Harry Potter and the Ghosts of the Past

Prologue



The pub fit the cliché “hole-in-the-wall” quite well. The structure, shoddy at best, could be found none-other than right off Knockturn Alley.

The hunched wizard, dressed in his burgundy suit, wrung his hands nervously, looking about the room for his patron. Naturally, spotting him in a back corner, the wizard cautiously made his way over to him.

The dim candlelight served well to hide his client's face within the shadow of his hood. He'd yet to get a good look at him, and that unnerved him, but the money was too good to pass up.

“You have news for me, Fletcher?” the voice was harsh and raspy, and commanded a certain air of nobility to it.

“I do, Sir. The boy has retained possession ofit,” he punctuated this last piece.

“Hmm...” the man before him leaned back in his seat, pondering this revelation with his fingertips pressed tensely together. “This is very good news, Fletcher, very good indeed. This will be far easier than I had feared.”

“Excuse me, Sir... but wasn't the whole idea to keepitin his possession?”

The hidden man let loose a small shrill of a laugh, cutting Mundugus cold, right to the bone.

Due to the nature of his profession, many would like to accuse ol' Fletcher of Death Eater dealings, but Dumbledore had found use in Mundugus's skill, and had thus always kept him under his wing and protection. But now, Dumbledore was gone. He had to be careful.

“Whatcha want with the boy anyways?” Fletcher questioned suspiciously. Business always came first, but he hadn't helped try to keep that kid alive for the last seventeen years to just piss it all away now.

“Ah, come to ease my dear Fletcher, I mean the boy no harm. Time will reveal all. Apart from this, I have a another task for you, One hundred Galleons. There is this woman at the Dueling Damsels...”



Chapter One: Plans



Something was wrong. He could sense as much, that something was off. He searched for the word. It swirled evadingly around his tongue yet would not come. He needed the word. With a word there is meaning, a definition. He could not understand this without the word.

The scene felt familiar, like one he'd known, one he'd lived - but he did not recognize the man nor the boy standing apart from one another in the tall grassed field.

There was a somber exchange. The older man approached the boy, kneeling before him and took him in his arms and hugged him close to his chest. It was a solemn goodbye.

The man stood back up and paced off ten steps before he whirled back around on the boy with his wand drawn, fire in his eyes.

"DO IT!" the man bellowed, before the scene changed, like it always did, the yin following the yang. The dark, empty eyes bore into him. Death. The claw of the rotting corpse lurched out to grasp him.



"Ayh!" Harry sat bolt upright, startled within his bed. He discovered himself panting. His heartbeat racing, his body was soaked with sweat. At first, he had no clue as to where he was. There was something in his hand - he looked. He had his wand.

Then Harry heard that all too familiar, obnoxious snoring rumbling from across the room and he turned to shake his head at his best mate, Ron. The Burrow... he was back safe at the Burrow - it had only been a dream. Harry sighed audibly as he collapsed back onto his pillow, now gazing up and past the planked, rickety ceiling.

Why, still with the dreams..?Harry could only ponder. He was supposed to have been done with all that, his connection with Voldemort broken. But the dreams did not abate him.

On that note,however, these were not necessarily of Voldemort though. He'd had them before, he realized this now, but since he had vanquished his sworn enemy, only three nights ago, these seemed to be of a different source altogether.

Morning light was already peeping in from the window, but Harry knew better, that it was still too early to be awake. The Sun had to have just begun to creep over the horizon, shedding light on a new day. A pair of morning birds sang to one another as they danced outside the window - wild and free.

For some reason, Harry's thoughts turned to Hermione, trapped, just like him. Ron was at least home. Home... Harry was not sure where that was for him.

Plagued by his exhaust, he thought of the last time he was here, half-expecting to find it all a dream, Bill and Fleur's wedding decorations still outside and his nightmare still very much alive and well. That day seemed like a lifetime ago.

"Hughmpfnoghn- Hgghfnmmpff!" Ron's incessant snoring rattled on like a tired diesel engine. Between the dream and Ron's blubbering, Harry knew he wouldn't be getting anymore sleep. Defeated, he begrudgingly rolled out of bed and picked up his shorts and t-shirt to make his way downstairs to the kitchen.



"Morning," a voice caught him off guard.

"Oi!" Harry jumped, startled, and in an instant he had his hand at his wand, which was sticking conveniently out his pocket.

Harry's surprise was short lived, thankfully, as it was only Hermione. Harry could tell by her shocked expression that she had seen him go for his wand and he became embarrassed. "Sorry Hermione, didn't expect anyone else to be up, I... I didn't see you there..."

"It's fine Harry, but honestly, must you take that thing with you everywhere?" Hermione asked him about his wand with all her motherly charm.

"What?" Harry defended himself. "Yours is just there," he pointed out, motioning to the table. And sure enough, Hermione had her wand just there beside her, readied at hand. She looked surprised, as if she hadn't been aware it was there all along.

"Habit... I guess," Hermione breathed as she cautiously picked it back up and stowed it away.

The door leading outside suddenly burst open. "Everything alright in here?!" a plump and balding wizard barged his way in with his wand held ready, asking excitedly.

Harry's eyes closed as his head fell back and his fists gripped tightly at his sides.It would never end.Harry did not bother to acknowledge the older wizard, and seeing her best friend's frustration, Hermione decided it best if she were the one to answer.

"Yes Burns, thank you. Everything is just fine, I simply startled Harry when he came down is all."

"Right," Burns nodded but scanned the kitchen suspiciously all the same. "Sounded like someone was in trouble."

"Thank you Burns," Harry finally added, "but as Hermione just pointed out, she startled me was all. I doubt any Death Eaters have learned how to apparate right inside all your defenses," Harry said with loathing. "Or are we going through all this security for nothing?!"

"Right," Burns repeated, looking to Hermione once more before slipping back outside. The latch on the door caught with a slightclick.

Harry was beyond frustration. He couldn't take it anymore. He felt his temper boil inside him, eager to be unleashed and allowed to flow out him.

Since the final battle, the Ministry had insisted that the three, "The Golden Trio" the Daily Prophet had coined them, have a special unit assigned to them for their protection. But to Harry, they were more like his prison guards than his protectors. With his appetite thrown, he knew he still had to eat something so he went for the milk and cereal for an easy breakfast.

"What are you doing up so early for anyways?" Harry asked Hermione now that their "guardian" Burns had left them, and having taken note of the bags under her eyes and the grogginess in her voice. She looked ill.

This tugged at Harry's heart. He had that brotherly-need to protect her. And he could not believe that this was mere coincidence, they the first two up - again. They with the least of sleep but with the greatest need for it. These last few days had been nothing short but of a continuation of the long nightmare that had preceded them this last year.

'At least Ron isn't having any problems!' Harry recalled his snoring with a smirk.

"I could ask you the same thing," Hermione retorted, pulling Harry out of his reverie as she continued to scan over the morning newspaper and sip her coffee absently.

Harry frowned with his back to her. Hermione needed sleep. They were already on to their fourth day since the final battle and still they had only gotten mere pockets of much needed rest just here and there. Didn't the so-called "adults" all know that more than anything, they just needed to sleep?

No. Of course they didn't. Harry felt a swell of rebellion in him for the day head. Three days ago, straight from the battle field they had begun ushering them along, the Trio.

Right off, still standing in the rubble of Hogwarts, began the endless number of interviews by the endless number of departments of Magic, demanding this, investigating about that. Lets just say they didn't get much - most certainly not from Harry that is.

Even worse than the Trio's interrogators were the wards of St. Mungo's, poking and prodding in test after test, examining for any lingering curses or jinxes in the most invasive ways. They had even gone as far as to keep them held up within the hospital under close observation that first night, stealing away their hard earned fight for freedom."It is for your own protection,"the "adults" had assured them.

And then there were the funerals starting on that second day. The countless, tearful, heart wrenching funerals. The faces flitted before him: the small form of Collin Creevey, Remus and Tonks never to see their little Teddy again, Fred, taking half of George and a piece of them all with him, Snape and his true self finally coming to light... and a countless number of other still faces with closed eyes and cold skin, being laid to rest for the final time.

In the end, Harry had become near numb to them - which in and of itself was unnerving. But at least he was allowed to attend. The Ministry never let him get too close, all three of the Trio constantly surrounded by an armed guard wherever they went. The worst thing was that these funerals were their only chance to get outside the walls of St. Mungo's or the Ministry itself. "There are still Death Eaters out after all," they told them,"it's for your own protection."

"Protection?!"Harry loved to mock. That didn't mean the Ministry wouldn't line the three of them up for several well rehearsed press interviews in front of a few dozen reporters though.

It made for great propaganda, showcasing the heroes off like that. "It gives people a sense of security," the officials encouraged them. But as the cameras flashed and the reporters hollered questions randomly and over one another, scribbling angrily away on their quick-quill notepads answers that the Trio never gave, Harry had abruptly put an end to it. All further interviews had still as yet been postponed.

After they had kept them locked up at the Ministry that second night, readily available for continued interviews with continued departments of the Ministry now night and day, Harry had threatened with his wand until Shacklebolt himself got involved and they were delivered back to the Burrow on that third day.

Oh, it didn't mean that there still wasn't a small army of Aurors standing guard outside however, and it most certainly didn't mean that the three had any freedom whatsoever.

"It's worse than being on the run," Harry had grumbled to his two friends on several occasions.

"Are you not talking?" Hermione asked softly, bringing Harry back again. He sighed a long sigh as he ran his fingers through his black, unkempt hair.

"Couldn't sleep," was all Harry said. Hermione looked up and frowned at him.

As he joined her at the table, he thought about telling her of his continued dreams, but then decided against it. It wasn't as if these were visions of Voldemort, and he knew that if he did say anything at all on the topic to her, that she would just flip out and overreact. So, Harry decided to keep his dreams to himself and spare her the trauma.

"Yes, I guess I can't either," Hermione finally answered him with a long sigh of her own, catching his eyes as he sat down. Their gazes held unwaveringly. There was a deep look between them. So much said without a word spoken. They'd long since learned to understand each other like this, all alone during their long nights on the run.

As something passed between them, something some onlooker, some spying Burns could have no understanding of, the two shared a short smile together, there alone in the kitchen of the Burrow. They were warm and familiar and reassuring smiles. For how long now had they been each others only other morning companion? They had made it! They had faced those challenges together and now they would face these, together. They understood each other, and nothing more needed to be said on the matter.

"Mail came early," Hermione said softly, nodding towards the neatly divided stacks that laid beside her. "The poor owl looked as if he were molting - nearly killed over right here. I had to give him a few extra treats..." she said with a smirk.

Harry smiled at Hermione's pouting lip, picturing the unfortunate owl and coming up with Pig, but his humor was cut short by the sight of the four piles. There was a small stack for the Weasleys, two much larger hills for Ron and Hermione, and one deep row that Harry knew belonged to himself.

From that first day following the final battle, an influx of mail had come in from all across the country, plus even a number from abroad. All of them from thankful governments or well-wishers and fans, hoping for an autographed response. Oh, Ron and Hermione got their fair share of it alright, but still not nearly as much as Harry did.

And more than anything, Harry wanted absolutely nothing at all to do with it. He would be happy to simply ignore the letters, ignore everyone, but Hermione insisted. "You at least owe them that, Harry!" she would go on, "It's the least you could do!"

"As if!"Harry yearned to snap back at these, but he always held his tongue. He had no nerve to deny Hermione her wishes. Harry didn't think he owed any of them anything, no one but Ron and Hermione and those few who were there with him at the end, so he sucked it up and did it for Hermione.

And as such, Hermione being Hermione, she diligently saw to it that both he and Ron answered each and every letter - much to their combined chagrin. Ron had even sparked a few rows over it with her, but she was unyielding. Good ol' Hermione.

Harry's hand cramped up just thinking about it.'At least I'm not having to write them with one of Umbridge's quills,'he smiled to himself as he summoned his stack of the mail.

"What?" Hermione asked, seeing Harry's little chuckle.

"Oh," Harry said coyly, "just thinking about how much you remind me of that toad Umbridge."

"Harry!" Hermione gasped, feigning shock. "That's an awful thing to say!"

"Ha, yeah!" Harry laughed as he began to sift through the top few letters with one hand, passing over each while feeding himself with the other. "I'm sorry - only teasing, 'Mione. I was just thinking that at least we're not in detention, writing all these with one of Umbridge's special quills!" Harry was still smiling, but the mood sobered. It wasn't one of their most pleasant memories. On the back of his hand, Harry could still see the faint outline of:"I must not tell lies..."

"When did you start calling me 'Mione anyways?" she asked with a tender smile in her voice, glancing to Harry from beneath her fallen bangs.

"You don't like it? I thought it had a good ring to it..." Harry smiled.

"No, I guess it's okay. Better than Ron's new nickname for me anyways," she shook her head at the recollection.

"What? You don't like Herms?!" They both had a good laugh at this.

Harry carried on with his stack of letters, sifting through them, casting each aside in turn as he continued with his cereal.

"From anyone we know?" Hermione asked him.

"Nah," Harry yawned loudly, "but there are a couple from France and Germany," Harry smiled cheekily as he flipped the faces of the latest addresses towards her as if to prove it. Hermione laughed.

"The famous Harry Potter, we're writing to inform you we've named yet another holiday after you!" she teased him in a mock, male, husky voice. Harry did not appreciate the joke and catapulted some of his milk and cereal at her.

"Hey!" she jumped back laughing, nearly tumbling over in her seat. "Not funny!"

"Neither are you!" Harry countered, smiling just the same as Hermione settled back into her seat, cleaning herself with a quick scourgify.

"How about you, anything good in there?" Harry nodded towards the Daily Prophet she was reading. The top corner of it had arched backwards just enough to where Harry could make out the date in the corner. It only intrigued him because for so long now he had hardly known what day of the week it was, much less the date. It read: May 5th, 1998.

"Most of it's quite awful, I'm afraid. I don't know why I go on with it. Just more stories of the crimes and tragedies committed by Voldemort and his Death Eaters, more people coming out of hiding, telling of their horrible plights. On the upside, I think the Ministry has just about rounded up all those that had escaped from Hogwarts..." she let this piece of news linger.

"Good," Harry said simply as he slurped his cereal off his spoon. "Then maybe they'd send these buffoons home-" Harry nodded towards the back door "-and give us our bloody lives back!" Harry huffed, summing up his anger.

Harry was done with Death Eaters and the like. He did not fear them coming after him and rue the day they did! He certainly did not think he needed a team of bodyguards controlling everywhere he went and looking over his shoulder at everything he did. Hermione nodded her agreement before returning to her paper. Harry flipped away a few more letters.

"And they've named a new Headmaster of Hogwarts..." Hermione trailed off to read on.

"Who?" Harry asked earnestly after Hermione left him hanging.

"Or should I say Headmistress," Hermione smiled coyly.

"McGonnagall?"

Hermione smiled wider and nodded.

"Good," was all Harry said once more and added a strong, furtive nod of his own.

"As her first act, she's annulled the current school year. All students are invited back to retake the term," Hermione read a subtext of the article to him.

"I guess it makes sense. What, final exams aren't even until next month, are they?"

"We'd be taking our N.E.W.T's..." Harry could hardly suppress a laugh as Hermione frowned when she said this. He could see the longing in her eyes.

"Well think of that Hermione! I bet if you start now, you'll just about be ready to ace each one of them by then!" Harry found his own joke particularly funny, but Hermione just shook her head at him.

"What? I'm sure you're already well ahead of the rest. I don't imagine too many learned much from the Carrow's unless it was on how to be a raw git!"

Hermione smirked at this, but at the same time, it wasn't that funny. This past year had been so dark, for them, for Hogwarts, for the whole wizarding community. Nothing was that funny about it. Silence once again fell upon the Burrow.

"Well, I for one am excited about it!" Hermione said.

"Excited?! About school?!" Harry acted shocked. "Imagine that!"

"Oh hush!" she waved him off. "I am, and you should be too! Your N.E.W.T.'s are important Harry! Graduating is important!"

