly as, after a brief struggle, he opened the parchment and scanned the contents. She noticed with dismay how his initial smile gradually faded to be replaced by a miserable frown.

“Bad news?” she asked timidly.

“Ron’s not coming,” Harry answered with a deep sigh. “He wishes us luck, but he says that he still doesn’t agree with what we are doing and would be worried that he might try to stop us. Anyway, he also says that he has promised to help Luna today as she thinks that she may have found another Crumple-Horned Snorkack horn to replace the one that was lost in the explosion.”

“Oh dear, I hope that it isn’t another Erumpent horn. Surely, Ron knows that there is no such thing as a Crumple-Horned Snorkack?” Hermione sounded concerned, but wasn’t entirely disappointed that she and Harry would be left alone for another few days.

“Well, I suspect that’s why Ron agreed to go along. I can’t think of any other reason why he might,” Harry replied thoughtfully. But then, as he sat contemplating the situation, his conversation with Ron, as they walked back to the Burrow, came back to him and he realised that perhaps he could use Ron’s message to test the water a little with regard to Hermione’s current feelings.

“Ron seems to be spending a fair bit of time with Luna lately, don’t you think?” he ventured in as casual a manner as he could muster.

“I suppose so,” Hermione shrugged.

“Doesn’t that bother you? I thought that you and Ron were…” Harry let his sentence trail off.

“Harry, it’s not what you…”

“I thought that I saw the two of you the other day.”

Hermione’s words were interrupted by the familiar sharp Scottish burr of Professor McGonagall, their former Transfiguration teacher and head of Gryffindor house.

“What are you still doing here?” she asked, leaning lightly on the edge of their table for support.

Hermione fell silent, looking irritated by the interruption.

“Well, we don’t really have anywhere else to go at the moment,” Harry answered with an air of resignation, also annoyed by this sudden and unwelcome distraction. “We thought that we would leave the Weasleys to grieve for Fred without any outsiders around for a couple of days.”

“Um, that is very sensitive of you.” Professor McGonagall paused nodding her head in agreement. “But now that you’re here,” she continued brightening, “you can help us out. There’s a lot of work to do before the students can all come back. The place is an absolute mess.”

“We will be glad to,” Hermione responded quickly, jumping up from the table and almost toppling backwards over the bench seat as it caught her behind her knees. “Only not just now, there’s something that I dropped in the library yesterday and I must go and find it before someone else does. Come on Harry.” She reached across the table and tugged on Harry’s arm.

“Goodbye, Professor,” she muttered, disentangling her legs clumsily from the bench seat, before heading for the doorway.

Harry shrugged apologetically and scooping up the fallen fried egg and dropping it onto his plate with the rest of his half-eaten breakfast, he followed hastily, calling out for Hermione to slow down. Professor McGonagall looked after their retreating forms with a mixture of surprise and concern.

Hermione seemed so agitated and keen to press on that Harry didn’t dare bring up the subject of Ron’s relationship with Luna – and therefore Hermione’s relationship with Ron – again as they moved out into the hallway and so the two of them left the castle and wandered up the hill away from Hogwarts without exchanging any further words. The morning was overcast and grey with a gentle cool breeze coming out of the north. The clouds were high and there appeared to be no immediate threat of rain but the air felt dank and added to the general sense of foreboding that seemed to be prevalent. Hagrid’s hut looked deserted as they passed by, with no tell-tale plume of grey smoke rising from the crooked chimney and so they headed on into the Forbidden Forest without stopping, presuming that Hagrid had taken Fang down to the castle for some reason. The same heavy silence that had afflicted them all morning still hung over them like a shroud, only interrupted by Hermione repeatedly asking Harry if he was sure that he knew where he had dropped the Resurrection Stone. Although Harry had been almost in a trance that night as he trudged his lonely, disconsolate way through the Forbidden Forest, every step of the journey was etched deep in his memory and he was able to trace his path, even through the thickest and most oppressive parts of the forest without difficulty. Hermione followed a few paces behind, panting slightly with the effort of keeping up with Harry’s slightly longer stride, her hands held out in front of her to deflect the whip of branches as they sprang back after Harry had passed by. The forest was eerily quiet save for the sounds of their clumsy progress and the dew, still coating the lower branches and undergrowth, soon made their clothing damp and uncomfortable. In addition to his memories from that dreadful walk towards his anticipated death, Harry couldn’t help thinking that there was something else at work guiding him towards his destination. Ever since they had approached the outskirts of the forest, he had felt a pull on his body as if the Resurrection Stone was guiding him towards it like some powerful, hidden magnet attracting a piece of metal lodged somewhere in his brain. It was a strange, unpleasant sensation that made Harry fretful but, unable to rationalise what he was feeling, he didn’t reveal his growing concerns to Hermione.

Eventually, pushing between some low bushes, Harry arrived in the large clearing in which he had confronted Voldemort and the Death Eaters just a few short nights before and where the Resurrection Stone, having served its purpose, had dropped from his hand. To his relief, as they moved out of the shadow of the trees his head cleared and the inner voice that had been giving him unwanted and unnecessary directions finally fell silent.

“Here we are,” he said in triumph.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m certain.” Harry raised his wand. “Here goes. Accio stone!”

Suddenly, the air was filled with tiny projectiles as pebbles lifted up from the forest floor and hurtled towards them from all directions. Most of the stones were small and only stung their arms and faces with their impact but fortunately Hermione, who also had her wand drawn in anticipation, was able to disintegrate a larger rock with a well-aimed blasting charm just before it made contact with Harry’s head.

“Finite incantatem!” Hermione shrieked, waving her wand around them and the pebbles that had been flying towards them stopped dead in mid-air and dropped to the forest floor like a heavy hail storm.

“Honestly Harry,” she scolded, bending to rub her shin, where it had been dealt a rather nasty blow, “you’ve got to be more specific. Here, let me try. Accio Resurrection Stone!”

There was a rustling from within the leaf litter close to Harry’s feet and the Resurrection Stone flew up into Hermione’s outstretched hand. She examined it briefly before quickly passing it to Harry.

“Put it somewhere safe and let’s go.”