"Hmm..." Harry took another mouthful of cereal. Funny, at the moment, it didn't feel all that important. "I don't know."

"Harry!" Hermione gasped, putting down her paper she turned to face him. "You can't be serious, Harry?! You're going back, aren't you?"

Harry did not answer right off, but pondered it for a moment. Back to school? Hogwarts was his home away from home. He imagined that he should feel elated for the chance to be back inside Hogwarts' walls. But then again... it was no longer the same Hogwarts he remembered.

A fierce battle had left it's scar. They may have cleaned away all the blood, but that didn't mean Harry couldn't remember all it's stains. And Dumbledore was gone. Snape was gone. Dobby was gone. How many had been murdered in those sacred halls? It would be a very different Hogwarts.

It also meant he'd be back on display for all the other students. The other students... He'd just been hunted like a fox for nearly a year by both Voldemort and the Ministry alike and had managed to survive. He and Ron and Hermione had performed magic most of the other students wouldn't in their lifetimes. He had stared death in the face and survived. He defeated Voldemort. Was he past school? "I don't know..." was in the end, all Harry could offer her.

Hermione was about to retort, but Harry's attention was suddenly drawn to the next letter of his stack. There was a large, emblazoned "M" on the front of it - it was from the Ministry of Magic. Seeing this, Hermione saved her smart reply as she watched Harry cautiously tear it open. There was never much good news from the Ministry these days.

Harry unfolded the letter and the more and more of it he read, the faster and faster his eyes darted back and forth across the page. When he finished it, he re-read it once more just for good measure.

Harry shifted uneasily within his seat. He was unsure of how to feel about this news, but one thing he did recognize, was the opportunity it presented him to finish up the "project" he had been working on. Seeing the uneasiness on his face, Hermione could await no longer.

"What is it, Harry?" Hermione asked him softly, afraid of what it might be.

Harry hesitated a moment before he began. "It's the Dursley's. Apparently they're back in England..." Harry trailed off, eying his letter.

Hermione let out an obvious sigh of relief. "Harry, I thought it was... but that's great news! Aren't you glad they're safe?!"

Harry shrugged, not exactly answering her.

"When did they get back?"

"Yesterday," he said dryly. "And they're set to leave today..."

"Today?" Hermione startled. "Leaving? To where? Why?"

"I don't know, it doesn't say," Harry answered honestly.

"Well Harry, you must go to see them!" Hermione adamantly insisted.

Harry looked to her with a twisted, comical expression. "Go see them? What for?!" Harry demanded, but then softened as he could see Hermione's disappointment in him.

"Hermione, just about the only thing the Dursley's hate more than me is magic, and because of me, they had to give up their lives and go into hiding for the last year under magical protection. Ha! No, I don't believe they'd be too thrilled to see me anytime soon!"

"Harry, I know that can't be true! I'm sure they'll be glad to see you," she tried encouraging him, but Harry just shook his head.

"You don't know the Dursleys, Hermione."

"So then I'll go with you," she said matter-of-factly. Harry dropped his hands to the table and stared at them. Here she was, with her own problems, still taking care of him.'What would I do without you?'

Hermione let him sit in his silence. She knew him well enough by now, seeing Harry have to make difficult and tough decisions time and time again, that she knew he liked to think things out, get his thoughts in order. So, she let him think.

"Have I ever told you about the first time I met Hagrid?" Harry seemed to change the subject.

"I believe so," Hermione watched him carefully. "That after you'd received your letter from Hogwarts and your uncle, a bit berserk I believe you told of him, dragged you all out to some remote lighthouse on your birthday?"

"Remote?!" Harry scoffed. "It sat on a tiny, bleeding island! Toted us out in the middle of a storm on a tiny bleeding rowboat!" Harry's eyes faded into the background as he recalled the memory.

"It was the first time I ever met a wizard, the first time I learned that I was a wizard..." Harry sighed, "And my uncle Vernon pulled a shotgun on him."

"Oh!" Hermione gasped. "You never told me that part of the story, Harry! What did he do?!"

"Hagrid?" Harry cocked a brow at her. "He grabbed the barrels with one hand and bent them to the ceiling."

"Ho!" Hermione laughed, covering her gaped mouth with one hand. "Well I guess it could have been worse..."

"It was," Harry frowned.

"What?!"

"My uncle pulled the trigger."

"WHAT?!"

"Yeah."

"Did anyone get hurt?!" Hermione was in disbelief that Harry had not shared all of this before.

"Not exactly. The gun just blew a hole in the ceiling, but my aunt went absolutely mental and my cousin Dudley tried using the distraction to sneak some of my birthday cake Hagrid had made for me..."

"Oh no, don't tell me..?!"

"Hagrid used his little "umbrella" and gave my cousin a pig's tail!" Harry, though doleful in his recollection, couldn't completely suppress a smirk at the memory.

"What?! You're kidding me, Harry!"

"No. And that may be kids play for you and I, Hermione, but I later found out that they had to get it surgically removed..."

"Oh no," Hermione winced.

"Yeah," Harry said even more grimly. "Doesn't matter. They never liked me Hermione. After I learned I was a wizard and could do magic, they feared me. They shunned me..." Harry shook his head, "and I have no doubt my uncle would just as soon pull that shotgun on me now, and you want to go with me?!" Harry chuckled to himself. "Well, it's you're funeral!"

Hermione gave him an empathetic look as she reached across the table and placed a hand on his. For some reason, Harry's eyes closed with her touch. There was a well of history and reassurance that passed through them. Her touch lent him her strength. Her courage gave him courage. They sat in silence for a moment before Harry opened his eyes once more to her full, brown orbs looking back across at him.

"I'll go to be there for you, Harry, because I really think you should, but I'm not going to force you," Hermione gave in, but Harry knew she had already won.

"No," Harry sighed. "No, you're probably right Hermione - as usual. You know, after last time I didn't think I'd ever see them again - didn't think I'd still be alive to see them... and now that I'm of age and Voldemort's history, I don't imagine I'll ever go back there again. But..." Harry took a deep breath, "no matter how unpleasant they are, they are still my family and we parted on good enough terms last time. Maybe, once more, just to see them off..." Harry forced a meek smile.

"I think that's a good idea, Harry. It's settled then," Hermione smiled approvingly, giving Harry's hand a firm squeeze.

"We'll have to be off today though. And soon..." Harry informed her uneasily. There was no telling when the Dursleys would be departing, and though truth be told he wasn't at all that eager to see them, he decided that he needed the alibi and he was none to shy about the opportunity to be delinquent from their planned-for-them day ahead.

As they returned to their preoccupations, Harry stole a glance at Hermione from the corner of his eyes. She was looking back at her paper now, but she was no longer reading, Harry could tell as much. With her brows furrowed, he knew she was busy plotting her own "project," plans he knew she thought were anonymous to everyone, but she couldn't fool him. He knew her too well.

And he in turn sat brooding himself, redrawing his carefully laid plans over within his head. The time had come. He didn't mind one bit an excuse to miss all the day's interviews and examinations, and especially the ever present team of bodyguards. The potion was ready. All he needed to do now was make it into the city to complete their traveling arrangements and then they'd be right to leave, and a trip to the Dursleys' could provide just that. They would be leaving today.

Chapter Two: Breaking


Arthur and Molly were just about as surprised to find the two “children” awake as Harry had been to find Hermione already up and in the kitchen, each of them giving a good start as they entered.

"Aho! Well... hello there you two!" Mr Weasley properly disguised the misgivings that flashed across his face.

"Good morning," Harry and Hermione both greeted them as cheerfully as they could.

"You sure are up early!" Mr Weasley gave a half-nervous laugh. "We just came down to start on breakfast."

Mrs Weasley was not so generous. "Shouldn't you two still be in bed?!" she made a fuss about it with her eyes tearing up. She had been like this over the last three days, a bundle of nerves and the slightest thing could set her off in a bout of tears.

Harry could not blame her. She had lost a son, his twin brother had lost an ear to a dark hex, her oldest had been mauled and scarred by a werewolf, and her youngest son was now forever marked as one of the Golden Trio, one who had brought down the Dark Lord, one who had a large target painted on his back for any would-be two-time loser wanting to make a name for himself. No, Harry could not blame her - and he could not help but feel at least partly, if not wholly responsible for it.

"I guess..." Hermione started, feeling the need to to defend them.

Seeing her falter, Harry dutifully stepped in. "Too many mornings out on the run, I'm afraid we've become a bit of light sleepers." He had meant it as some light hearted joke, but immediately grimaced upon finishing.'Now why did I have to go and say a thing like that for?!'

As he expected, both Arthur and Molly frowned deeply at this, "pitying the poor children." He'd seen the look enough to recognize it, pity. More than anything, Harry could not stand to be pitied.

Harry swallowed the rush of anger that boiled up inside him. This was the Weasleys here, after all. "Not that bad a thing, is it – waking up early?" he finished, mumbling under his breath. He stood up and made his way to the stove – something, anything to keep him busy.

"Harry..." Molly tried to start, but was choked by a lump in her throat. They could see Harry's discomfort.

Harry poured himself a cup of Hermione's coffee, staring down into the dark, swirling liquid with his back to them.

"Harry..." It was Arthur now, just behind him. "You mind sharing some of that joe?"

Harry chuckled before turning to smile at the elder Weasley. Arthur was all cheeks. The tension immediately eased.

"How do you like it?" Harry asked in a lighter mood, pulling out the sugar and cream.

"Thank you Harry, but you don't have to do that."

"I insist," Harry poured a second cup.

"Well then, two cubes and a helping of cream for the misses, I'll have mine black," Arthur grinned, eying the steaming cup greedily.

"Two coffees, coming up!" Harry levitated Molly hers and then Arthur's. "But I've got to worn you - this is some of Hermione's Hair-Raising brew! I don't really care for coffee in general all that much - I imagine hers tastes good enough - but you'll definitely be wired for hours!"

"Harry!" Hermione objected.

"What?!" Harry snickered back. "It's the truth!"

"Tastes wonderful, dear!" Mrs Weasley interjected after sipping hers. "And just what we'll be needing for the day ahead, I imagine."

"Oh yes, very good Hermione!" Mr Weasley jovially seconded his wife after tasting his own.

"I do not recall you ever complaining about it before, Harry?" Hermione did not drop the subject, staring him down with a contemptuous look across her face.

“Not complaining," Harry countered, throwing up his hands. "This stuff was all that kept us going at times..." Harry trailed off, catching himself, not wanting to raise the subject yet again in front of the Weasleys. He kicked himself for saying as much already.

He looked to the floor, to the wall, to the clock with the nine hands - noticing the missing Fred and the addition of Fleur - anything but at the others. He knew what he'd find there, pity. The mood killed again, silence ensued.

"Harry..." a firm hand gripped his shoulder. Harry noticed Mr Weasley share a quick nod with his wife before Arthur turned back to him. "You must not judge us too harshly. Molly and I know you well enough by now to know that you don't appreciate all this... "special attention," but you must understand that you and Hermione are apart of our family now, and one day, when you have kids of your own... to know they're out there, fighting the fight, in grave, life threatening danger..." Arthur choked up for a moment.

"Well, to know all that, to know it and not be able to do anything about it, to protect them as any parent would their child... I'm not going to lie to you Harry - it hurts something fierce." Mr Weasley took hold of both of Harry's shoulders now, squaring them off in front of each other.

"But I also want you to know, Harry, we never lost hope. We never doubted you three. We could see what Dumbledore could see, and we knew our Ronald, out there with the two of you, that you all were going to take care of one another... that you could do it. And Molly and I could never put to words how proud we are of you, how proud we know Sirius and Dumbledore and your parents all are of you."

Harry forced a smile and gave a quick nod.

"Well, enough of all that!" Arthur did his best to try and lighten the mood, but he no sooner spoke than Percy came marching down, already dressed in his finely pressed robes for a day at the Ministry.

"Blessed girl, this is just splendid!" Mrs Weasley bustled once again after finishing her cup. "Percy, you must try some. Hermione has made us a most delicious batch!"

"Ah!" Percy spotted the pot. "Don't mind if I do, thank you Hermione!" Harry poured Percy a mug as Mrs Weasley began attending to breakfast.

"Indeed mother, very good!" Percy gave a nod to Hermione.

"Thank you," she blushed, "I learned from the best. Harry's is even better."

"What?!" Harry slapped his forehead. "I don't even like coffee!"

"Doesn't mean you don't brew the best," Hermione said in her best matter-of-factly tone. "Perhaps it's due to all your potion proficiencies..." Hermione teased him.

"Heh.." Harry flashed her a knowing smile. She'd yet to forgive him for showing her up in their sixth year in potions, with help from the Half-Blood Prince's book or not.

Charlie was the next one down, though still in his striped pajamas.

"Morning all!" he greeted them merrily through a yawn. "You two finally get some decent rest?" he looked to Harry and Hermione. They could only smile and shrug.

Harry had to refill the pot after serving Charlie and joined him and his father at the table while Hermione tried to help Mrs Weasley with breakfast, over all her protests.

By the time Bill and Fleur were down, Charlie had Harry and his dad wrapped up in this hilarious story of a small dragon he'd named Toad, who'd managed to get himself stuck in a Ford Deloriean and of the muggles who'd found him!

With all three ladies going at it, it wasn't long before the kitchen was tantalizing them with aromas of sizzling sausage, frying eggs, hash browns and freshly cut fruit. Harry promptly forgot all about the cereal he'd had earlier as his stomach grumbled like an angry goblin with hunger.

With the delectable smells wafting up the stairs, George, Ginny and lastly Ron, all came trailing down, still half asleep, as zombies to a feast.

"Wha's on the menu?" Ron asked in a long yawn as he stretched at the entry. All eyes turned to him.

His long red hair was all swooshed to one side, curling straight up as if it were being held with Gobbly-Goo. Then there was a long, crusted drool stain running from the corner of his mouth all the way back to his ear. A cacophony of laughter erupted across the Burrow.

"Wha'?" Ron groaned, rubbing first at his eyes before twisting his neck to see if he had something on his back.

"Ron, you've got a little something... just here,." Ginny fingered her chin, messing with him as he then began to rub furiously at his.

"Oh, stop it!" Mrs Weasley waved her daughter off. "Come here, my dear boy. Let me tend to you!"

Mrs Weasley then wet the tip of her apron with some of her own spit and meant to wipe at Ron's cheek.

"MUM!" he wailed, throwing up his arms as he ducked away from her. "What's the big idea?!" Everyone laughed once again at him.

"You've got dribble all across your cheek!"

"Well I don't need you adding to it!" Ron fled around the kitchen table, scrubbing furiously across his face to the continuous laughter and now jostling from his brothers and sister.

"And straighten down your hair!" Mrs Weasley made to pat his head, "you look a ghoul!" But Ron beat her too it once again and skirted her towards an open seat.

"Thanks for that, Ginny!" Ron sneered at his sister as the three newcomers joined the others at the table.

"You're welcome," Ginny retorted sarcastically in return.

Harry felt Ginny run her fingers across his shoulders as she passed by him. He leaned his head back, smiling up to her as she took the seat beside him. He'd had nothing more than a few passing words and glimpses at her over these last three days since the battle. How many nights had he stared at her dot on the Marauders Map, and now, here she was...

"You look terrible!" she greeted him with a smirk and Harry responded in kind with a hearty laugh.

"Thanks..."

"Did you not sleep well?" Ginny was more sincere this time.

"Something like that..?" Harry shrugged a shoulder. "You?"

"Like a baby!" she admitted. "But I haven't been held up at St. Mungo's and the Ministry the two last nights either," she took Harry's hand. "It's over now. You're home."

"Yeah," Harry half-scoffed, half-laughed. "That's what I thought three days ago..."

Ginny grimaced. "I know what you mean."

Did she?It was a cruel and rude thought. Harry tried to suppress it. Over these last three days since their victory, he'd had little time for anyone, not even Ron or Hermione, and all the time for the countless Healers and investigators. Harry couldn't stop his temper from creeping. They kept them all shut away, he couldn't do anything about it - or until he did do something about it.