But Harry didn’t reply. He ran his finger over the jagged crack that now divided the shiny, black stone, made when Dumbledore’s spell had destroyed the Horcrux that had resided within it, and a sudden feeling of anguish surged through him.

“Mend the stone. Use the Elder Wand,” a voice spoke from behind him.

It was a man’s voice, deep and melodious but sounding weak and muffled as if heard from the other side of a thick window pane. Harry turned and was shocked to see a figure framed between the trunks of two large oak trees at the edge of the clearing. The figure, which was of medium height and slim build, was dressed in a flowing brown robe made of a coarse cloth that was gathered at the waste with a piece of frayed rope, almost like a monk’s habit. The sinewy hands, covered in fine dark hair, which protruded from the sleeves of the robe, held folded across the chest, confirmed that the figure was male and a pair of grimy, bare feet enclosed in brown leather sandals could just be seen poking out from under the hem. A deep hood, made from the same coarse material, was pulled up over the figure’s head, casting its shadow across the face so that only a dark-skinned chin, covered with greying stubble and a thin mouth, that opened to reveal discoloured yellowing teeth, could be seen. The figure seemed to shimmer, as if viewed in a heat haze. Harry could tell that it wasn’t a ghost – he couldn’t see through it – but it didn’t look entirely solid; it didn’t seem real.

“Who are you?” Harry challenged, almost inaudibly, his throat suddenly constricting.

“Harry? What’s the matter?” It was Hermione’s voice, sounding as if from far away, even though she was standing right beside him.

Harry turned towards her, registering the concern on her face. He saw no signs of comprehension or fear within her eyes and quickly turned his gaze back towards the figure. To his surprise and alarm, the space between the oak trees was now empty and there was no sign of any footprints or any other disturbance to indicate that someone had come and gone.

“Did you hear anything?” he asked Hermione, puzzled.

“Only you muttering. What is it Harry? You’re scaring me.”

“Oh, it’s nothing. I thought that I…” Harry left his sentence unfinished. He was sure that the figure could only have been a figment of his imagination conjured up by the memories and apprehension brought on by being back in this place. “I don’t know what I thought. I’m just feeling a bit strange really…light-headed. It’s probably because you wouldn’t let me finish my breakfast.” Harry tried a feeble laugh in an attempt to lighten the rather oppressive mood that seemed to have enveloped them.

“Well, I’m sorry,” Hermione replied tetchily, “but I just want to get this over with. I can’t explain it but I’ve been feeling very nervous all morning. I just don’t know whether this seems to be such a good idea anymore. Anyway, now that we’ve got the stone let’s get back and see what Professor Dumbledore has to say.”

Hermione turned and marched off in the direction in which they had come, leaving Harry to follow her this time, mulling over the instruction to mend the Resurrection Stone that he thought that he had just received. Had he really heard those words or was it just his mind playing tricks on him? He wasn’t sure why, but it seemed that mending the stone was very important for some reason and his thoughts were drawn back to the shadowy figures of his parents, Sirius and Lupin that had accompanied him on his previous walk along this same pathway. If the stone had been whole, could they have been more than just shadows? Harry resolved to fix the Resurrection Stone at the first opportunity but his sense of unease only grew as he followed Hermione’s retreating back, retracing their steps, and for the first time in the past few days Harry found that he wasn’t solely focused on admiring the movements of the slim figure walking in front of him. He felt as if he was being followed; as if something was lurking in the shadows just behind him, but every time he turned to look, there was nothing but the silent, unmoving shapes of the trees forming a rustling, green and brown wall across his line of sight.

They finally made it back to the castle in the late morning and headed along the familiar empty corridors and up the winding stairways towards the headmaster’s study to confront Dumbledore’s portrait. Before they had gone into breakfast that morning, Harry had left the Invisibility Cloak and the Elder Wand in a storage cupboard, just inside the main entrance hall – the very same cupboard that he and Hermione had hidden in before going off to rescue Sirius in their third year – protected by a very powerful concealment charm that Hermione had conjured. Harry retrieved them as he went by, wrapping the wand in the shimmering silvery cloth of the cloak and stuffing them both under his arm. The Resurrection Stone was safely stowed in a trousers pocket. He now had all three of the Deathly Hallows in his possession, ready for the challenge ahead.

As they passed along the final corridor leading to their destination, Harry suddenly noticed a large painting that was hanging on the outside wall between two windows. He must have passed the painting many times before without taking any notice of it – there were so many paintings adorning the walls of all of the corridors in Hogwarts that he rarely studied any of them – but on this occasion a sudden movement in the painting caught his eye. Some type of tame, hooded bird of prey – a falcon perhaps – that had been sitting quietly on a perch in the background, took off as they passed and flew quickly out of the painting with silent, firm beats of its wings, disappearing somewhere behind the picture frame. Harry was sure that he had seen a similar bird in another painting recently. He thought that it was probably one of the paintings of former headmasters that had been housed in the historical archive, but he couldn’t remember which one. Harry stopped and went over to study the painting more closely. It was clearly a former scene from the grounds of Hogwarts. It depicted a senior student, dressed in an ancient-looking deep green smock and leggings – rather than the flowing student robes that Harry was more accustomed to – holding the Hogwarts’ House Cup in his outstretched hands, while a crowd of other students, of all ages, dressed in similar smocks of green, blue, red and yellow stood around the periphery, some clapping and cheering, others sullen and looking glum. To the right of the figure stood an empty space, filled only by an ornate wooden table, upon which the cup had presumably previously been standing, and the now empty perch vacated by the bird that had first attracted Harry’s attention.

Harry peered at the engraved brass plaque that was attached to the bottom rail of the picture frame.

“Sequis Magister, Headmaster of Hogwarts, presents the House Cup to the head student of Slytherin on the occasion of their record tenth win in a row,” Harry read. “Hermione,” he called, “did this painting use to be here when we were students? I don’t remember it.”

Hermione, who had walked on a few paces, turned and came slowly back towards him. She shook her head.

“I don’t think so. Haven’t you noticed? Most of the paintings now seem to show something to do with Slytherin. It must be the work of the Carrows. That’s something that we can certainly help Professor McGonagall with once we’ve finished with the Elder Wand; putting all of the paintings back the way that they were and sending these ones down to the archives where they belong.”