Memories of the endless nights watching her dot move about Hogwarts, thinking, dreaming of her, flooded his mind. And now here she was... but all he could feel was a deep chasm between them. One beseeched by a year of war, of hiding and fighting, and blood and dying.

He hadn't let her come along,"for her own protection,"he mocked himself. "Oh how she must hate you!"

She'd want to know what'd happened. He'd be obliged to share with her, of course, but just the mere thought of it sapped all his strength. Harry took a sip of Hermione's Hair-Raising brew, goading on it's affects.

Harry was about to respond when he happened to glance up. Hermione startled him as she was carrying a heaping of scrambled eggs on a tray to the table. Her gaze was drawn down between him and Ginny and there was a... troubled look in her eye?

Harry followed her gaze down to his and Ginny's linked hands. His trance was broken however as he heard her shriek and the eggs went flying.

Everyone gasped - it happened so fast. The empty tray landed hard with a clatter, rattling upon the floor before an outstretched Hermione - she'd tripped. The eggs laid atop a fuming Ron's head, but all eyes were on Hermione.

Her eyes were clenched as she had braced herself for the impending impact, but it never came. She slowly opened her eyes to find herself hovering only centimeters from the wooden floor. She suddenly wobbled, unbalanced, floating in mid-air as her eyes trailed with the rest to an out held wand, clenched in the hand of a raven haired boy.

. . . .


"Don't forget we've got an appointment at St. Mungo's this morning!" Mrs. Weasley reminded them all as everyone began digging in.

"Ah, mum! Why'd you have to say a thing like that right before we eat!" George wailed, seconded by the rest of his siblings' groans, but she waved them each off in turn.

"And then to Aunt Muriel's this afternoon, important family business!" Further groaning and grumblings as everyone turned instead to their full plates. Harry did not regret that he, Ron, and Hermione would not be making it.

St. Mungo's and Aunt Muriel's be damned, the morning chatter and clatter soon turned to brighter things. Percy forced himself upon his father's ear, Arthur being the only one kind enough to listen to his ramblings on about the Ministry. George talked with his brothers about his plans for the shop, while Harry and Ginny stole a few brief minutes for themselves.

Charlie, to his mother's dismay, was already making plans to return to Romania, and Bill and Fleur to Shell Cottage. Mrs Weasley even started to cry before Arthur did his best to comfort her and they all promised to stay a few more nights. George thought it best not to share his plans of returning to Diagon Alley at the moment. Harry felt awkward, like he was invading their privacy.

Harry overheard Hermione telling Ron about school and Ron's excitement about another year at Quidditch. They hadn't had a proper season in three years after all. Harry didn't know why he hadn't thought of this before? Leave it to Ron!

"What do you say, Harry?" Ron asked him across the table. Harry glanced to Hermione, as she glared pointedly back at him.

"I don't know yet," Harry repeated his answer from earlier to Hermione. "I admit, I hadn't thought about Quidditch earlier though..." Harry smirked as he rubbed at his chin.

"Boys!" Hermione exhaled, rolling her eyes at them.

"What?!" Ron came to his defense, "not like you and Harry need anymore schooling, but one more go at the cup!" Ron turned expectantly back to Harry.

"We'll see mate," Harry smiled broadly to his friend.

"Harry, you've got to come back!" Ginny took up the cause as well, grabbing his hand. "We've been apart for so long now, I don't think I could stand it!" she finished by pouting, sticking out her bottom lip.

"Not you too!" Harry laughed. "It's only been three days. Can we get a little “R and R” first and then talk about it?" Harry asked pleadingly to all three. No one could argue with that.

"Well alright then, you all be off to get ready," Mrs Weasley announced as the last morsels were gobbled down by the pack of hyenas. "We're to be there within the hour! Chop-chop! Off with you now!" Mrs Weasley began shooing her children from the table to return to their rooms. All groaned in protest once again, George and Ron both stealing extra pieces of toast and bacon in the process.

"A-actually..." Harry abruptly stood up and winced as his chair legs screeched across the wooden floor, effectively drawing everyone's attention. As the room quieted and their eyes fell on him, Harry froze.

"What is it, my dear?" Mrs Weasley finally asked him, taking note of his distress.

"W-well... you see..." Harry began uneasily. Spotting his letter from the Ministry folded beneath his plate, Harry quickly fetched it up to support his story. "I... I received this post just this m-morning. It's the Dursleys you see. They're back... but they're all set to leave England today... and I was thinking about, you know, going to see them one last time..."

Silence.

"Whaugh?!" Ron spewed out the mouthful of toast he had been chewing. "Go see the Dursleys, Harry? Have you gone mental?!"

"Ronald Weasley!" Hermione too shot up out of her chair, towering over Ron. "They are still Harry's family and in case you've forgotten, their lives have been in the same mortal danger for the past year as ours!"

"Yeah... so?!" Ron mumbled something else incoherently. "I still don't understand why anyone would want to willfully go and see them!"

Hermione drew a deep breath to unload on Ron, but thankfully for him, Mrs Weasley spoke up.

"Harry, I don't know, are you sure that's such a good idea? It could be dangerous..."

Balling his fists, Harry had to once again remind himself that this was Mrs Weasley here, not Burns or one of the Aurors outside.

"Mrs Weasley..." Harry started uneasily, looking to the floor. "They are my only family."

Harry had played his card well. He'd hated to do it, but it was necessary. He heard a sharp sob from each of the women in the room, loudest and clearest from Mrs Weasley herself.

"Of course, Harry," it was now Mr Weasley who stood up. "Of course you'll be seeing your family before they're off. I'll see to it that Burns and a couple of the others are set to accompany you."

Harry winced. Just great, more bodyguards, but Harry had already assumed as much. It wasn't up to just Arthur.

"Well, don't think you'll be getting out of St. Mungo's and your Aunt's, Ronald!" Mrs Weasley piped in, not at all pleased about the news from Harry. "She'll just as likely leave you off her Will!"

"Sheesh!" Ron spluttered, "I don't know what's worse, St. Mungo's and my aunt's or the Dursley's?!"

All the kids erupted with laughter, including Harry, but not Hermione. She gave him a swift slap on the shoulder as she glared down at him.

"Gah, Herms! What was that for?!" Ron whined while rubbing at his arm.

"For being a prat!" she scolded him. "And stop calling me Herms!"

Ron rolled his eyes at her. Hermione saw it but chose to ignore him. Instead she turned to Mrs Weasley and squared her shoulders. "I'm afraid I will be missing St. Mungo's as well. I told Harry I would go with him," she stated firmly. All looked concerned, but Ron was the first to respond.

"What?! But Hermione, you can't..!"

"And why not?!"

"I believe Ronald is right Hermione, I don't-" Mrs Weasley began.

"Please, Molly..." Harry butted in, calling her by her first name and with the most pleading tone he could muster. All fell silent once more. Hermione would be going. Harry didn't miss the scoff that came from behind him from Ginny.

"But then what about me?!" Ron shot up out of his seat. "I want to go!"

"No you don't!" Hermione shot back at him. "You just said. And besides, you've got an appointment at St. Mungo's," Hermione had her revenge.

"But-"

"No buts, Ronald!" Mrs Weasley cut back in. "The Dursleys don't need to be overrun with witches and wizards on their first day back! You're going to St. Mungo's - all of you!-" she looked pointedly to her daughter, "-and your Aunt's afterwards, very important business! No buts!" she glared down any of their protests. "Now all of you, shoo! Off to your rooms to get ready!" she quickly began herding them out.

. . . .

"This is rotten, that's what this is!" Ron grumbled as he shucked his pajamas and began dressing. "It's not fair! I should be going with you two!"

"It's not like we're going on holiday, Ron," Harry sighed as he began preparing his own things. Ron missed just how extensively Harry was packing.

"So! It's better than having to go to St. Mungo's!"

"And then Aunt Muriel's..." Harry added with a cocked smirk. Ron launched a pillow at him.

It didn't take Ron long to get ready and as he turned to leave, he found Harry with the door cracked, peeking carefully out into the hallway.

"Blimey Harry, what are you..?!" Ron seemed alarmed by his mate's odd behavior.

"Sshh!" Harry cut him off as he closed the door back before going over to his trunk and pulled out a black knight of a chess set.

"What's this?" Ron asked as Harry handed it to him.

"Today's the day, Ron," Harry said in a whisper.

"What? Today's what day? What are you going on about, Harry?!" Ron looked confunded.

"Sshh!" Harry quieted him again. "I've had enough of all this. The potion's ready. We're leaving today."

"Today... today-today?" Ron asked hesitantly as it finally began to dawn on him. Harry had already let him know all about what Ron considered as a, "right barmy idea!"

"But, we can't just... you can't be bloody serious about all this, Harry?!" Ron seemed flabbergasted. "What about the potion?!"

"It's ready."

"How are we even going to get there?!" Ron flapped his arms,

"I'm taking care of that today," Harry said simply.

"What about my parents?!" Ron went on, continuing his objections.

"They can't know," Harry frowned, "not yet, I'm sorry..."

Ron just shook his head. "This is crazy, Harry. We can't!"

Harry looked back confused at his friend. What does he not get?

"We're leaving today, Ron," Harry stated more firmly.

"What's this?" Ron asked, changing the subject as he turned the wooden piece over within his hands.

"A Port Key," Harry said.

"A Port Key?!" Ron practically shouted.

"Sshh! Could you not let the whole house know?!"

"Sorry mate... but, how did you...?" Ron asked in a lower whisper now, staring with awe at the decorated horse's head within his hand.

"I've been doing some reading from ourprison cells."

Ron half-laughed at this. They had basically been keeping them in jail,"protecting them for their own good."If Harry didn't hear that phrase one more time in his life, it would be too soon. Ron was just as annoyed with it. "And you learned how to make a Port Key?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah, and I've made another one for me and Hermione. They'll surely have an anti-apparation jinx on your aunt's house as they do on the Dursley's, but that'll give us the perfect cover. Keep your eyes on that piece, it's paired with ours. When I activate ours, yours will go off too and these'll bring us back here to meet up and get our things."

"But Harry, you can't really be serious?! You're not really going through with this are you?"

Harry did not dignify his question with a response. What about all this did Ron not understand?

A/N: Meant to put this on the first chapter. Firstly, I would like to apologize for the dialogue. I am a Texan, so it gets about as hard as it can for me to accurately capture true British talk and slang. Also, it's been quite some time since I've read the books. I will stick to canon as much as I can recall, ignoring the Epilogue obviously. Lastly, thank you for reading, hope you enjoy, and please review, good or bad. As any author does, I like to know what you think, and I can take the bad in stride and learn from it. Thank you!

Chapter Three: Family



Number Four Privet Drive. Harry was not at all surprised to already find a couple of moving vans out front. The Dursleys weren't wasting any time.

Harry found himself in no hurry, casually surveying the house and neighborhood of his childhood with an odd curiosity. Here, he had been young and small and weak; days spent dodging Dudley's gang and the berating of his aunt and uncle.

He returned a man, a wizard. He had stood toe to toe with Voldemort himself, not once, but on five different occasions, and he alone was left to recount them all. But then here he was, still hiding. He'd been hiding all his life.

He could see Mrs Figg's house just around the corner. There were, as usual, a horde cats mulling about the front lawn. But it was all so very different to him now, as if he were seeing it from a different angle. Indeed, he was.

Harry's gaze settled back onto his aunt and uncle's house. The last of his kin was just inside. Harry couldn't help but wonder what this last year had held for them. He hoped Uncle Vernon didn't still have that shotgun... but he had a strange feeling he was to be soon reacquainted with it. Nevertheless, he was glad Hermione was there with him.

This house. If that day, ten months ago hadn't been the last time he'd seen it, Harry most certainly knew that this time would be. That night... it seemed so long ago, like it belonged to a different lifetime.

He remembered them in that living room, watching helplessly as half his friends, half of all those he loved in this world, drank Polyjuice potion to help him escape. George had lost his ear. Moody had been killed...

As Harry sat hesitantly in his seat, staring out at the house and the vans but not moving, his throat swelling, he felt a soft hand on his. He looked to it. It was Hermione's.

It's warmth spread him warmth. It's reassurance gave him reassurance. His eyes traveled up from their clasped hands, along her slender arm, to her soft brown eyes. He found courage in them. He could do this. He felt he could do anything with Hermione by his side.

Harry collected himself, nodded to Burns and the other Auror in the front seat, and made his way out the car. Harry had insisted they go as muggles, not wanting to alarm the Dursleys any more than necessary.

Both the front doors opened in turn to let the Aurors out, before they then promptly slammed back closed on them.

“What the..?!” Burns cunfounded.

"Wait here for us, will you?" Harry asked the Auror. Burns looked doubtful. “This is my only family and they're muggles, not too big on the whole magic thing...”

“No,” Burns said flatly pushing back against the bewitched door.

“I insist,” Harry leaned right down into the window, staring Burns in the eyes as he shoved the door the rest of the way closed. Burns swallowed hard, turning to his partner in the passenger seat for backup, but he just shrugged.

"Alright, dammit, just make it fast!" Burns retorted.

Harry had to bite his tongue from sniping back. In two hours, he reminded himself, he'd be done with them all.

Instead Harry pushed himself back up with a sigh to turn to Hermione. She stood there smiling, waiting for him. Harry took a step forward, but then stopped. Something...

'To many days on the run...' he told himself as an odd feeling prickled down his spine – the feeling like he was being watched.

“Harry?” Hermione frowned, noting his pause.

Harry glanced back over his shoulder to the shadows of a giant elm just down the street. It's shadow was deep and black. Too black... Sensing something, Harry turned to face it.

And just like that, as if coming from out of no where, an old man atop a rather rustic looking bicycle with wide handlebars and a broad seat came creaking his way out from the darkness.

Harry flinched for his wand – but no. It was just an old man on a bike? The front tire was bent and wobbled haphazardly with each rotation. The rusted chain creaked in protest as the homeless looking man's long legs drove it around.

Harry's eyes flashed to the two Aurors, but they were both leaned in, arguing with one another within the car. Burns was obviously displeased with letting Harry out of their sights. Harry turned back to the old man on the bike.

He was seemingly mesmerized by this odd sight on Privet Drive. The old man's ragged clothes were a dull brown, more from dirt than dye. He wore a sweat stained ball cap with a badly frayed bill that covered his deep set eyes. Filthy, wiry hair blended down into an even wirier beard. Harry watched cautiously as the old man cycled right by him, apparently oblivious to his audience.

But Harry did not let his guard down. Something was off. He couldn't put his finger on it, but it was there, right in front of him, staring him in the face.

And as if on cue, just as the old man was about to turn the corner, he flashed a glance back over his shoulder, right at Harry. It was an eerie, knowing, rotting toothed grin, one filled with malice and danger. And those eyes... those black, beady eyes...

'Kill him!'A voice from seemingly deep within him boomed in his head. Harry faltered from the sudden shock of brutality. Tripping a step forward, he reached for his wand.

“What..?” he mumbled aloud to himself, waging against this sudden battle within. He could not understand it.

“Harry?!” Hermione rushed forward with alarm, grasping at his arm.

Harry quickly caught himself then. Glancing back to the street, the old man and bicycle were gone, but Burns and his partner were now looking right to Harry, full of suspicion. Burns tried his door again.

“Come on,” Harry grabbed Hermione by the hand and started pulling her towards the house. “It was nothing.” Hermione was not fooled, but decided to let it go for the moment.

"Well, this is it," he said, stopping to look at her before he opened the front door. “Thanks for being here."

"Wouldn't be anywhere else," she smiled and squeezed his hand tight.

. . . . .

Harry found his aunt and uncle just inside, directing the moving crew. He waited for them to take notice of him before he said anything.

Aunt Petunia spotted him first, merely glancing over him before she did a double take. Shock spread across her face.'Here it goes,'thought Harry,'now Hermione will see why I didn't want to come.'