Harry laughed and the two of them continued on along the corridor. Neither of them was aware of the blue robed figure with the matching pointed hat and flowing white hair that ran panting into the painting that they had just been studying. It was Sequis Magister, alerted to their presence by his pet falcon and arriving just too late from his preferred location in his portrait in the historical archive.

“Harry! Harry Potter, I need to talk to you. There’s something that I must tell you about the Hallows. It’s vitally important,” he shouted despairingly. But Harry and Hermione were already out of ear shot as they made their way towards the headmaster’s study and didn’t hear a word that he said.

11. Factoris

The Elder Wand

Author’s note: Sorry for the delay in updating. Blame my holidays and slight apathy. Judging by the paucity of reviews, this story has not particularly appealed to most of you. Still, I’ve enjoyed writing it and I would like to thank my regular reviewers, (you know who you are). One more chapter after this one, but it might take a couple of weeks to post it.

Part 10. Factoris

Harry and Hermione removed Dumbledore’s portrait from the headmaster’s study and carried it to an empty classroom, farther down the corridor so that they could discuss their ideas with him in private. Dumbledore, sitting serenely in his portrait resting on a side-table and propped against a wall that was covered in photographs taken during the previous year’s Quidditch final, was very impressed with Hermione’s plan as she outlined it to him.

“It seems to be a far more certain way of negating the power of the Elder Wand than just leaving it with Harry. I can’t see any reason why it should not work,” he said, thoughtfully.

“But, what about you Professor?” Harry asked, the genuine concern only too evident in his voice. “You’ll be brought back to life and then, effectively, killed again. Are you sure that you can cope with that?”

“My dear boy,” Dumbledore replied in the kindly voice that he often reserved for his conversations with students, “how like you to think of the feelings of others when such serious issues are at stake. Don’t forget how I died, Harry. I chose to die. I had accomplished what I needed to and it was time to leave things to others. I have no wish to pick up that burden permanently again. So don’t worry about me. When the time comes, I will be ready.”

“Thank you Professor. So long as you are sure,” Hermione interrupted, as Harry continued to look on anxiously.

“You see, Harry,” Dumbledore continued. “Fortunately, Hermione is more practical than you are. That is why I always relied on her to do the sensible thing and why I always thought that the two of you worked so well together.”

Harry sighed and reluctantly pulled the Elder Wand from within the folds of the Invisibility Cloak. He took the Resurrection Stone from his pocket and placed it on a wooden desk that stood in front of him, the surface deeply disfigured by the impact of many misplaced spells cast by students over the years. Remembering his strange encounter with the hooded figure in the Forbidden Forest and the advice that he had received, Harry carefully placed the tip of the wand against the jagged crack in the stone.

“Reparo!” he chanted.

“What are you doing, Harry?” Hermione asked, surprised by this unexpected action.

“Well, it’s best to be safe, isn’t it?” Harry replied, gratified to see the Resurrection Stone glow momentarily, as the shiny black matrix bubbled briefly before settling to reveal a smooth, unblemished surface. “The stone might not work properly if it’s damaged.”

Hermione looked doubtful, wondering why Harry hadn’t mentioned this concern to her previously, but decided not to pursue the matter.

Harry took a deep breath.

“OK, here goes,” he said, looking across at Dumbledore’s portrait, “if you are sure that you’re ready Professor, we might as well get started straight away?”

The image of Dumbledore, in the portrait, merely nodded his head in acquiescence.

Harry picked up the stone and, focusing his attention on Dumbledore’s portrait, he carefully and very deliberately, rotated it clockwise three times.

At first, nothing appeared to happen, except perhaps a gentle movement of air, like a mild summer breeze, wafting from the direction of the portrait. Then the figure in the portrait started to waiver and distort, like a badly tuned television picture, and as the image gradually became less distinct, Harry and Hermione were aware of the outline of their former professor forming in front of them, slowly filling with colour and becoming solid. In less than a minute, it was over. The painting showed a vacant chair, positioned in an empty study and Dumbledore stood before them, resplendent in flowing white robes, his uninjured hand running over his body, feeling its solidity with a sense of disbelief.

“Merlin’s beard, it worked!” he chuckled, but his expression quickly became more serious. “However, I mustn’t get used to it. We must press on immediately Harry, in case I change my mind. Are you ready?”

Dumbledore was holding his wand awkwardly in his blackened damaged hand and now transferred it to his other good hand, while keeping his expectant gaze fixed firmly on Harry, who was standing apprehensively before him, breathing rapidly, his eyes flickering between Hermione and Dumbledore, seeking reassurance.

“We must make this look good. We don’t know whether the Elder Wand can detect subterfuge. You know what you have to do, Harry,” Dumbledore continued.

Harry nodded, raising the Elder Wand shakily in front of him, his eyes now locked, unwaveringly on the older man’s lips, determined not to be taken by surprise. As soon as he noted Dumbledore’s lips parting, with his preparatory breath, Harry launched into his own shouted spell.

“Expelliarmus!” Harry heard Dumbledore cry, just fractionally before the final tones of his own echoed spell reached his ears. The Elder Wand flew from Harry’s hand and was expertly caught, alongside his own wand, by Dumbledore, who smiled broadly at the achievement.

“Phase two successfully accomplished, I think. I am now the rightful owner of the Elder Wand once more,” Dumbledore exclaimed.

Hermione, who was standing just off to the side, spontaneously clapped her hands and beamed with pride, feeling extremely relieved that her idea seemed to be working, despite her earlier misgivings.

“OK, now for the really important part; phase three and phase four,” Harry said, trying hard to suppress a smile. “Can I borrow the Elder Wand briefly, Professor?”

“Certainly, dear boy,” Dumbledore replied with exaggerated politeness, leaning forward in a slight bow as he placed the wand in Harry’s outstretched hand. “You may borrow it for exactly one minute.”

Hermione involuntarily glanced at her watch, mentally noting the time. She found that she was tapping her foot impatiently, inwardly longing for this to be over, her previous strong feeling of apprehension returning.

With all three of the Hallows once again in his possession, Harry stared at Dumbledore, concentrating fiercely, and rotated the Resurrection Stone three times counter-clockwise.

Immediately, Dumbledore’s image began to blur and a distorted tunnel of light appeared to join his body to the frame surrounding his now empty portrait. Gradually, his form grew fainter, as if the resolution of the pixels of matter that formed it was diminishing and a hazy image once more began to appear on the background enclosed within the picture frame, propped against the wall. Then with a final brief flash of light the transformation was complete and Dumbledore smiled up at them again from his painting. A vague, distorted haze was all that marked the spot where the professor had stood just seconds earlier.

Harry began to laugh but, as soon as Dumbledore’s image was firmly back in place, he suddenly felt dizzy and a wave of nausea pulsed through his body. Hermione, who was just raising her arms in a gesture of triumph and relief, her gaze fixed on the portrait, caught the sagging of Harry’s frame out of the corner of her eye and turned to look directly at him as he bent from the waist, hands clutching at his stomach, his face ashen.

“Harry, what is it? What’s wrong?” she cried, sudden panic gripping her.

“Don’t…know…feel strange,” Harry mumbled in a strained voice.

Hermione again felt the same gentle shifting of the air that had accompanied Dumbledore’s transformation and an indistinct buzzing noise, like that from a distant swarm of mosquitoes on a summer’s evening, seemed to surround her. Behind Harry’s stricken figure, hazy patches of colour were beginning to appear, gradually coalescing into the form of a man. Although Hermione had no way of knowing it, the vision, slowly forming as if from the air itself, was the same brown-robed figure that Harry had seen earlier that day at the edge of the clearing in the Forbidden Forest. Only this time, the hood attached to the robe was thrown back to reveal a thin, pale, haggard face with a light grey stubble covering the cheeks and chin. The nose was long and pointed and the eyes were grey and piercing. The forehead stretched back from a heavy brow to a crown that was sparsely covered by long, unkempt strands of silvery hair. As the figure began to take shape, Hermione was conscious that Harry’s own image was beginning to fade and as she watched, horrified, the figure’s eyes closed, with an appearance almost of ecstasy, and the thin lips spread into a smile of triumph. There was a dull thud as the Resurrection Stone dropped from Harry’s hand and rolled onto the floor.

“Finally, after all of this time, this was what was always meant to happen. The Master of Death has used the Resurrection Stone three times,” the figure croaked, in a voice weakened and distorted from disuse.

“You’re…you’re Factoris?” Hermione managed to stammer.

The image of the man, growing increasingly clear and solid, opened its eyes and turned to stare in Hermione’s direction, as if becoming aware of her presence for the first time.

“Yes, I’m Factoris and I’ve waited for this moment for far too long. All of my careful plans ruined by that idiot, Antioch and his ridiculous vanity.”

As Factoris spoke, Hermione was acutely aware that, in front of him, Harry’s form was now blurred and indistinct. She stared blankly at him, a feeling of desperation rising within her chest, her breathing uneven and tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. Had Harry really used the Resurrection Stone three times? Once to bring Dumbledore back to life; once to reverse the process; and…he must have used it in the Forbidden Forest on his way to meet Voldemort! Even though the stone was damaged at the time that must still count…and that made three times. Now, Harry was dying right in front of her, disappearing into oblivion, unless she could find some way to stop it.

With a trembling hand she pointed her wand at the Resurrection Stone, now lying on the floor, close to the fading image of Harry’s feet.

“REDUCTO!” she screamed and the powerful curse intended to destroy solid objects pulsed from her wand and buffeted the stone, moving it fractionally but doing no apparent damage.

“Foolish witch,” Factoris chuckled, “do you really think that your puny magic can overcome the work of the most powerful wizard who ever lived. You do not want to annoy me, young lady. My regeneration will be over in just a few more moments and then, if you try to hinder me further, you might well regret it.”

Ignoring Factoris’ threats, Hermione looked around the room, frantically seeking inspiration, but could find none. She glanced at her watch, registering that all of 45 seconds had passed since Dumbledore had given Harry his permission to use the Elder Wand. Only fifteen seconds remained before the wand would revert back to Dumbledore’s control and be useless.

“Harry,” Hermione cried, finally appreciating their single remaining hope, “use the wand. Please Harry. It’s your only chance.”

Harry, who was wracked by nausea as his vision dimmed and his surroundings melded into an indistinct blur of colours and shapes, heard the words, muffled and deep, like a gramophone record played at too slow a speed, but his thought processes, although deadened and treacle-like, were still just able to understand them and to register their significance. It was Hermione. Never giving up, trying to help him as always, and he knew that he desperately needed to follow her advice.

He raised his hand slowly and deliberately, still grasping the Elder Wand, feeling a great weight apparently pushing downwards against him.

“Reducto,” he muttered indistinctly. The tip of the Elder Wand vibrated briefly but the movement soon faded.

“Try again! Please try again, for me, Harry. Please,” Hermione implored, glancing again at her watch. Only eight seconds now remaining…only seven…only six…

The sound of Hermione’s desperate pleading penetrated the fog that was gradually obscuring Harry’s senses and seeping into his brain. “For her,” he thought and with a final immense effort he concentrated all of his remaining mental strength on the blurry image of the Resurrection Stone, using both hands to steady the wavering tip of the Elder Wand that was pointing towards it.

“REDUCTO!” The muffled sound of his own voice reverberated around in Harry’s brain and he couldn’t be sure whether he had managed to chant the spell or had just imagined it.

But Hermione, to her great relief, heard the word clearly, appearing as if out of the ether, from the place where Harry’s image was now just a ragged outline, filled with indistinct blotches of hazy colour. She also heard Factoris’ wail of despair as a strong curse shot through the air, shattering the Resurrection Stone and sending a shower of tiny pieces pinging across the classroom floor. Simultaneously, there was a sharp crack, as the Elder Wand fractured and, dropping from Harry’s hand, clattered to the floor.

The image of Factoris rapidly faded and was finally extinguished as the energy that it had held surged back into the figure of Harry, reforming and growing in the exact spot where he had turned the Resurrection Stone just a minute previously.