Though that initial impulse of disgust flashed across her face, Aunt Petunia did not shriek like Harry had expected. Instead, she quickly washed her face of that shocked expression which then turned to that of a... smile?

She looked to Hermione and smiled further - it looked forced and fake - but then she peered down to their hands and if it were even possible, it grew even wider. They were still holding hands... Embarrassed, Harry quickly let go before looking back to his aunt.

"Harry!" Petunia finally feigned some sort of joyous surprise, which inevitably caught Uncle Vernon's attention.

"Hello, Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon," Harry said cordially, desperately wanting to latch back on to Hermione's hand. Petunia then did something Harry never would have expected. With a burst of emotion, Petunia tripped forward, taking Harry in with an all embracing hug.

"Oh, Harry, my little war hero! I'm so glad you're okay," she said frantically. "We were so worried about you! I mean, they told us you were okay, but to see you, to know it's true, I can't believe it! I'm so happy you're well!"

Harry was speechless. His arms flopped out to the sides beneath her python like grip, unsure of what to do with them. As she was still hugging him, Harry felt obliged and awkwardly wrapped his arms back around his aunt, giving her the first hug he ever had in his life.

Harry quickly ended it though, letting his arms fall back to his sides just as soon as his hands had come together around her. Petunia pulled back, holding him by the shoulders. "Vernon, aren't you happy to see Harry's okay?" The strained expression on her face didn't exactly match her words.

'I wouldn't bet on it,'Harry thought to himself.

"Hmmpff!" Vernon snorted, confirming Harry's suspicion before he turned his back to him and went about his business.

"And look at you!" Petunia ignored her husband's sour hello. "All grown up! I can't believe it's only been ten months! I almost didn't recognize you! And so handsome!"

Harry was left flabbergasted. What was is aunt on to? He'd feel more comfortable if she would just act normal like Uncle Vernon, but he had a suspicion something more was afoot.

"What's going on here?" Harry asked, looking around the emptying house.

"We've decided to move," his aunt informed him as cheerily as she could muster. "We're selling the place."

"You're moving?!" Harry asked fervently, out of patience and without the slightest clue as to what was going on. "But, what about Uncle Vernon's business?!"

"Oh, Harry, we had to sell that when we left. You're people took care of everything."

'My people?'Harry thought.'Uncle Vernon was forced to sell his business he'd spent his whole life building?' Harry had the urge to leave before things grew violent.

"And only got a fraction of what it was worth!" Uncle Vernon grumpily piped in.

"That's nonsense, Vernon!" Harry's aunt scolded her husband, to Harry's further awe. "Your people were most gracious to us!" Petunia adamantly informed Harry. "We are most thankful. You'll be sure to tell them that won't you? Tell them we're very grateful!" Aunt Petunia persisted.

'What's going on?' Harry could not understand. Tell them she's thankful?

"And that we're not giving the bloody money back either!" Uncle Vernon spat on himself. The card fell.

"Huh?" Harry turned towards his uncle.

"Vernon! Enough!" Petunia squealed at him, glancing back at Harry nervously from the corner of her eye.

"What's going on?" Harry demanded. "What money and why are you moving?!"

Petunia forced a sweet smile again and took a moment to collect herself. "Didn't they tell you, honey? We won the Lottery!" now she really did shine with glee.

"The Lottery?!" both Harry and Hermione guffawed.

"Yes!" Aunt Petunia nodded excitedly. "Well, that was part of our cover... Why we picked up so fast and took off on holiday. Vernon's sold the business, we've seen so many wonderful places, I could just never stand to come back here," she said it as more of a threat.

"So they're not taking back the bloody money! Do you hear me, boy?!" Uncle Vernon bellowed again, seconding his wife. "That's our bloody money, we earned it!"

"Vernon!" Aunt Petunia shrieked again, flapping her arms at him. "No one's coming for our money!" she waved him off, but then turned urgently back to Harry. "No one is going to come back for the money, are they Harry, because-"

"-I don't think anyone's coming Aunt Petunia, but I don't know anything about-"

"-So they could?" she interrupted him in turn, a distressed tone now in her voice. "Harry, if they did, you could put in a good word for us, couldn't you? You know... after all we've..." but Petunia could not finish her own sentence. The second card fell and Harry could begin to make sense of this little charade and what it was for.

"Of course," Harry was kinder than he needed to be - 'put in a good word for them?' - "but I don't think any witch or wizard is interested in your muggle money," Harry tried to reassure them. His aunt and uncle looked to each other, obviously confused about what he said, "Muggle Money?" but nevertheless, it worked and they both eased a little, or as much as they could in the presence of their disgraceful nephew.

"So this is it then. Where are you moving to?"

"To the beach! The British Virgin Islands, we've already got a very nice place there," she seemed very excited about it as her hands clasped together and her eyes seemed to travel off to that far away place.

"Harry, you can make do?" she asked him with a sense of distrust, as if fearful he'd be wanting to come with them.

"Of course," Harry said, for some reason looking to Hermione. Between her and Ron, he'd always have a place to stay. They were his real family.

"Very well," her fake smile began to fade. "Did you need anything from upstairs?" Petunia asked bluntly. "We're leaving tonight. Vernon still doesn't think it's very safe for us here with all your kind about," the corner of her lip pulled with a slight disgust at saying that word.

"No," Harry said honestly, ignoring her last remark. Everything he owned and needed was either on him or in a trunk at the Burrow. "Mind if I take one last look around before we go? I'd like to see the old room."

"Suite yourself," she seemed obviously displeased by it.

Hermione and Petunia made to follow Harry up the stairs but stopped confused as Harry walked by them. Petunia involuntarily gasped when Harry turned and opened up the door to the small cupboard beneath the stairs.

Harry stared for a long time down into the now empty, but still small and cramped closet. It amazed him how he could ever have fit in there. 'I must've been tiny little brat!'

He remembered the First Years at Hogwarts and how they all seemed to get smaller and smaller with each passing year, rather than he taller. This had been his room. His for nearly eleven years of his life - for a majority of his life. So many memories in this tiny little nook, lying, staring up at the cornered planks above, wishing for a different life. Harry smiled to himself at the irony.

"Harry, come away from there!" Petunia beckoned him with angst, still careful not to give up too much on her charade. They just might still need Harry to remind his people of all the nice things they did for him, just in case they ever came back for the money. Ha!

"Lucky we gave him that..." Uncle Vernon groveled angrily under his breath as he continued to slur a little diatribe no one paid any attention to.

"Let's go upstairs and see your real room. Dudkins is up there now, packing up the last of his own things," Petunia tried pulling him away.

Dudley. At least Dudley had come through for him. The only thing Dudley had ever done for him. Well, that was still to be seen, but he did not doubt his cousin. Harry had even contacted him by owl earlier to set his plans into motion. Dudley... the owl had returned back not an hour later with a reply.

“If you wouldn't mind, I'd like a few private words with Dudley?” Harry asked them. They all three looked alarmed, but for different reasons.

"Now don't you go..." Vernon started shaking a finger at him with both fear and threat in his eyes, but Petunia stopped him.

“It's alright,” Harry said to reassure his aunt and uncle more than Hermione. “I just need to talk to him.”

Nobody blinked, much less said anything. Harry moved with a quicker step now, eager to see his cousin.

It was definitely awkward for Hermione as Harry's aunt turned to her. Hermione could sense she was not welcome here. There was a long silence before Harry's aunt finally spoke. "And you must be one of Harry's nice friends, Hermini Granger?" Petunia put back on that fake, forced grin.

"Hermione," Hermione kindly corrected her. "And yes, I've been Harry's friend for quite some time, we actually met on the train to Hogwarts our first year there."

"Well isn't that interesting!" Harry's uncle stormed past them both, uttering with the utmost sarcasm he could muster, followed by a long train of profanities until he disappeared into the kitchen.

"Never mind him," Petunia tried to reassure her. "He's just nervous something still might happen. Once we get back to the islands..." Petunia just trailed off. It was awkward. "A-are you and Harry..." Petunia stuttered, "Are you, like - like boyfriend and girlfriend?"

Hermione laughed aloud at this, "No, no, nothing like that. We're just friends, best friends!"

"Oh," was all Petunia said with a doubtful look in her eye, glaring at Hermione now as if she were some kind of scarlet, but Hermione did not feel the need to defend herself. Let the woman believe what she wants.

“Y-you know... he's famous...” Petunia, however, felt the need to go on. Hermione balked at her.

“No... that's not what I meant," Hermione watched the older woman's shoulders slump as she glanced one last time to ensure Vernon was out of earshot. She seemed to be talking more to herself than Hermione. "He's just... a very quiet boy, he will not like all the attention... I do worry for him at times,” Petunia brought a nervous hand to her mouth as she watched the top of the stairs. "Lily..."

Hermione could only stare at the woman. Somewhere in there, she could recognize the subtle features she'd seen in pictures of Harry's mum.

Harry didn't take too long upstairs, and after only a few minutes, he came marching back down with his cousin Dudley in the lead.

"And hello there, you must be Hermione?!" Dudley immediately greeted her. "I've heard so much about you!"

"You have?!" Hermione giggled as Dudley tried to give her an awkward hug. She certainly wasn't expecting this.

"Of course, Harry's always gone on about you. And in his sleep, you wouldn't believe the thi-!"

"Alright, that's enough, Dudley!" Harry cut him off, punching him in the shoulder as he blushed redder than a tomato.

"I want to hear it!" Hermione giggled in protest.

"No, no, some other time," Harry began playfully herding her towards the stairs. "We're about out of time and there is something I've got to show you upstairs."

"Harry, wait!" she laughed but he would not let her stop. Once to the stairs, he began pushing her up until reaching the landing. Harry turned back once more to the only blood relatives he had alive, his aunt and cousin.

"Take care," Harry said heartfelt. "I'm glad everything has worked out for you."

"Write to us, Harry!" Dudley called back as Harry's aunt and Hermione both looked to each other with confusion. “That owl was wicked!”

Hermione looked questioningly to Harry.

"Harry, you'll say goodbye before you go?" his aunt beckoned, fidgeting awkwardly from having said such a thing.

"Goodbye," Harry said, sharing one last glance with them before taking Hermione by the hand to lead her to his old room.

"Godspeed, mate!" Dudley called after them.

"Goodbye..." Aunt Petunia whispered, wholly without comprehension, they going further into the house, but... her sister's son was a wizard afterall.

Chapter Four: Confessions


"What was that all about?" Hermione now turned on him at once as he closed his door.

"We've stayed too long already," Harry smiled to her. "We've got to go. We've still got to get back to the Burrow to meet Ron and get our things and our flight leaves in just two hours," he said nonchalantly.

"Harry-" Hermione was about to spout off something when she came up short. "Wait... What?" she looked searchingly, back and forth between Harry's green, emerald eyes, unable to comprehend a thing. Her lips pulled into a frown as his spread into a mischievous grin. "Our flights? What are you going on about, Harry?"

Harry's smile grew wider, reaching from ear to ear.

"I haven't forgotten you Hermione...” he said tenderly before scrambling around in his back pocket. “I've gotten you a present," Harry grew nervous as pulled out a simple envelope which was secured by a finely tied bow.

"What?!" Hermione stared back, unable to understand. “A present?” she turned it over in her hands.

“A present,” Harry answered her simply.

Hermione turned the bow towards her once more before she peaked up at Harry beneath bashful lashes. “But why?” she asked as she pulled at the bow, untying it. She couldn't help but feel a thrill run down her. Girls like gifts. “You shouldn't have...” she went on, slipping her finger beneath the flap, retrieving the contents within. “What did you..?" she was mumbling, but once she saw it, when she read what it was, she fell silent as she gawked at it.

"Harry..." she said without understanding. “This is a - a passport?”

“Yeah, open it up.”

She did. A piece of paper fell to the floor. Hermione looked down to the folded piece of paper before back up at Harry. He picked it up, handing it to her. Hermione took it hesitantly, as if afraid it were a Howler or something. Upon reading it, tears immediately began to swell in her eyes.

"H-Harry, this is an itinerary... this is a ticket to Australia..." Hermione stumbled. "Harry, this is a First Class ticket to Australia!" she said louder, looking up to him with a mix of confusion and awe swirling in her eyes.

"Yeah, well..." Harry scratched at the back of his head, uneasy beneath Hermione's tearing gaze, and unsure of what her eyes were telling him. "I've got a couple of more for me and Ron. Figured Australia was a little far to apparate, and besides, you can't cross borders without being detected, and we'd have to register with the Ministry to use a Port Key... and - and I just figured you'd want to do it your own way..."

"Oh, Harry!" Hermione suddenly exclaimed, rushing forward, slamming herself into him as she wrapped her arms around his neck. She then began to cry.

"Er... everything alright, Hermione?" Harry asked awkwardly, gently wrapping his arms around her to rub at her back.

Trying her best to hold back the tears, Hermione could only nod. "Oh, yes Harry,” her voice cracked. “But... I don't understand?"

"Told you I hadn't forgotten about you. This last year, blimey, these last seven years, you've done nothing but watch out for me. You've saved my arse more times than I can count!” he chuckled. “And these last three days... no one has once asked about your parents, and... and you haven't said anything... I figured you didn't want to get the Ministry involved, that you wanted to do it yourself..?" Harry explained, wholly unsure of himself.

Hermione frowned with the mention of her parents and was forced to look away.

"I don't blame you," Harry scrambled to continue, "If my parents were out there... it was really nice of you to stick around for as long as you have... for all the funerals I mean. But now... now it's time for us to go and get your parents back!" Harry finished with a pledge of conviction.

"Harry, I couldn't possibly expect you to..."

"Nonsense, Hermione! You don't expect us to let you do this all on your own, do you?! We're a team! All three of us! The Golden Trio!" Harry quirked a smile, invoking the name the Daily Prophet had given them, one which they all hated – well, maybe not Ron.

"I don't... when did you have time for all this?" Hermione asked astonished, still struggling to put together a whole sentence.

"It was easy really. You'd told me all about it. Took a little research and planning...” Harry became a bit proud of himself that he had indeed pulled it all off. “Mundungus Fletcher got me the forged passports - didn't think we'd want to travel under our real names - and I had Dudley purchase the tickets," he made it all sound so simple.

"Oh, Harry!" Hermione sobbed and fell forward once again, hugging Harry's neck.

"There now, you're going to get me soaking wet," Harry tried to infuse a little humor as he rubbed his hand in gentle circles about her back again, trying to calm her.

"But Harry... we can't leave today... there's... there's planning to do - supplies to get – travel plans – food – where are we going to stay? - we've got to get money – the remedy..." Hermione rambled on, her brain moving at a million kilometers a minute.

"Hermione... I er... I-I've got one other little confession to make," Harry said uneasily. Hermione pulled back again to look up at him.

"It's um..." Harry struggled for the right way to confess this last part. "Well you see... I've been doing a little reading..."

"Reading?!" Hermione's nervous lips curved into a smile. "Sense when?!"

"Er, just over the last couple of months, really," Harry admitted.

"Harry, I've been with you just about every waking moment for the last year and the only book I've seen you open is The Tales of Beedle the Bard!"

"I did it when you were sleeping," Harry shrugged simply.

"What are you talking about, when I was sleeping? Reading? What?" she fired off at him.

"Yes, when you were sleeping," he stated plainly.

"What were you reading?" Hermione questioned him, still not convinced and even then, she still had no clue as to where he was possibly going with all this.

"Well, starting a few months back, when we were hiding in the woods..." Harry paused uneasily, "after Ron left. I didn't understand why you didn't go with him... I mean," Harry quickly recovered, seeing the hurt look in Hermione's eyes, "I do understand and I could never thank you enough, but..." Harry hesitated with a deep sigh and was forced to look away from her, recalling those dark days.

He started again, this time though with a softer tone and his eyes to the ground, "I wanted you to go with him... I wanted you to be able to get away, to escape, to be free from it all..." Harry paused again. They were both choked with memories.