Hermione ran towards him, throwing her arms around his shoulders and clasping her hands behind him, her cheek pressing against Harry’s neck.

“Oh Harry, I thought that I’d lost you,” she wailed, sobbing.

Harry’s breathing, which had been laboured and painful during his transformation, was becoming less ragged and he was relieved that he could now feel the warmth of Hermione’s body pressing against him. Without any conscious thought, he found that he was kissing her. Brief, light kisses at first; on her forehead, on her eyebrows, on her cheeks, wherever he could reach; and then, as she raised her face to look at him, a long, hungry kiss on her mouth. He felt Hermione respond, her tongue darting between his parted lips, and it was the most wonderful feeling that he could remember, since that first passionate, but false, embrace with Ginny over a year ago.

“Hermione,” Harry muttered, when they finally pulled apart, breathing heavily, “How could I ever manage without you? I think that it’s time that we stopped kidding ourselves, don’t you?”

Hermione stared up at him, a mixture of hope and concern etched in her expression.

“What do you mean?” she whispered.

“I think you know.” Harry paused, taking a deep breath. “I would very much like for us to become more than just friends. What do you say?”

“Is that really what you want?” Hermione frowned slightly, doubt still evident in her eyes. “But, what about Ginny?”

“That’s all over,” Harry replied emphatically. “It was never real anyway. Voldemort was behind it. This is definitely what I want.”

Hermione opened her mouth questioningly, wanting to seek further explanation, but Harry brought one hand up, pressing its index finger against her lips to temporarily silence her, before using his own lips to complete the task.

Dumbledore’s portrait smiled knowingly, as if a plan, long in its gestation, had finally come to fruition.

Later, after Harry and Hermione had restored Dumbledore’s portrait to its rightful place on the wall of the headmaster’s study, they walked back along the corridors, hand in hand, heading for the Gryffindor common room. Harry hardly noticed the painting that had so captivated his interest earlier that day, until he heard his name being called.

“Mr. Potter. Harry Potter, I must speak with you please. It’s urgent.”

The voice was plaintive and sounded vaguely familiar, although much more high pitched than Harry recollected.

He turned, releasing Hermione’s hand, and retraced a few paces, bending slightly to peer into the picture that appeared to be the source of the cry. Harry noted that the painting now seemed to contain its full complement of characters. The hooded falcon was sitting quietly on its perch and the previously empty space in front of it was now occupied by a tall thin, white haired wizard, dressed in dark blue robes and a matching pointed hat. The resemblance to Anticious Magister was quite striking and Harry surmised immediately that the figure addressing him must be that of the younger brother, Sequis Magister.

As Harry narrowed his eyes, squinting to get a clearer view, sensing Hermione move over towards him, the diminutive figure continued speaking to him in a slightly breathless manner.

“I’m so glad that I caught you and I do hope that I’m not too late, but I heard my brother speaking to you about the Hallows made by Factoris and there is something that he neglected to tell you; something that is quite important and could prove dangerous for you.”

Both Harry and Hermione were now peering at the tiny figure, giving it their full attention and straining to hear the faint and slightly tinny-sounding voice that was speaking to Harry.

“I understand, Mr. Potter, that you are the rightful owner of all three Hallows and I believe that my brother gave you the impression that Factoris made the Hallows as a gift for his new master, Antioch,” Sequis continued. “Well, that idea is completely ridiculous. The two of them simply did not get on. No, many of us, who were there at the time – unlike Anticious, who was already teaching at Hogwarts and therefore bases his opinion purely on hearsay – believed that Factoris, knowing that he was close to death, presented the Hallows to Antioch as part of a deception designed to enable his resurrection. He styled the Hallows after the legend of the three determinants of destiny – Kuzaliwa, Maisha and Kifo – and he made great use of the magical power of the number three – inherent in all matters of fate – in their formation. All three Hallows have to be possessed by a single person to make them the Master of Death and enable them to use the Resurrection Stone – the great arbiter of life and death. In its turn, the Resurrection Stone must be rotated three times, to give or take away life. But, Factoris also implanted some rather dark magic into the stone so that if it was used three times it would draw the life force out of the user and transfer it into Factoris’ own shade, languishing in the place of the dead. So, you should not, on any account, make use of the Resurrection Stone and certainly don’t use it three times!”

Sequis paused triumphantly, relieved to have unburdened himself of this message. Neither Harry nor Hermione, recognising his obvious satisfaction, could bring themselves to inform him that his warning had come too late.

“But why would Factoris have taken such a risk? Why rely on Antioch to use the stone?” Hermione interjected.

“Well, he didn’t really have any other choices if he wanted to regain his life,” Sequis responded without hesitation. “There was no simple, known magic that could accomplish it. Factoris didn’t have too much contact with the three brothers as they grew up but, even from his brief acquaintance with Antioch, it was claimed that he found him to be an extremely conceited young man and so I think that it was probably quite reasonable for Factoris to surmise that he would enjoy dabbling in the lives of others sufficiently to be drawn to use the stone repeatedly. However, Factoris misjudged Antioch in that assumption. He underestimated the shallowness of his character and, of course, he knew nothing about Cadmus and the tragic loss of his young love. So, he didn’t take account of how desperate Cadmus would be to possess the Resurrection Stone and how persistently he would pester his brother until he got his way.”

“It all seems a bit complicated,” Harry frowned. “Why couldn’t Factoris arrange things so that the Resurrection Stone just brought him back to life instead of the person that it was meant to when it was first used?”

“No, that is impossible,” Sequis bridled. “It is not permissable for a wizard to directly regain his own life by taking that of another. Legend states that it has to result from the actions of the other wizard that demonstrate that he is unworthy, in some way. In this case, Factoris utilised the repeated use of the Resurrection Stone, toying with the fate of others, and evoking the power of the magical number – three. In that way, the wizard could be considered to have forfeited their own right to life and their life force could be magically redirected into a waiting spirit, such as that of Factoris.”

“Well, thank you for telling me, Sequis,” Harry replied smiling, retaking hold of Hermione’s hand. “But you can rest assured that the power of the Hallows has been broken. They are destroyed…all except one, that is.”

Without any further explanation, Harry shook open the Invisibility Cloak, which he was still carrying, and cast it expertly over himself and Hermione so that they could continue their journey together, undisturbed.

12. Epilogue

The Elder Wand

Author’s note: I don’t particularly enjoy stories that ignore canon. For this reason, my previous stories have dealt primarily with events after the DH epilogue. This is my first story that has suggested an alternative reality prior to the DH epilogue. I therefore have to bring it back into line with canon. This chapter assumes the generally accepted timeline that Harry started school in 1991. It is set in 2006, the year before the publication of DH and is for those of you who, like me, can’t ignore the DH epilogue. For those of you who can, don’t bother reading this chapter, just accept that Harry and Hermione were married and lived happily ever after!

Part 11. Epilogue

Harry Potter sat at the kitchen table in the house that he shared with his wife and children. The house, which had been built only about 20 years before, could best be described as spacious and exclusive and Harry knew that it was far larger than they really needed. He had bought it – using some of his extensive funds – because of its position – close to London – and its seclusion – the dwelling was set well back from the quiet country lane that provided access, in about half an acre of land. The house was reached by a long gravel drive and both the front and rear gardens – which were laid mainly to lawns surrounded by colourful shrubs and flowerbeds – were protected by tall evergreen hedges. There was a large double-garage to one side and the property was situated between other similarly grand and secluded houses, all of which backed onto open countryside. Harry was conscious that he now lived in a very wealthy area; a far cry from the pretentions to affluence of Privet Drive. All of his neighbours were “something in the city” and they clearly assumed that he was the same, since all that they knew was that he travelled up to London most days and could afford to live in this area. They were also aware that his smart and rather attractive wife similarly worked in London, presumably doing charity work, since she certainly would not need an income of her own, and that his children – who were currently asleep in their bedrooms upstairs – were bright and precocious and went to a local private school. If they had realised that when Harry left for work in the morning he was destined for the Ministry of Magic and that his wife was heading to St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, while the children would, in time, be attending Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, there would have been an outcry that would have completely disrupted the smug affluence of the neighbourhood.

The décor of the kitchen, like that of the rest of the house, was modern and rather utilitarian, with pale wood cupboards, a slate-grey tiled floor and black granite work surfaces – in their Muggle life, Harry and Hermione tried to avoid any hints of eccentricity. The rectangular kitchen table at which Harry was seated, set towards the back of the room near the door, was made from a matching pale wood and was large enough to comfortably seat six people. As he often did when Hermione was not at home in the evening, Harry had pulled out the battered wooden storage box that he kept in the under stairs cupboard and was rummaging through its’ contents, reliving old memories of his time at Hogwarts; the most influential years of his life. There was the rather dishevelled piece of official looking parchment inviting Harry to attend the school and his first set of Hogwarts’ robes; there was the Monster Book of Monsters, still held in check by a stout leather strap; there was the remaining fragment of the mirror given to Harry by his godfather, Sirius and the Golden Snitch bequeathed to Harry by Professor Dumbledore; and hidden away, having slipped right to the bottom of the box, there were the broken shards of the Elder Wand and the gold setting that had once held the Resurrection Stone. Harry reached in and pulled out the disfigured, incomplete ring and turned it thoughtfully between his fingers. Turning this very ring in just this way had almost cost Harry his life but inadvertently had led to the best thing that could possibly have happened to him; his marriage to Hermione Granger.

Harry could vividly remember those awful waves of nausea that had swept over his body as he battled for his life with Factoris, the room around him fading into a blur of colours and shapes while sounds became muffled and distorted. Through it all, however, he had still been able to vaguely discern Hermione’s voice and presence, desperately supporting him and willing him on. Without that knowledge, Harry believed that he might have given in, just to spare himself the pain of the effort needed to fight back. But the desire not to disappoint Hermione, to somehow get back to her, had driven him on. As he recalled those moments, he could again feel the weight pressing down on his arm as he tried stoically to point the Elder Wand at the blurred image of the Resurrection Stone, lying on the floor close to his feet. Then there had been that juddering spasm as his life force returned explosively to his body, accompanied by that last terrible wail of despair from Factoris. It seemed that the return to full consciousness had been accompanied by a heightening of his senses and that first beautiful, lingering kiss with Hermione had etched a deep neural pathway in his brain so that, even now, eight years later, if he closed his eyes, he could still taste the sweetness of her breath and feel the moistness of her lips. That kiss, originating as it had out of their mutual fear of loss, had finally caused them both to drop their fragile veneer of casual friendship and banish the insecurities that had kept them apart for so long. The result was a passionate day and night spent in the Room of Requirement that, even with all of the good things that had happened since – marriage; children; a relatively peaceful family life – still remained as the high point of Harry’s existence. The following morning, Harry had wandered dreamily up to the Gryffindor common room to find Ron’s owl waiting impatiently for him with a message that Fred’s funeral was to be held the next day. That information had brought their idyll to a premature end, thrusting them back into the reality of their situation and all of their old anxieties about their relationships with the Weasleys had returned. They had fretted, for the rest of the morning, about how they should handle the situation. Harry had been all for openness, regardless of the consequences, but Hermione had urged him to be more sensitive.

“Ron has been your best friend for seven years and the Weasleys treat you like a member of the family. You can’t risk ruining that,” she had warned, “and what about Ginny, she’ll be heart-broken. She has been set on becoming Mrs. Harry Potter since she was about 10 years old!”

So, when they had returned to the Burrow, they had maintained the pretence and had kept their distance from each other, although Harry could remember that he had still been able to snatch a few fleeting, secretive kisses when he had been certain that nobody else was around. And things had not been as bad or as difficult as they had expected. Ginny had been quiet and withdrawn, filled with grief at the loss of one of her favourite brothers and, seemingly embarrassed by the knowledge of the influence that Voldemort had wielded over her, she had turned to her mother and father for condolence rather than to Harry. For his part, Harry had been polite and concerned but had avoided being alone with her and Ginny had seemed to sense that things had changed and to realise that the situation was irretrievable. An awkward atmosphere had hung between them for a few weeks but this had largely been due to Harry’s sense of guilt. Then one morning, after Harry had returned to Hogwarts to help with the restoration work, mainly because he had needed something to do and didn’t really have anywhere else to go apart from the Burrow, Ginny had cornered him unexpectedly as he emerged from the portrait hole, exiting the Gryffindor common room.