Hermione tried to start but Harry stopped her.

"All I do is hurt those around me..."

"Har-" Hermione again tried to interrupt but Harry would not let her.

"It was because you were my friend, Hermione, that you were in danger and you had to hex your parents and hide them half a world away without any memory of you. It was because you were my friend, Hermione, that you had to sacrifice so much, go into hiding, go on the run, hunted... your life always in danger..." Harry found it difficult to talk on.

Hermione reached up for his face, but Harry grabbed her arms and instead, surprising both of them, pulled her close to him, almost violently, looking deeply into her brown eyes, talking as serious as death to her. "We were alone out there, alone in the woods, alone on our mission. Just a couple of kids with no plan, no idea of what to do or where to go. No hope. At one point, I was going to leave you, Hermione, force you to return to the Burrow..." Hermione frowned so deeply at this that it tugged at Harry's heart.

"But I couldn't," Harry sighed, more in shame of his own weakness than in Hermione's disappointment. "You were there with me, Hermione, and I knew that no matter how bad I just wanted you to escape, I knew that I needed you there with me, that with you, we'd somehow pull it off. And we did - thanks to you, Hermione."

"Harry, no-" but Harry still would not let her speak. He still had more to say.

"If we did make it," Harry started his story once again, "I knew that it would be my turn to help you," Harry was firm and spoke with conviction, "help you get your parents back, one way or the other. But then the question was, how?" Harry shook his head.

"It's no secret, I haven't got your brains, but I began to think about it. I knew you'd erased much of their memories and created false lives for them - no way Lockhart's cheap tricks could pull off something like that, but then again, if not that, then what?"

"Harry..."

"I didn't exactly have a lot of resources out in the woods, but what I did have-"

"Harry?" Hermione tried to make sense of what he was saying, shaking her head in confusion, as if trying to drive out all the nonsense, but Harry persisted in his story.

"-were your books."

"Harry!" her eyes shot open.

"Sorry, I didn't think you'd mind...” Harry felt afraid, as if he'd been caught snooping into her diary or something. “We... we kept all of our supplies in your little pouch,” he tried explaining himself, “including a number of your books.”

Finally the truth of what Harry was telling her began to dawn.

“I was just sure you'd have to have something on it. You were the one who cast the charm after all, and low and behold, I found just the book, "Know Thy Mind, An in-depth look at Magic and the Brain by Matilda Hathshire!" Harry quoted the title and author proudly.

"But Harry-"

"Most the spells didn't make sense..." Harry went on. "They were too dangerous, too much chance that the spell could wear off or for them to risk long term, permanent damage. But there was one..." Harry baited her as he saw the realization set in on her face, "and as it just so happens, you had it dog eared," Harry said gleaming.

"I can't believe you, Harry! You-" Hermione said breathlessly.

"What? It's not like I had much else to do! Anyways, as I was saying," Harry gave her a look, "turned out the spell wasn't a spell at all, but rather a potion, and one I recognized at that!"

"You recognized? But we never-"

"Covered it in class? No. This one I remembered from the Prince's book. It sounded cool, Merlin's Merosia. Have someone drink that stuff and with the right wand work, their minds and memories are putty in your hands. I'd read over it quite a bit."

"The Prince?!"

"Yeah, the Half-Blood Prince," Harry slightly flinched upon admitting this, half expecting Hermione to lash out at him or something.

"But Harry, you got rid of that book? It's dangerous!" she protested, giving Harry the stern look a mother would when lecturing her disobedient child.

"Yes," Harry answered simply while attempting to suppress his grin. "I figured you wouldn't be too happy about it... but, I needed that book Hermione. I mean, if we were to get your parents back and restore their memories properly, I had to get it back."

"My parents? But, why the Prince's potion book, the antidote is-"

"Is not quite right in your book. Like I was saying," Harry was stern in his determination to get his whole story out, "I had recognized the potion. It's quite complex - I admit, I'm a little surprised you pulled it off..." Harry said before shaking his head. "No, on second thought, I'm not surprised at all, but then again, as I recall, the Prince hadn't been so critical of the actual potion, but the antidote - the antidote he tore to shreds."

"But Harry, what are you saying?!"

"I'm saying that I didn't trust your book's antidote. If we were to restore your parents' memories back properly, then we needed the Prince's book."

"But you left that..."

"In the Room of Requirement - a place to hide things..."

"Then how..?" Hermione lingered. The room had been destroyed by Crabbe and Goyle's Inferno, but by the look in Harry's eyes, she knew - he had it. "Ravenclaw's Diadem..." it finally came to her - he must have gone for the book first!

"Yep," was all Harry said as if he could read her thoughts. He could see her raw anger at him for going back for it boiling, but he was undaunted. It was indeed, a "necessary evil."

"I can't believe you, Harry!” she objected, but Harry did not back down. “Even so, it takes days to for it to brew and if we leave today how will we get the proper ingredients and..?!" she started her ramblings all over again.

"That's right. Sixty-eight hours to be exact," Harry interrupted her.

"You..?"

"Immediately after I left Dumbledore's office after the battle. I figured Snape wouldn't mind me snooping through his stores one last time..." Harry said mischievously.

"Harry?!" Hermione was in shock. She watched him in silence as Harry pulled out an identical pouch from about his neck that matched her own. They had been split up from one another and Harry had missed its convenience.

"Accio Potion," he incanted, and sure enough, two small, corked vials sprung out from his pouch. The liquid within was thick and of a perfect purplish hue that Hermione immediately recognized from the book's pictures and descriptions. It looked perfect.

Tears swelled in her eyes again. She had for so long now dreaded this moment, stressed about it, unsure of what to do, of having to plan a trip to Australia, of having to make the antidote, of the time and complexity it would all take. And now, Harry had taken care of everything. She was so happy she thought she could kiss him. The tears coming in full force, she fell back into Harry's arms, sobbing and thanking him again and again.

"There's no need to thank me," Harry said. "You've already done as much and more for me. It's the least I co-" but Harry was cut short as Hermione reached up on her tip-toes and pressed her lips to his cheek. Harry was sure his face was lit on fire and he could no longer speak.

"Harry, how are we going to get away from dumb and dumber out there?" Hermione finally asked. Harry reached into his pouch one last time and retrieved a white Rook of a chess set. With the wave of his wand, the piece lit up and began to glow blue.

"But how..?"

“Guess I've been doing a lot of reading,” Harry said with a smile.

. . . . .

In preparation, Harry had already packed most his things, but there were still the last items and then Ron's things to begin collecting and stowing away. He was busy doing thus when he suddenly saw Ron in the door way.

"Ron! I'm glad you came as fast. Come on, we've got to get you packed. The flight leaves in just two hours." Harry moved even quicker now, but pulled up short after Ron did not make to move. "Ron?"

"H-Harry..." Ron stepped in and began pacing in circles, his face red. Harry stopped what he was doing and looked to his best mate. "Harry, I don't understand, why don't we just have the Ministry-"

"We've been over this Ron!" Harry cut off his friend as his temper flickered. "Hermione sent her parents off without any memory of her, half a world away. If it were your parents, would you want some idiotic Ministry official sent to retrieve them, to force some spell and potion on them?"

"YES!" Ron bellowed. Harry was left speechless. He could not comprehend what had come over Ron and could only frown and shake his head.

"We're going Ron, and we're not telling the Ministry, period." Ron grimaced at Harry's words.

"Who died and made you boss?!" Ron shot back. “It's Hermione's parents!”

Harry spun on a dime and stared down his best mate. "It's not for me you git, it's for Hermione, and it's what she wants!"

"But..?!" Ron threw his arms up in exacerbation, turning bright red in the face. "Has either of you stopped to think about me?! To think about my family?! Fred?!"

"Ron, I..."

"And now with Charlie and Bill and George all leaving, how can you expect me to do that to my mum?! Just disappear again?!"

It was Harry's turn to grimace. Ron was right after all, it wasn't fair to his mum or dad and it would most certainly give them both an ulcer, but Harry saw no other way. If they did tell Ron's parents, there was no way they'd let them go alone, but Harry also knew that this was the only way they could do it, the only way Hermione would want it.

"I can't just disappear on them again, Harry! Mum will have a fit!" Ron said with more finality.

"We can leave a letter. She'll understand when we get back," Harry shifted uneasily. It wasn't easy either way.

"And who knows how long that'll take..." Ron flapped his arms. Harry frowned for his friend.

"Listen Ron," Harry grasped Ron by the shoulder. "You, your family, and Hermione, you are all I've got. I'd do anything for any of you - anything!" Harry punctuated this. "That's what families do, they take care of one another, and right now, your family needs you. I know this. Hermione knows it. But also, Ron, right now, Hermione's family needs her and we can't just let her go on her own... I can't."

"Oh, shove off!" Ron brushed Harry's hand away. "And you think I could?!"

"No... that's not what I meant!" Harry grew frustrated.

"Right," said Ron doubtfully. "Where is she?"

"It's what she wants Ron, it's what's best, why can't you see that?!"

"And she can't speak for herself?!"

"Of course she can, Ron..." Harry frowned as he saw that old jealousy flaming up in his friend once more. "She's in Ginny's room."

Ron turned and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

Harry was about to follow him but then stopped, thinking better of it. Hermione had a much better chance of making him see reason than he did. He would only make matters worse.

Harry finished packing and by the time he had his trunk fit into his pouch, he was startled by a loud yell and another slammed door.

Harry made for Ron's door once again, but with his hand was on the knob, he heard heavy, angry footsteps stomping by. Ginny's door swung back open.

"Ron! Ron, wait! Please!" a crying Hermione chased down the stairs after him. Once the landing was clear, Harry went on to follow them. 'Damn you Ron!' Harry could not suppress the thought.

Once outside, Harry found Hermione, alone, bent and crying with her hands covering her tear streaked face. Harry walked slowly up behind her and wrapped his arms around her, comforting her. Hermione turned to him and sank her head into his chest. Ron would not be coming.

A/N: Just wanted to add that this will probably be the worst of my Ron bashing, for those who do not appreciate it. If you've made it this far, thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think!

Chapter Five: Australia


"You don't have to be nervous," Harry reassured her.

"I'm not."

"You look nervous," he insisted, though only in jest. She had been a mess since leaving the Burrow and he was trying all he could to lighten the mood. Her fear of flying certainly wasn't helping matters though.

"And you look like blubbering First Year their first time to the Weasley's Wizard Wheezes!" she spouted back, sitting tensely within her seat as their plane taxied to the runway.

"Hey! It's my first flight!" Harry mocked offense as he looked back out the small window to the passing scenery. Hermione had been kind enough to offer him the window seat, but he now realized she had done so for more selfish reasons.

The plane reached it's allotted runway and hit the engines, pushing them back in their seats. Harry turned once again to his nervous, brown haired friend.

"I know you don't like to fly..." he watched her face go pale, stating the obvious.

"I'm fine," Hermione did her best to convince him, but her strained knuckles about the armrests said otherwise. Then the jet lurched and tilted as it's wheels left the ground. If possible, Hermione turned even paler as she sunk back into her seat.

"You don't have anything to be afraid of," she heard Harry whisper close to her, his warm breath tickling her ear. She startled in her seat when Harry reached up around her neck. She looked down to find him pulling out her pouch that was tucked safely away beneath her shirt. Opening it, Harry retrieved her wand.

Her eyes betrayed alarm as they darted from Harry to around the cabin. Thankfully, no one had noticed. Without a word said, Harry placed it in her hand and wrapped her fingers snug about it. She then watched as he retrieved his own wand out his pouch before tucking it into his left sleeve, safely out of sight but still right at hand.

Harry motioned for her to mimic him, which she did. Then, leaning over to her once more he whispered, "Now then, you've got your wand and I've got mine. I've also got my Firebolt, just here," Harry patted his chest over the pouch, "nothing bad can happen."

A soothing sensation swept over Hermione with Harry's words. Her logical mind knew he was right, that they were safe. She had been on planes many times before, and it wasn't like they were flying on the back of a Thestral!

She dared a glance past Harry and out the window to the shrinking landscape below. They had done it. They had escaped their supposed guardians and were en route to Australia to get her parents back. Her fingers eased from their rests.

"Thank you, Harry... I feel much better," Hermione uttered in barely more than a whisper as she let out the deep breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

"You always this tense?" Harry snuck a smile at her.

“When flying?” she crooked a brow towards him. Harry nodded. "Always," she smiled sheepishly.

"I know you've been to France... Where else have you been?" Harry tried to keep her mind occupied.

"Oh, I don't know Harry, lots of places," she said a little impatiently, staring at the back of the seat before her. "We've been to Italy and Greece. Egypt, the States and Russia. Japan... Australia..."

"Wow,” Harry said. “All with your parents?"

Hermione sighed, "Yes, all with my parents... they love to travel." She paused a moment before she continued. "I wasn't that of a popular kid, you know. I think my parents just wanted me to get out and live a little. I always had my nose buried in a book..." she informed him unnecessarily.

"Had?" Harry teased her and Hermione nudged him in return, feigning a hint of insult.

"So funny, Harry! Real jokester!"

"I try!” he looked to her. “You had it better than me at least. My idea of a friend was someone who didn't try to beat me up, and a vacation?! Ha! That was whenever the Dursleys left me at home without a babysitter! We're just two lonely souls..." Harry mumbled out of nowhere, looking back out the window to the clouds they were leaving behind.

Ever calming, exhaust now filled in behind her retreating nerves. Hermione wrapped her arm into Harry's for comfort, before eventually dozing and her head fell over, resting against his shoulder.

. . . . .

"Now boarding, Flight 437, British Airways, Singapore to Sydney at Gate 14B," Harry managed to hear somewhere in the back of his mind. It was faint at first, fleeting, but it echoed around in his head until he forced himself to open his eyes. That was their flight.

The ceiling was far above. Echos of busy chatter about the airport filled his ears: of the roar of the jet engines outside, of strangers laughing and talking, of babies crying and giggling, of wheels of carts and rolling suitcases creaking, of vendor's selling, of people buying.

There was a weight on his lap. Harry looked down with surprise and amusement. Hermione was there, sleeping, curled up across three different seats with Harry's lap serving as her pillow.

Harry smiled. He was cradling her head with one arm, his fingers woven into her out-strewn hair. His other was wrapped around Hermione's, his fingers laced within hers as she held them tight to her chest, fast asleep.

Finally, some sleep. That was one thing this long flight had afforded them, twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep and another three here during their layover in Singapore. And did they ever need it.

"Hermione," Harry whispered down to her, using his fingers to tuck her fallen bangs back behind her ear.

"Hmm..." Hermione moaned at his touch. "Harry..." she whispered, still asleep.

His eyes were drawn to her face. He studied the arc of her brow, the long lashes of her sleeping eyes, along the ridge of her subtle nose, across the lushness of her curved lips - Harry abruptly looked up and away, adjusting uncomfortably within his seat. What was that?

"Come on Hermione, we've got to go," Harry said louder now, giving her a gentle shake. It was enough to rouse her.

"Harry?" Hermione said groggily, stirring within the seats.

"Yeah, it's me, 'Mione. Time to go," Harry slowly released her from his arms.

Hermione rubbed at her eyes as she yawned and sat up in her seat. "Have I been asleep this whole time?" she stretched her limbs as she turned to Harry sheepishly.

"Yeah,” he smiled. “Guess I was too."

"Whew, I do feel much better now though," Hermione said, and this gave Harry ease. She'd been so distressed since leaving the Burrow...

"Don't get too excited, there's still another eight hours to go!"

"Thanks for reminding me," Hermione playfully nudged him on the shoulder.

. . . .

Finally, after twenty four hours spent either on the plane or at their layover in Singapore, the pair arrived in Sydney Australia, the land Down Under!

"So, what did you think of your first flight?" Hermione turned to Harry, taking his hand within hers as they made their way off the plane and down the air-bridge.

He noticed the smile of her voice did not quite reach her eyes. Though she had finally gotten some decent rest, Harry could still see the anxiety in her face. He'd been able to pull smiles from her here and there, but her spirits were still down. He expected no less.

Harry did not know if it was from her last row with Ron before they left, if she was sad Ron was not here with them, or if she was just anxious about the mission they were on. 'Probably a little of all,' Harry reasoned.

"My first time on a plane?" Harry smiled back, turning his eyes to hers, responding to her question. “It was alright, I guess... but, I like brooms better," he leaned in and whispered loudly to her. “At least you didn't throw up on me!”

"Harry!" Hermione nudged him with her shoulder again and laughed truly and whole heartedly for the first time since they had left. This did not go unnoticed to Harry as he played to trip away from her shove. As they drew apart, Hermione caught him by their interwoven hands and pulled him back close with another laugh.

"I did fine!” she playfully pointed out, “and I think they're a lot less chaotic than a broom," Hermione told him matter-of-factly.

“Think I could have done without that last bag of peanuts though..." Harry grumbled, rubbing at his stomach with his free hand which solicited another bout of giggles from Hermione.

"How many did you have, fifteen?" she smirked.

"Eighteen," Harry said wincing.

"Ha-ha!" Hermione laughed. "You definitely can't get those on a broom!"

"And I don't know if that's a good or a bad thing..?" they both now laughed together. "Well, at least I can say I've been on one - something to tell Arthur about when we get back!" He smiled. "First Class wasn't so bad, but they're still so cramped. Think I'll be just fine if it's the last." Hermione just shook her head at him. "I am excited to see Australia though. It's my first time out of the country, you know?"

"I do!" a further hint of excitement shone out. "And wait until you see the beach, it is absolutely beautiful, Harry!"

Hermione continued filling Harry in on some exciting things they would be able to see and do. She told him about the small village she had left her parents in, of the various wildlife and people here, and of course about some not-so-interesting facts on the history of Australia as they made their way to the luggage carousel. Hermione never ceased to amaze Harry on how much knowledge she could store in that massive brain of hers.

Checking their trunks wasn't the most desirable option, but they figured that two supposed muggles traveling half a world away on vacation without a single piece of luggage between them just might have raised a few eyebrows, so they checked them.

They kept only their muggle items: clothes, toiletries - a few books in Hermione's case - and the like in their trunks since they could get rummaged through, or worse, lost, while their essentials and magical items were all stowed safely within the bottomless pouches they each wore about their necks.

The two took a cab out of the airport and into the city. His first time outside of Great Britain, Harry's eyes feasted hungrily out the windows upon the foreign land, but he was not unaware of Hermione sitting anxiously beside him, fidgeting and wringing her hands. It was now Harry's turn to take her hand and offer her some ease.

"Everything is going to be just fine, Hermione, you will see. I am here with you," Harry said sincerely. Hermione nodded, squeezing at his hand, but the angst was still there. Harry could understand.

Sydney looked amazing and Harry yearned to be able to get out and explore, but now was not the time. Now safely inside of Australia, they were no longer restricted to muggle modes of transportation, and it was only a matter of finding a secluded spot for them to apparate from. With a slight pop, the young witch and wizard were gone, and in an instant, ninety kilometers away, just outside a small village south of Wollobong.

Chapter Six: Pissed


Pissed. He was definitely pissed, but he wasn't so thick headed that he couldn't recognize what he had done - again. He understood what they were doing, but he was still pissed. He could be pissed, it was a natural reaction, and he relied that he would eventually get over and come to terms with it, but that was later. Right now he was just plain pissed. Pissed at them. Pissed at himself. Pissed at the Aurors outside his house, holding him prisoner here. He couldn't go after them even if he wanted to.

Harry would go. Harry would find a way around them. Harry did go – he did find a way...

It had happened again. He had sworn before to himself that it would never happen again. He had left them. No. They had left him. Ron chucked the useless black knight across his bedroom in frustration.

It was late, nearly eleven at night. He wondered where in the world Harry and Hermione were right then. In Australia? No, not yet. He couldn't stand the thought of them, out there together, without him, alone, together. Ron shoved himself up off his bed. He needed something to eat.

He made his way to the kitchen and used his wand to put together a sandwich. He'd become quite practiced at this by now and did it skillfully with only the moon's light peaking in from the window above the sink. Just as he was about to bite in, something startled him from his peripheral.

"Oi!" Ron jumped as a shadow crept across the living room.

"Sshh!!" the figure hushed him furiously. Bang! "Ow!" it ran into the coffee table.

"Luminos," Ron lifted his wand, shedding light on a grumbling George who was busy rubbing at his shin.

"Oi, mind snuffing that light?!" George cut at him in a loud whisper. Ron let it extinguish as he crossed from the kitchen to the living room.

"What are you doing?!" Ron demanded .

"Getting out of here," George hobbled his way over to the fireplace, taking the lid from the jar of floo powder.

"Getting out of here? Where to?!" Ron accidentally raised an excited voice that produced a scowl from his brother.

"Keep it down, will ya?! I'm meeting up with Lee Jordan - he knows of some party," George looked back over his shoulder. He hesitated before he tossed the powder in. "You coming, little brother?" he asked Ron with a devious smile.

"They've got a tracer on the floo, they'll know we left..." Ron seemed hesitant.

"They'll know we left when they don't find us here in the morning, you git!" George chastised him. "And I don't give two Blast-Ended Skewrts! I've had just about enough of all this dodginess. We won, fair and square – and what are we doing now, I ask you? Still hiding like mice, as if expecting an army of Death Eaters at any moment. It's bullshit - I'm done - it's time to celebrate. I don't know about you but I feel it's right about time to get thoroughly pissed!" George flashed his brother a smile.

Pissed. Hearing his brother's reasoning, Ron didn't have to think twice.

. . . .

After flooing to the Shop with George, the two changed into some of their finer digs before apparating to downtown London to meet up with Lee Jordan. Lee then escorted them to the west of town, to Charing Street, right off of Leicester Square.

"You sure this is the right place?" Ron asked hesitantly, eying an ominous entryway.

"Yep!" Lee said merrily. "Most happenin' place in town!"

Ron looked from the hollow entrance which was veiled in darkness, up to the rotting sign that hung above it. "The Dueling Damsels: Enter at Your Own Risk!" Ron was of half a mind to heed the warning, but neither George nor Lee seemed phased in the slightest by it.

"Shall we, gentlemen?" George led the way. Hidden within the shadows, a wide, winding staircase led them down a level below the street. It emptied into a small chamber with a large, rusted door on the far side. Lee knocked on it.

They were left waiting several minutes before the metal eye slot screeched back. "Wha'd ya want?!" two amber eyes glared out the peep hole at them.

"We're here for the party," Lee called out.

"Ain't no pardy here!" the wizard inside said with a heavy Scottish accent as he started to slam the hole's cover back closed, but then abruptly stopped it half-way. "Say... ain't you tha' red headed Golden Trio boy?" the man's eyes locked onto Ron. "Yeah, Runald Wezley..."

The three outside weren't given a chance to respond. The peep hole was snatched closed again, but no sooner they heard the clank and clunk of the doors bolts turning from the other side. The large door's hinges groaned loudly as it swung open.

A wall of music and a roaring crowd struck them all at once. "Well I'll be a pickling pixy! If you ain't one of 'em, then I'm Fudge!" the amber eyed wizard buzzed, standing in the door way. He was well rounded and plump, with a thick set of strawberry hair pulled back into a pony tail and a matching goatee that hung braided down to his chest. Looking across the three of them, he first swept forward to take Ron's hand.

"Welcom' to the Dueling Damsels, gentlemen!" the wizard was all smiles. "I'm Dugger, manager of this fine establishment! It's a pleasure to have ya, come in, come in!" Dugger herded the three inside and latched the metal door back closed behind them.

All three were lost in amazement at the club from inside. They had only traveled one level down, but the cavernous ceiling appeared to be three stories high. And Ron had never seen so many witches and wizards in one place in his life! Well, not since the Quidditch World Cup at least. There had to be well over a couple thousand inside.

A sea of bodies swayed to the pulse of the deafening music. The lighting was dim, but neons and lasers shown from every direction, reflecting off their sweating, swaying forms. From one end of the club, Ron could see what looked like foam spewing from a fountain, bathing all the dancers around it.

Elsewhere, others were floating in mid-air like the bubbles of the foam. From the long bar to the left, Ron spotted another pair each throw back a shot, before slamming the glasses down as a huge burst of flame pillared from each of their mouths as they belched.

"Ginger! Ginger, come here darling!" Ron heard Dugger yell over the music as he led them to a small group of people.

At the manager's beckoning, a tall and slender red headed witch came out of nowhere to their side. "Yes, Dugger?" her voice sang like the chords of a harp.

"Ah, Ginger!" Dugger turned for her. "Do you see who I have here?!" he shoved George and Ron forward with a beaming grin. Ginger's jaw first dropped, before she finally recovered, pulling it into a wide, seductive smile.

"I do believe I recognize you from somewhere?" she toyed with them at first, beating her lashes seductively. "You must be Ronald Weasley, yeah?" she stepped towards him, holding out her small, delicate hand. "I'm Ginger."

It was now Ron's turn to gawk. The redheaded girl was nothing short of stunning, and Ron could not prevent his lewd gaze from trailing up and down her slender body before settling on her ample cleavage.

Black stilettos accentuated her long smooth legs. A black leather mini-skirt showcased her flowing hips, and a red corset bound her slender torso, pushing up her large breasts. "It... it's j-just Ron..." he said in something of a mumble as he took her hand.

Ginger's eyebrows raised and she giggled and blushed from Ron's overtness.

"Never mind my little brother, gorgeous, he's still learning. I'm George Weasley, Ron's older, and much more attractive, brother," George offered her his hand with a wink. "It's a pleasure to meet you," he said with a half bow.

"Ah, is that so?!” she laughed gaily, taking George's hand while batting her lashes at him. George's eyes went hazy.

"And you are?" she finally turned to Lee Jordan. He didn't move. He just stood there, gawking like an idiot at the goddess before him. George nudged him.

"Huh? Yeah, er - what..?" Lee stammered. All four erupted with laughter.

"They're to be our honored guests tonight!" Dugger bellowed over the noise. "Get 'em set up in a nice spot and all the drinks they can guzzle! Their money is no good here!" The three boys beamed at his words. It was going to be a good night.

The lovely Ginger hooked her arms in between George and Ron's as she led them away. Lee followed close behind, his eyes bobbing with the waves of Ginger's hips, while Dugger held up the rear.

The mob of witches and wizards parted like the Red Sea before them. Conversations ground to a halt, dancers froze, the clumsiest spilled their drinks, as all that were in their sphere stopped to gawk at the stunning redhead and the one they recognized of the Golden Trio.

"Do you always cause a scene like this?" Ginger teased Ron, whispering close to his ear.

"W-wouldn't know..." Ron stammered from the shivers running down him from her proximity. "Been running for my life most the last year..." Ron smiled goofily and waved at some of their admirers. He thought he saw one young witch faint.

"And this is your first night out since the end of the war?!" Ginger gasped in disbelief.

"Been the Ministry's prisoner for the last three days. George and I had to sneak out tonight."

"Well this is a special treat then!" Ginger glowed as she led them up to the balcony that wound around the perimeter of the vast club.

"Yes it is..." Ron eyed her chest once again.

"What's that?" Ginger asked him with a smile.

"Er - I said this is a nice place you have here..."

Ginger raised a brow at him as his eyes flashed away from her cleavage with embarrassment, but she only giggled in response.

Halfway down the long balcony, Ginger led them into a secluded nook that looked out over the center of the dance floor. A sea of bodies swayed below them to the rhythm of the blaring music. It was a magical sight.

When Ron turned back around, the before empty table was now covered with beer and whiskey, and frosted bottles of liquor and champagne set in silver buckets of ice with crystal glasses readied beside them.

"Can I make you a drink?" Ginger asked him, leaning in close with a soft hand on his chest.

"Er... yeah, butterbeer?" Ron blushed.

"Ha!" Ginger laughed, slapping him playfully across his chest. "You're funny, I like you!" she winked at him before she turned to the low table.

Ginger bent gracefully over, bending at the hips, giving the gawking Ron, George, and Lee Jordan a nice view of her voluptuous rump.

"Ew-la-la!" George wiggled his eyebrows as he slapped Ron on the arm with the back of his hand.

"Here, try this..." Ginger turned back around, surprised, as the three scrambled back into an orderly manner, all trying their best not to erupt in laughter. Ginger stepped forward, flashing them each a knowing glance.

"You look like a scotch kind of a man to me," she crooked a narrow brow as she handed him the drink. She eyed him expectantly as he took a sip.

As the golden brown liquid spilled onto his tongue and ran scorching down his throat, Ron was positive his ears were spitting out flame. He had to screw his eyes and take a deep, calming breath, but when he did... the warm liquid flushed through him, erupting his senses and broke down barriers he never knew existed.

"Tha's great!" Ron glowed.

"And you, brother George, what will you be having?" she looked coyly to him.

"I'll have the same, if you please?"

Just then Dugger stepped up to the the edge of the railing running about the balcony, looking out over the dance floor. "Eh hem!" he held his wand to his neck as he cleared his throat, echoing it loudly across the club. "PLEASE!" he bellowed in his loud, booming voice. "If I could have everyone's attention! - Zed, the music!" he slashed his free hand across his throat, signaling the emcee to kill it. The music screeched to a halt and the sea of people groaned with disappointment.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, but this is very important!" Dugger went on as all faces turned to his. "We've all been blessed by a very important guest tonight - none other than one of the Golden Trio, Ron Weasley!" Dugger leaned over and pulled Ron forward.

The crowd went wild with the sight of him. Led by Dugger, they began chanting "Weasley - Weasley - Weasley!" like booming canons, rattling the walls. Ron shimmered with pride. He waved to the mob below, feeding them, driving them insane.

His conscience flickered to Hermione. If she and Harry could see him now... she'd skin him alive, showing off like this. But why not?! Where's the harm in it? He had earned it. He was one of the Golden Trio after all. Ron pumped a fist into the air. The sea exploded in cheers.

"Defender of Great Britain!" Dugger thrust his filled mug into the air. "Defeater of He-Who-must-Not-Be-Named, we salute you!"

"Salute!" the room echoed in a deafening cheer. Ron glanced beside him to see a beaming Ginger and a smiling George and Lee Jordan lifting their mugs towards him as well. All the room downed their drinks.

"Next round's on the house!" Dugger yelled out as the music came back on. The sea erupted into new waves and howling winds once more.

Ron's narrow experience with intoxicating drinks grew exponentially with each passing hour. There was no more mention of butterbeer.

“So how'd ya hear of this place, Lee?” Ron hiccuped.

“Mundungus Fletcher, oddly enough. Told me I had to check it out!” Lee gleamed back at him from the sofa with two beauties wrapped around either of his arms.

“Will have'ta buy him a beer!” Ron smiled behind his monstrous saucer of a mug. White foam and golden liquid sloshed out as he swayed drunkenly in his seat.

His gaze wandered over to George as he whispered into a young lass's ear. He was getting to see a side of his brother he'd never seen before, and though he'd never think to describe it with such a word, it was endearing.

Growing up, the seven Weasley children had all split into their own cliques, Percy being the odd man out of course. Bill and Charlie, the two eldest, were naturally the closest to each other. George and Fred had been happy to use Ron as their guinea pig, but there is simply nothing as strong as a twins' bond. George and Fred had been as thick as thieves. Ron and Ginny being the youngest, had ultimately paired to be the final clique.

Fred... Ron loathed. Sitting there, watching George, it was as if there was a piece of him missing. It was hard for Ron to think of a time they hadn't been together.

Since that fateful night, Ron hadn't yet had the chance to talk with his brother about Fred. What, between the investigators, Healers, and reporters, he hadn't much of a chance to talk to anyone. 'Harry, Hermione...' his mind wandered further and he frowned a deep frown.

“Something wrong, hun?” a ringing voice pulled him back.