“Harry, what’s going on?” she had asked him defiantly.

“What do you mean?” Harry really had not been sure, taken off guard by the suddenness of the confrontation.

“It seems that we hardly dare speak any more. We’re walking on eggshells and I hate it.” Ginny had actually stamped her foot in frustration as she said this.

Harry had looked down, not knowing how to reply and had shifted his own feet awkwardly.

“I know that what I did was wrong,” Ginny had continued, “and I’m sorry if…”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Harry had interrupted, finally looking up at her. “It was Voldemort’s doing.”

“Yes, I realise that, but perhaps I could have resisted more – if I hadn’t wanted it so much anyway.”

It had then been Ginny’s turn to look away, embarrassed by what she had just confessed, and a heavy, solemn silence had hung between them for a while.

“I always knew about Hermione,” Ginny had eventually said, a subtle air of defiance creeping into her tone.

“What do you mean?” Harry had asked again, unconscious of the repetition.

“Come on Harry, I’m not stupid and I am a woman. It was obvious whenever I talked to Hermione about you; and I would see the way that she gazed at you when she thought that nobody was looking. I always knew that she fancied you, Harry. She didn’t just want to be your friend, although she would never have admitted it to anyone. I told Ron as well, but he didn’t want to listen. It just made him even more jealous than he already was. For some reason he was fixated on Hermione, although it was clear to everyone that they weren’t suited.”

Harry had stood with his mouth hanging open, like a goldfish pressed up against the glass wall of its tank, a deep frown creasing his brow as he struggled for words.

Ginny had begun to look quite smug.

“Don’t look so shocked Harry,” she had said coyly. “You and Ron never had much of a clue about women, did you?”

She had smiled sweetly and Harry had not been able to stop himself laughing.

“I’m all right with it, Harry,” Ginny had continued, still smiling. “I’ll get over you. We Weasleys are tougher than we look you know. And Ron will get over it too. We talked about it when you and Hermione went back to Hogwarts before Fred’s funeral.”

“You told Ron?” Harry had gasped, returning to his impression of an asthmatic goldfish.

“Yes,” Ginny had laughed, “and he was grumpy as usual but eventually even he admitted that it was inevitable that the two of you would hook up. Anyway, I think that he now has other fish to fry, if I’m not very much mistaken.”

“Ginny, I can’t believe this. How could everyone know except me?” Harry had been incredulous.

“Because, let’s face it, you’re a bit thick Harry and far, far too modest,” Ginny had replied. “Anyway, I don’t want things to be like this between us. I want to get back to normal.”

“Friends?” Harry had tentatively held his hand out for Ginny to take.

“Good friends,” Ginny had answered, pushing Harry’s hand aside and reaching up, with her hands gently grasping his shoulders, to kiss him firmly on the lips.

And when Harry had thought about it later, he could see that she had been right about Ron. From the moment that Harry and Hermione had returned to the Burrow for Fred’s funeral, Ron had seemed preoccupied and had largely ignored Hermione. Over the next few days, he had often disappeared furtively and been gone for hours at a time. When Harry had asked him where he had been, Ron would normally only say that he had been down by the stream or checking up on something but on one occasion Harry had secretly followed him until he was certain that Ron was heading in the direction of the Lovegood’s property. After that, Harry had not pestered Ron anymore and had just made sure that Ron, or any of the other Weasleys, did not catch him and Hermione alone together.

After Harry’s talk with Ginny things had changed completely. Harry had returned to the Burrow and had invited Ron to have a drink one evening at the local pub, so that he could talk to him with no fear of interruption. When they were seated opposite each other across a wobbly wooden table, in front of a gently smouldering open fire, their second glass of fire whisky nestled in their hands, Harry had finally plucked up the courage to broach the subject that threatened to divide them.

“Ron, I think that you should know that Hermione and I have started to go out together,” he had said hesitantly.

“That’s old news,” Ron had snorted. “Ginny told me ages ago.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Mind? Why should I mind? If Ginny’s OK with it; I never had any particular hold over Hermione. I just fancied her, that’ all.”

“Yeah, but that’s just it,” Harry had persisted. “We’re all friends and I knew that you fancied Hermione and I don’t want to upset you. Remember what happened with the locket?”

“Look Harry, I appreciate your concern,” Ron had taken a large gulp of fire whisky and his voice had become hoarse, moisture trickling from the corners of his eyes as he suppressed a cough, “but stop being such a drama queen. I’m not going to fly into a jealous rage, if that’s what you think. I told you a long time ago that I had given up on Hermione. It was always a stupid idea, in any case.”

Harry had known that Ron didn’t really mean what he had said, but he had also known that Ron didn’t want to admit his true feelings and so, for the sake of their friendship, Harry had decided not to press the matter. He had changed the subject by asking Ron for his opinion of the new beater for the Chudley Cannons and the pair of them had gotten progressively more drunk and verbose as the evening wore on, before staggering back to the Burrow sometime after midnight.

Harry had told Hermione about his conversations with Ginny and Ron and they had decided that the time for caution and secrecy was now over. They had still been careful when they were with any of the Weasleys, restricting themselves to holding hands and light kisses, not wanting to flaunt their new intimacy too openly and this sensitivity had been rewarded by a gradual acceptance of their developing relationship, even by Molly. However, Molly’s attitude of benign hostility had changed to complete indifference after Ron suddenly announced that he and Luna were to be married. Harry had been astonished when he had first heard the news.

“Are you sure that you know what you are doing, you always thought that she was crazy?” he had challenged Ron.

“No I didn’t,” Ron had been instantly defensive, “well, perhaps a little. But when you get behind all of that, she’s really nice and she makes me feel really good about myself, which isn’t something that I’ve had too much experience of.”

Harry, who knew enough about Ron’s insecurities to fill several large volumes, had smiled at that and had just wished his friend good luck. Ron’s precipitant marriage had left the way totally clear for Harry and Hermione and they, in turn, had been married six months later. Ginny had drifted through several relationships but never seemed to settle on anyone and Harry worried that she was still pining for their lost romance. He felt guilty but had no choice but to leave her to work through whatever feelings she still had for him at her own pace, hopeful that no permanent damage had been done.