Ron glanced up at the approaching Ginger. She was magnificent, in every meaning of the word.

Already tossed, Ron simply leaned right over and pulled her to him without pause. “Butter now!” Ron hiccuped again. Ginger threw her head back, laughing gaily as she pressed her body up against his.

“Here,” she leaned out to the table and poured them each a shot. Ron took it without question, saluting her before throwing it back in one quick motion. The burn of it's liquid caught in his throat, bending him over. Ron coughed heavily, pounding his chest a few good times with his fist. Damn that feels good!

"Oi, little bro!" George slapped him on the back merrily, sloshing the drink in his hand. "You're gonna drink us all under the table!"

"Yeah!" Lee seconded him. "Save some for us!" They were all three thoroughly pissed.

"Than's fer bringin' me out!" Ron cheersed them with his mug as they took their shots of Firewhiskey. "Jus' what I neededed!" he slurred drunkenly.

"Think it's what we all needed, mate!" Lee slapped him on the back.

Just then a hand caught Ron by the front of the shirt. He startled, his eyes springing forward to the owner of the hand. Two enchanting blue eyes pierced down into his.

"Come on," Ginger hauled him to his feet.

"Buh..." Ron stammered, looking back to the frowning ladies he was leaving behind at their table.

Before Ron knew what hit him, Ginger spun around and thrust her lips up against his unsuspecting ones, crushing them together. He almost fainted from a loss of breath. His head went spinning, and more so from just the alcohol.

As soon as Ron could figure out what was going on, as he felt Ginger's perfect body pressing against his, her lips massaging his own, he wrapped his arms around her and began to respond to her invading tongue. Ron forgot who he was.

Ginger pulled away gasping. "You've had your arse glued to that seat all night mister. I think it's about time for you to stretch those legs of yours. Follow me," Ginger towed him by the hand, leading him down the stairs and into the sea on the dance floor. Ron followed like a little puppy dog.

Ron lost himself out there with Ginger for what felt like hours and yet only minutes at the same time. He didn't even know that he could dance, but with all the alcohol and Ginger leading him, he felt like he could do anything.

It was in the wee hours of the morning that she finally led him back to the bar where they found his brother and Lee Jordan and ordered another round of shots.

"Come on little bro, we've got one more stop before we call it a night," George and Lee began getting ready to leave.

"You're not leaving me now, are you Ronnie?" Ginger curled herself in close to him. As her scent infected him, Ron mumbled something incoherently about staying.

"Hey Ginger,” George spoke up in the absence of his idiotic brother. “This is something important to us, but I like you and you're welcome to tag along if you wish - should be fun," he finished with a mischievous grin.

. . . . .

They all four managed to stumble back to the street before George apparated them without explaining a thing further. Ron recognized the place immediately though. It was Pick's Hill, where they'd laid Fred to rest only a day before.

"G-George?" Ron asked hesitantly, but his brother wasn't listening to him. George walked away from the rest, his eyes locked onto the tombstone before them.

"Lee," George finally said solemnly.

"Right," Lee Jordan sprang to action. Ron and Ginger watched him as he retrieved a large stash of fireworks and helped George arrange them about Fred's resting place.

George then stood back up at his fallen brothers side and summoned a bottle of Firewhiskey he'd brought with him. He first turned it up into the air to his lips, taking several gigantic gulps before he then held it out before himself, committing the rest of the brown liquid to the ground covering Fred.

"For you brother, sending you off in style." George did not even bother moving. Ron and Lee both jumped when George waved his wand, but there was nothing they could do at that point. All the fireworks went off at once.

The bangs and explosions were deafening as twizzlers and twirlers went off all around George and Fred, consuming them in a blinding light. Rockets blasted off and whizzed in every direction as the sky was soon filled with every color imaginable.

The show was massive and went on for nearly five minutes. Ron held Ginger close as they stared up at the night sky in awe. George had outdone himself. Images so realistic they could have been a slide show of Fred's life. Crawling, his first wand, their first time at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, Hogwarts, their experimental alchemy set, various pranks and incantations, the dragon that swallowed that toad Umbridge, Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, Hero.

The darkness returned as the final sparks drifted down like sifting flakes and finally snuffed out altogether. George was slightly smoldering, but appeared otherwise alright, still standing there, staring down at his lost half. Ron stepped forward, placing a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Goodbye Fred, until we see you again."

Ron apparated them all back to George's.

Chapter Seven: White Sands


It was obvious. The retreat, though small, was nothing short of magical. It radiated with the touch of a certain witch he knew. Harry flashed a knowing smile at Hermione as his eyes took in the beautiful scene.

"What..? They deserved it," Hermione shrugged, smirking back at him.

The resort was tucked away within a large oasis of palms and colorful, flowering shrubs that stood in the shadow of a large outcrop of granite to the north. Harry could smell the alluring scent of salt in the air and hear the gentle roar of the waves beyond.

'This is going to be terrific!' Harry shared zero of Hermione's reservations. With the Prince's antidote, this was going to be sinch, a vacation – a much, much needed vacation!

The cab taxied them to the largest of the grouped huts. They were all built of local, rich wood and thatch and their roofs were nothing more than the palms of the trees. It was absolutely splendid! Their own Garden of Eden.

A maze of narrow stone pathways cut through green vines, budding flowers, and flowering bushes, connecting the six smaller bungalows to the main building. The gravel lane looped beneath a covered portico where their cab finally came to a halt. Harry looked to Hermione as she sat as still as stone, looking nowhere other than straight.

"Take your time," Harry said tenderly, "I'll unload our things."

He understood. He understood why she did it, of course, and also the gravity of having to confront them and admit what she had done. She had played, albeit with good intentions, with the fabrics of their lives. She had changed their lives without their knowledge or consent. Harry was confident that they could restore them, but what then? They were her parents. They would forgive her.

Harry stalled for as long as he could, taking their luggage from the trunk of the cab and loading it onto a cart. He made idle talk with the cabbie, asking for recommendations on restaurants and local attractions. He even got a few good tips, but ultimately, after having paid the man and the driver got back into his vehicle, Harry had to tap at Hermione's window to beckon her on.

It stressed Harry to see her like this. Hermione took small, stiff steps towards the entry, as if marching to her own execution. Harry paved the way, leading her into the resort she had left her parents in charge of, one year ago.

"Hello and good morning! Welcome to the White Sands!" a slim and pretty woman greeted them from behind the check-in counter.

"Thank you, and good morning," Harry said as he rolled in the cart, but as the woman glanced back past him, looking concerned, Harry stopped. Following her sight back, Harry had already made it half-way to the counter, but Hermione was still at the door, frozen, fidgeting, and looked half a mind like she might turn and run back out. Harry left the cart to retrieve her, grasping her hand he pulled her the rest of the way in.

"What are you doing?" Harry mumbled under his breath to her as the woman, though still smiling warmly, now eyed them more carefully at Hermione's odd behavior. Once Harry got a good look at the woman, he understood why.

The woman was older, nearing middle age. She had fair skin with a small nose, brown eyes and a full set of brown bushy hair. Though only briefly, Harry had even met her before. There was no mistaking it, this was Hermione's mum.

"You two must be James and Anna?!" the woman clapped her hands together excitedly. Harry almost corrected her before reminding himself of the names on their passports. "We are so happy to have you! My name is Monica Wilkins. Welcome, welcome!" she waved them forward.

"Thank you," Harry said politely. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Oh, thank you sweetie, but the pleasure is all mine! And let me guess-" Mrs Granger, believing her name to be Monica, looked between the two nearly bubbling over with excitement, "a little newly wed jitters? We've got you for your honeymoon, don't we?!" she clapped her hands again.

Harry shifted a little uneasily, scratching at the back of his head. "W-well... actually... y-you see..."

"Yes," Hermione croaked from out of nowhere. Harry practically fell over with shock.

"Ah ha! I knew it!" Monica squealed. "And just look at the two of you, I've never seen a more perfect couple!" Both Harry and Hermione turned a beet red, neither possessing the courage to look at the other. "Don't worry darling, I've seen this a hundred times before!"

Harry was startled and almost pulled away as his new bride took his hand. He glanced over to her and she mouthed the word "sorry” to him.

Then, as if only to add to the perplexity of the situation, a large ball of orange fur suddenly leapt up into Hermione's arms.

“Crookshanks!” Hermione gasped involuntarily. Her strange kneazle of a cat had found her right off, purring loudly all the while. It had been a year since she'd left him as well and she'd really been the only person he'd ever taken to. Guess he hadn't forgotten her.

“Crookshanks?” Harry heard Monica ask with astonishment. Hermione froze. “But, how do you..?

'Not as easy as I had thought...' Harry ran his hand down his face.

“The couple back in England who recommended this place to us...” Harry was quick on his feet, “they told us about this huge cat you had, like a little, miniature tiger!” Harry laughed alone. “But they told us he was a fierce little booger, what's this?” he jerked his thumb towards Hermione, playing it all off well.

“Huh?” Monica put her hand on her hip. “I don't know? I've never seen him like this before. He's usually very... well, ornery.”

“Yeah, well, Anna has always had a way with the outcasts,” Harry winked at his new bride.

"Well I'll be, wait until I tell my husband about this!” she laughed aloud. “You say a couple from England? May I ask who, I must send them a thank you card! We're such a small operation here, we certainly appreciate the recommendation."

“Yeah, er...” Harry scratched awkwardly at the back of his head. The web we weave! What could he say now? He couldn't just make up a name. “I don't... Anna, do you remember their names, they were friends of your parents?”

"Oh... uh, er..." Hermione stumbled, her eyes cutting at Harry like daggers. "I didn't know them that well... I can't seem to recall their names right now..." she shifted Crookshanks' weight in her arms uneasily.

"Oh don't worry about it, I'm sure it will come to you," her unknowing mum let her off the hook. Hermione smiled back feebly. "Anyways, lets get you two settled in. There's so much to see! So much to do!"

. . . .

"Honeymoon?!" Harry immediately turned on Hermione as soon as Monica had finished giving them the tour and left them to unpack. Crookshanks hissed at Harry defensively from his mistress's side, still the faithful pet. Monica couldn't understand it, but Hermione assured her it was okay and that she'd keep an eye on him.

"I-I..." Hermione looked to the floor, wringing her hands.

"Well?!"

"I... she was already suspicious and I just panicked!" Hermione flung her arms out in dramatic fashion.

"Suspicious?!" Harry blurted out with astonishment.

"Well... this is a remote getaway... a kinda romantic place... What would two kids our age be doing here otherwise?!"

“Oh, I don't know, how about two friends on a plain old vacation?" Harry said flabbergasted. "Did you stop to think how suspicious we'll look if they don't see us acting like a newly married couple?!" he was growing impatient.

The truth of Harry's statement suddenly dawned on Hermione and settled on top of her like a ton of bricks. Harry could see it and it softened him.

"I... I-I was just scared and... I panicked," Hermione whimpered as she nervously bit at the nail of her thumb.

"Don't..." Harry quickly stepped forward, closing the distance between them and grasped her hand, pulling it from her lips. "It's okay. We'll figure it out. The most important thing is that we're here and-" a knock came from the door, interrupting them. Harry looked back to Hermione one last time, forgiving her with his eyes before he let her go and answered the door.

"Good'ay!" a middle aged man cheered them from the porch. His features seemed oddly familiar. "I'm Wendell Wilkins. Just passed my wife, Monica, and she told me our newest guests had arrived. Wanted to drop by, introduce myself and welcome you good people to the White Sands!"

"Thank you," Harry said, shaking Hermione's father's hand. "I'm James, and this pretty lady is my wife, Anna," Harry winked back at her. Hermione blushed, just as Harry was hoping. She had dug the hole after all! "It's quite an amazing place you have here!" Harry said, turning back to Mr. Granger - Wendell.

"Oh, thank you! It's all thanks to my pretty wife Monica, though. She's the one who makes it what it is!" Harry was struck by the genuineness of Mr. Granger and the love he radiated out for his wife. What a family! Harry envied Hermione, and cursed himself for having been the cause that had wrecked their lives. He wouldn't rest until he put it all back in order.

"I'm told we've got you for your honeymoon?”

“Er, yeah... that's right,” Harry played his part.

“Congratulations! But what are you two doing locked up in here? Beach is gorgeous today, I was just headed down to catch a little surf. Ever surfed before?” he asked both of them. They each shook their heads no in turn.

“Good, no bad habits! Come on, I'll get you two started!”

"Yeah, well..." Harry ran his fingers through his hair.

"You boys go on, I'll get us all unpacked, James," Hermione said jovially. Harry flashed her a glance and saw that she had that coy smile back on her face. Hermione dually winked back at him, returning the favor. Harry smiled.

'Good one,' he thought to himself.

. . . .

Hermione enjoyed herself a shower before attending to their trunks, emptying each into the chest-of-drawers and closet. She had only just begun to settle in to come up with some kind of plan when another knock came at the door.

"Yes?" Hermione beckoned.

The door slid open and Hermione's unknowing mum, Monica, slipped her head in. "There you are! What are you doing? You're going to miss your whole first day here!" she protested.

"I, um..." Hermione struggled to come up with some excuse.

"Do you mind if we come in?" Monica opened the door wider, revealing another young woman right behind her. "This is Joyce. She and her husband came here for their honeymoon just last year! Joyce, I'd like you to meet Anna, our newest bride!" Monica introduced them.

"Hello," Hermione croaked as she got up off the bed to properly greet Joyce. Joyce was a young red-head that uneasily reminded her of Ginny, though she seemed very sweet.

"Hello," Joyce said, "It's a pleasure, and congratulations!"

“Thanks..." Hermione blushed while kicking herself mentally. What had she done?!

"All the boys are down at the beach, we were about to make some daiquiris, care to join?" Monica asked her.

"Er, I don't kn-"

"Oh stop it, you silly girl! This is your honeymoon! Come on, get changed into your swimsuit. We'll have a couple of drinks then meet the boys down at the beach!"

"O-okay..." Hermione gave in, seeing the determination on each of their faces. She fished out her beach wear and excused herself for a minute to change. When she came back out, she was greeted with teasing faces.

"You're not wearing that, are you?!" Monica guffawed and Joyce giggled.

"What?" Hermione asked, confused as she turned in circles, thinking that there was something on her.

"That bathing suit... you look like my grandmother!" Joyce teased her. Hermione blushed in her full, one piece, dull navy-blue swimsuit.

"If you're going to keep a hunk like that around, you're going to need a little something more - I think we're about the same size..." Joyce mulled her observation over a moment. "Wait here, I'll be right back!" And with that, Joyce was out the door. Hermione awaited with her mum uneasily.'Hunk? Was she talking about Harry?!' Hermione flushed. 'What's wrong with this bathing suit?!'

Chapter Eight: In Deep



"Alright, so spill the beans?!" Monica prodded her as she poured their third round of drinks. Hermione had never really drank before and she was definitely feeling the effects. If her mum only knew!

"What?" Hermione blushed as they both looked to her. They had each in turn shared how they had met their husbands and gossiped about all of their quirks and attributes.

"Ah, come on! We gave you all the dirt on us, now it's your turn!" Monica encouraged her. Hermione gulped. Well, she had started all this, she had to open her big, fat mouth!

"Har-" Hermione caught herself. "James... he's - he's just... really nice," Hermione blushed under their intrigued gazes.

"Nice, huh?!" Monica and Joyce laughed together, teasing Hermione. "Naughty girl!" Monica wiggled her eyebrows at her. 'MUM!' Hermione wanted to balk.

"Well, he is!" Hermione defended herself. "And he's genuine, he's just real... the realist person I've ever met..."

"That's a little better," Monica said.

"And he's got the biggest heart in the whole world. He'd do anything for anyone and never ask for anything in return..." Hermione went on, her voice ever softening, the words coming to her with greater ease. And it was true, his whole savior complex thing, but she couldn't talk about that. “And the most un-tameable hair I've ever seen," a smile cracked across her lips, "almost as bad as mine!" she flung her locks back with a laugh. "And his eyes, those green eyes..." Hermione trailed off as if she were losing herself into them right then, "the way he can just look at you and tear down any wall... and he's just... we've been through so much together, he's my best friend..." Hermione was interrupted by an eruption of giggling. Hermione frowned.