Harry revolved the ring slowly in his fingers once more, his thoughts returning from the past to the present issue that threatened to upset the peaceful, private Muggle life that he now shared with Hermione. The kitchen was a large room, with the primary access being through a doorway leading from the main hallway of the house. However, there was also a doorway that opened onto the sitting room and Harry had entered by this route, leaving the door ajar behind him. Looking through this opening from his vantage point behind the kitchen table, Harry could just see the corner of the elegant bookcase that nestled in an alcove next to the fireplace in the sitting room. He knew that on the shelves of that bookcase sat copies of the volumes that had caused such a stir in the Muggle world and that still represented such a challenge to his privacy – Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone; Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets; Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban; Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire; Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix; Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. When the first two volumes of this series had been published back in 1997 and 1998, nobody in the magical world even noticed. The battle against Voldemort had been raging and the Ministry was in turmoil. Voldemort and his supporters treated the Muggle world with disdain and certainly paid no attention to their literature. However, by the time that The Prisoner of Azkaban was published in 1999, the battle against Voldemort was over, Muggle memories had been modified and the activities of Muggles were once again under close scrutiny. The excitement surrounding the publication was therefore soon noted and to their horror the Ministry discovered that this book was the third volume in a series of children’s stories telling Muggles all about the magical world and particularly about its most celebrated individual, Harry Potter. A high-powered committee was therefore quickly set up to review the potential crisis that this could precipitate. When subjected to a close review, the stories proved to be remarkably accurate in their major details and it was clear that their source had access to the Dursleys and also to Hogwarts and, in particular, the Gryffindor common room. Despite all of their efforts, the committee were unable to determine where the information was coming from and to put a stop to it. The popularity of the books and their widespread, but by no means universal, distribution meant that it was difficult to consider any attempts at memory modification or property destruction. In any case, there were fears that further universal memory modification could react adversely with that already imposed to cover the actual impact that Voldemort’s activities had inflicted. However, much to their relief the committee found that nobody in the Muggle world seemed to take the stories seriously. They considered them to be purely the work of an extremely ingenious imagination and so it was decided to simply monitor the situation and to try to limit any possible damage that might result. This strategy proved to be very successful and, in fact, many wizards and witches quite enjoyed the stories, although it was clear that much of the finer detail and private interactions between the protagonists were, at best, conjecture. Of the people who were most at risk of being recognised, Vernon Dursley had already died, the victim of a heart attack, brought on by years of obesity and the stress of thinking that he might be a potential target for Voldemort. As soon as the first book in the series was published, Petunia and Dudley had moved away from Privet Drive and had started to use Petunia’s maiden name, although few people would have associated the slimmer, pleasant and modest young man that Dudley had become with the overweight, cowardly bully portrayed in fiction. Hermione’s mother and father moved back to Australia and once again took up their identities as Wendell and Monica Wilkins. As far as all of their acquaintances knew, they did not have a daughter and when Hermione visited she presented herself as their niece, Jean. That just left Harry and Hermione, who, after they were married, wanted to live mainly in the Muggle world and give their children an initial Muggle education. This originally had not seemed to be a problem. They also used the surname Wilkins to protect their identities and, although they received some jocular comments about the coincidence that their names matched those of two popular fictional characters, it had seemed highly unlikely that anyone would take the association too seriously. After all, the books up to Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, followed reality closely and clearly indicated a relationship between Ron and Hermione and between Harry and Ginny. In addition, they had deliberately chosen names for their children, Justin and Lucy, which utilised the same initials as those of Harry’s parents but had no other connection with the people associated with him in the books. Then, news had reached the Ministry that the last book in the series, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, was intended to contain an epilogue describing what had happened to the main protagonists after the battle against Voldemort had been concluded. This immediately brought with it the potential that the source knew about the relationships that had developed and that, when this information was revealed, the coincidences would become too great and that Harry and Hermione’s pleasant Muggle existence could be placed in jeopardy.

Harry’s reverie was broken by the sound of a key turning in the front door lock. He pushed his chair back, the legs scraping quietly across the rigid tiled floor, and levered himself up from the table before moving across to the doorway leading out into the hall. He saw Hermione, her back turned towards him, close the front door carefully and start to shrug out of her coat. Even after seven years of marriage, Harry could not look at his wife without a slight quickening of his pulse. To him, she was the most beautiful and elegant woman in the world. He knew that she was not, perhaps, considered to be beautiful in the conventional sense, like Ginny and Cho, although with her slim figure and her hair cut shorter, to tame its bushiness, she drew many admiring glances whenever they were out together. But, since their marriage, Hermione’s self-confidence seemed to have improved and she now exuded an air of calm assurance that couldn’t help but demand attention and, to Harry, everything about her seemed to be perfect.

“Hello, I’m back,” she called as she hung her coat onto one of the metal hooks located on the hallway wall just inside the front door, completely oblivious to the fact that Harry was standing close behind her.

“Hello darling,” Harry replied, smiling as he saw Hermione flinch with surprise.

“Oh, I didn’t know you were there…sneaky.” Hermione also smiled as she walked across to her husband, reaching up to kiss him.

“So, how did things go?” Harry asked as they pulled apart.

“Fine, it’s all sorted. The epilogue has now been suitably modified and nobody will ever realise it. I am now Mrs. Ronald Bilius Weasley and I have two children, Hugo and Rose, while you are married to Ginny and have three children, James, Lily and Albus.”

“Albus!” Harry repeated, his face contorting into a grimace. “You are joking aren’t you?”

“Certainly not,” Hermione replied smugly. “Albus Severus Potter, to be precise.”

Harry laughed. “You’re wicked. You know that, don’t you? But, we’re safe then? There’s no chance that things could be reversed?”

“Not with the power of the magic that I used. Whoever the source is, they won’t be able to do a thing about it,” Hermione replied proudly. “Yes, I think that you can say that we are safe to continue just as we are.” She clasped her hands behind Harry’s neck, kissing him again. “Now let me show you just how wicked I can really be,” she whispered.