"Forgive us! To be young and in love!" Monica sang.

"Well you asked for it!" Hermione blushed. She had to remind herself that she was just playing a role. Those daiquiris!

"Come on, let's go see what they're up to!" Joyce jumped up.

. . . .

Hermione spotted him paddling out into the waves as she and the two other girls made their way down the narrow, wooden boardwalk. She stopped to watch. As Harry turned to catch a wave, his board suddenly surging forward with the energy, Harry bounced up, balancing himself atop it. Hermione tensed as the other two cheered.

Hermione watched with baited breath as Harry road it, slicing through the water in a way that oddly reminded her of seeing him on his broom. He held it all the way into the shallows, before finally slowing and losing his balance, he toppled over into the water.

Hermione could not contain her excitement any longer and jumped up with her own ecstatic squeal, breaking away from the rest as she raced down to the beach to greet him.

Her dad, Wendell, and Joyce's husband Tom were racing through the water as well, high stepping across the waves as they cheered and pumped their fists into the air for Harry.

"Har - James! You did it! You were amazing!" Hermione ran splashing right into the water. Harry came up all smiles, thrusting his own fist into the air with Wendell and Tom, as Hermione slammed into him. Harry caught her in his arms and swung her around in a circle.

"How bout that?!" Harry laughed.

Hermione leaned in close, "Better than your broom?" she whispered to him.

"Almost!" Harry laughed. "Almost!" But then as he set Hermione back into the water, he caught his first real glimpse of her. His eyes bulged.

Hermione took a step back, startled. Harry's face seemed first to turn to a shock of horror but then... his eyes trailed up and down her lean body with what could only have been described as a lust filled gaze.

Hermione suddenly remembered she was dressed in that skimpy bikini Joyce had lent her. Hermione shrunk down into the water with embarrassment as her neck and cheeks turned red.

But Harry was not the only one caught gawking. As Hermione took in the full sight of Harry, his soaked body glistening with the beads of water, her thought's wandered into a dangerous zone.

Clad only in his swim trunks, Harry's hardened physique was laid nearly completely bare. Seven years of war could do that to a young man. Hermione's eyes gave away a hint of desire themselves as they moved across his swollen chest and lined and well defined abs.

"Wow! Did you see that?!" Wendell turned to her, breaking her trance. "Can't believe he's never surfed before!"

"I know, he was splendid!" Hermione clapped her hands. "He's always been a natural!"

"Nice! Well done James!" Tom added, finally awakening Harry.

As Harry's eyes rose to find Hermione's waiting on him, he burned red with embarrassment and first sank back into the water to cool himself before coming back up to turn his attention to Wendell and Tom. Hermione watched him closely as his hands flipped his wet, dark hair back out of his face.

"What do you say, should we give it another go?" Harry asked.

"You kids surf your hearts out! But we're having a big feast tonight in celebration of you newly weds and I've got to get back to get started on it before my wife comes after me!" Wendell waved to Monica on the shore. "Well done James, I'll pick it back up with you tomorrow after you all see the reef! Have fun!" Wendell turned and made his way to his wife awaiting him on the beach. Tom followed him to his awaiting Joyce. Harry and Hermione were left to enjoy the beautiful beach alone.

Harry tried teaching Hermione how to surf, and while she was a sport about it, she never really got past learning how to paddle while laying flat atop it.

They wasted the afternoon away lounging in the sand, etching their names into it before the surf scrubbed it away. They worked together to build a sand castle, Harry's first, and with the addition of a small little hill meant to be Hagrid's hut, they dubbed it little Hogwarts with a good laugh and smiles, admiring their handiwork.

They started exploring, walking several kilometers up and down the beach, splashing playfully in the shallows, soaking up the Sun, collecting intricate sea shells and sand dollars until they eventually found themselves at the foot of the small mountain of the rock out-crop.

“Race you to the top?!” Harry eyed it like a promising adventure.

“I don't think so...” Hermione did not share in his enthusiasm, but with a little begging and pleading from Harry, he eventually convinced her to let him help her up. He had to force his eyes away more than once from staring at her taut little rump barely covered by the bottoms of her bikini.

“I feel like I am at the top of the world!” Harry shouted into the wind once they had made it. He held his arms straight out like a bird as the wind whipped around him, almost like he was flying.

“It's so beautiful...” Hermione added as she gazed about. The vast ocean spread out endlessly beneath them. Spinning in circles, it seemed like you could fit all of England in their sight and yet they were the only ones there.

And then it finally hit them. Settling, not as some burdensome weight, but as a dawning of a new day.

“I can't believe it...” Harry was talking more to himself than Hermione.

“What's that, Harry?” she glanced at him between her batting lashes.

“It's just... here...” he struggled to find the words, but there was no strain on his face, only admiration for the immense blue sea below. “I've never felt so free...” he summed up his emotions.

“Yeah,” Hermione smiled feebly. “Almost...”

Harry kicked himself for his poor choice of words. 'Almost...' they still had to bring her parents back, but Harry had no doubts. Seeing her stress return and without another word said, Harry slipped his arm around her shoulders and she accepted him, leaning into him as they watched the deep orange Sun dip into the horizon.

. . . .

The long wooden table, covered from end to end with every morsel imaginable, reminded Harry and Hermione much of Hogwarts - the good ol' days.

"You're drinking?" Harry leaned towards her as her very own mother served her the first of the evening.

"Would you like anything, James?" Monica interrupted them.

"No... that's o-"

"He'll have the same!" Hermione cut him off with a smile.

"Well," Harry turned to her, "you're getting on really well with this whole wife thing," he poked at her, but only in jest.

Hermione snorted, choking on the drink she happened to be sipping at the time.

"What are you doing?!" Harry scorned. Their roles had become quite reversed and Harry did not like it from this end. It made him feel like an old maid or something.

"Celebrating!" Hermione said happily, undeterred by Harry. "Isn't that what you said earlier?"

Harry rolled his eyes at her. "Have you forgotten what we're doing here?" he said only to her, the rest taken up in their own conversations. Ever more their roles seemed to have been swapped.

Hermione frowned. "No, I haven't," she said low and briskly. "What I do know is that we've been hanging on by a thread for the last year, Harry, and now, here, safe and away from it all for the first time, with those I love most, I feel like it's finally behind us," she gathered her breath. "And I want to celebrate!" she finished matter-of-factly, before hiccuping.

“Looks like you've had a few to celebrate,” Harry smirked at her. But, now that she said it though... it did make sense – perfect sense in fact. And what better place to be than here, free, in this beautiful paradise? No one watching their every move, no one hunting them, no one trying to kill them, not a single person with the slightest clue as to who they were. Yes, they still had to awake Hermione's parents, but they were here with them, safe and sound.

"Cheers!" Harry took his drink and lifted it to Hermione, giving himself over.

"Hey, you cheersing your new bride?! Let us here it!" Wendell beckoned him from the head of the table, holding out his glass. Harry stalled. Hermione's eyes frowned with apology. But as sixteen other smiling eyes all turned to him, Harry felt obliged. For Hermione, Harry stood, raising his glass.

Looking down to Hermione, catching her eyes in his, he began softly and with compassion, "To the most beautiful, caring, brilliant, most wonderful person in all the world..." Harry had to take a breath to steady his voice, "to my best friend, who's helped me through my worst, who's kept me grounded at my best. Who gives me courage when I am afraid, who gives me strength when I feel weak. Who's shared with me all the happiest moments of my life, who's taught me how to laugh, who's taught me how to live, who's taught me how to love. I could not imagine my life without you beside me..." Harry reached out his glass and clanked it gently against Hermione's, but she did not move. She was not breathing. Her brown orbs were locked onto his green ones, shimmering with coming tears.

"To Anna!" the whole table saluted, followed by a round of clinking glasses and the slurping of drinks. Harry finally tore his eyes from hers, lifting his drink to his lips, he took a long drought before abruptly sitting back down.

"Aw, that was so beautiful, James!" all the women harped, Monica even with a tear in her own eyes.

The rest of the dinner, unfortunately, now passed awkwardly between Harry and Hermione. They dared not speak to one another less it was to pass the potatoes or the rolls. They would then each look to the other, only to catch each others eyes with a redness burning in their cheeks before abruptly looking away.

The daiquiris, fortunately, began to do their work, chiseling away at their inhibitions. Hermione's dad surprised her with yet another new talent, playing the guitar. He was even pretty good, and Monica sang for them as the couples all abandoned the table to dance to the music. Harry and Hermione were not permitted to decline.

As their hands came together and Harry placed his other on Hermione's hip and she placed her's on his shoulder, flashbacks instantly hit them of their dance those many months ago within the tent...

That road stretched out long behind them, with a thousand memories and a thousand tears, and thousand smiles, and thousand laughs. It was a familiar road, one they had shared together, and each was so grateful to have the other with them now, continuing down that path into uncharted territory, together.

. . . .

As the moon rose into the later hours of the night, the two older couples Harry had not really gotten to know, excused themselves to their rooms as Joyce suggested the spa.

They all sat around in a large circle, talking and gossiping, laughing and teasing. Hermione was struck by how much her parents – whether they knew they were or not – had changed, and how happy they were. They seemed to take to Harry especially, with Monica doting over him on every little thing he said or did, and Wendell couldn't help but talk his ear off.

Harry seemed happy to oblige him though, and they got lost in a conversation about surfing, with her dad sharing with him tips for tomorrow, and Harry made him promise to teach him a little on the guitar, which her dad gladly accepted.

Endeared by it all, Hermione mimicked the other girls who were all hanging all over their boys and dared to scoot closer to him, wrapping her arm around his and wove her fingers into his hand. Harry accepted her without pause, still going on with her parents as she talked with Joyce and Tom.

"You two are just so adorable!" Hermione heard Moncia suddenly blurt out excitedly, changing the conversation. "How long have you been together?"

Harry and Hermione looked to each other, blushing. "We met our first year of school..." Hermione said, looking over into Harry's eyes. She leaned further into him, needing his support.

"You could say we've "been together" this last year," Harry finished her sentence, beaming down at her as if it were true.

"Oh! High school sweethearts! Just like me and my Wendell!" Monica said glowing.

'Something like that...' Harry thought to himself.

As the conversations and the drinks carried on, the tension in the hot tub began to rise with the heat. Harry and Hermione abashedly watched as the others eventually wove themselves into tangles. Witnessing it, their eyes came together, but as an unnerving horde of butterflies attacked them, they were not able to hold.

It was the most awkward thing, but eventually Monica saved them... or so they thought. "Well, it's getting late for us old folks! You kids have fun! Breakfast will be served at nine, but feel free to sleep in and come when you like," she winked at the newly weds. Harry and Hermione felt their heightened fever rise another degree or two.

Hermoine's unknowing parents had no more than disappeared into the shadows then Joyce and Tom locked arms around each others necks and began to outright suck each others faces.

Harry scoffed slightly, just between he and Hermione, and rolled his eyes at the lewd scene before them. Too many daiquiris!

“Geez!” Hermione twisted herself away from it, turning her back to them as she floated over before Harry's knees. She shared a mock face of shock with him and Harry laughed as he took her other hand in his.

"Guess it's getting late..." she giggled, blushing for Tom and Joyce.

"Yeah, I guess..." Harry sighed as he gently parted his knees, pulling Hermione closer to him by their interwoven fingers.

“Well, should we call it a – hiccup – night?” Hermione screwed her face comically at her continued hiccups. They both broke into laughter as Hermione floated ever deeper between his legs.

“Sure...” Harry was not eager to end this day, but with Tom and Joyce making-out just beside them, he felt the need to give them their privacy.

Hermione slowly made to stand, balancing herself against Harry as she trailed her way up his chest. Their faces came uncomfortably close to one another...

Harry caught her. Hermione stopped. Their eyes met.

Looking back and forth to one another, something happened. There was something deep, something profound lost within each of their orbs and they struggled to search and understand it.

Staring deep into her eyes, Harry reached up to gingerly fold one of Hermione's fallen strands back behind her ear. Hermione's eyes fell to Harry's lips as her hands unknowingly came to rest upon his hard chest.

Leaving the strand in place, the tips of Harry's fingers trailed ever so slowly back down around her ear, catching her cheek in his palm. Hermione brushed her face into his touch as their eyes continued their battle, and then suddenly, like something just snapped, they saw all they needed and could want to see.

Harry drew his fingers along her jawline, to her chin, his thumb brushing ever so slightly against her lips. Hermione gave it the faintest of kisses.

A shiver ran through him with the touch of her soft lips. Harry cupped her face once more as he drew closer still. Had they not been lost in their drunken haze or well of emotions from trying to put this last year behind them, their minds might have sounded an alarm, but all their senses seemed to abate them. There was only this sudden rush of raw emotion and need. Their eyes closed in unison. Their breaths ceased. And their lips came together.

It was soft and gentle and it held for the longest time. Harry wavered first though. With his eyes closed, pressing his forehead against hers, their noses together, their lips grazing, their breaths intertwining, he faltered between what he knew he must do, what was right, and what he wanted to do. What all his hormones and senses and rush of emotions were telling him to do.

He kissed her softly on the corner of her mouth and Hermione's lips reacted by reaching for his. Several short pecks followed, their lips gaining ever more courage.

Harry then began to work his way down, kissing her chin, leaving a trail of nibbles along her cheek and jaw, all the way to the base of her ear.

"Oh, Harry!" Hermione gasped aloud.

They both jumped as she let out his real name, anxiously turning to see if the other couple had heard. No. Joyce and Tom were both wrapped up in each other, just as Harry and Hermione had been. The two turned back to each other and laughed.

Hermione was still between Harry's legs, realizing now that she was pressing up against him. Harry looked into her eyes and saw so much. He could kiss her again, but he knew he shouldn't. She was his best friend. She was his best mate's girl – or something like that - and they'd simply had too much to drink. With their heightened passion ebbing, Hermione frowned deeply as Harry pulled away.

"Harry?" she asked with sad eyes, clenching at his fleeting hands.

"Come on, lets get out of here..." Harry had to force the words. A disappointed Hermione took his offered hand and he lifted her to her feet.

They walked back to the room in silence, but with their hands together. Hermione rested her head on Harry's shoulder as they were both lost deep in thought.

They took turns changing in the bathroom. Hermione was to have the bed while Harry took the couch. They started there. Harry even obediently stayed in his place, much to his darker side's chagrin. As the minutes stretched into hours, the two, for the first time since the final battle, were finally able to just sit and talk and let it all out.

They recalled their early years, meeting on the train, of she mending his taped glasses. They laughed about Harry sticking his wand up the mountain troll's nose! They spoke of Buckbeak and Sirius. They replayed the Triwizard Tournament, chastised Rita Skeeter, remembered Cedric.

But as their conversation gradually drew to their most recent, darker times, Hermione found herself on the couch with Harry, taking comfort in his arms. They guessed about what schemes Hagrid was up to, and what antics Gwarp, his giant of a half-brother, was causing in the Forbidden Forest. The two talked long into the night about their last seven years, reminiscing, remembering, mourning, celebrating, laughing, crying, sharing, and eventually, sleeping in one anothers arms.

A/N: Sorry, I am just not very good and the romance stuff. Hopefully it wasn't all too lame. Thanks for reading and leave a review on your way out.

Chapter Nine: Errors in Judgment



The morning light shot daggers through his temples. Ron groaned and squinted as he rolled his face into his pillow. As he lay their, trying to get a grip on his spinning world, images of the previous night slowly began returning to him.

He remembered the club, the alcohol, his brother and Lee Jordan, their little excursion to Pick's Hill, and Ginger...

Ron suddenly realized he was stark nude, and on top of that, he could feel the weight of another beside him in bed. Slowly, Ron turned to see the tangle of red hair beside him.

The sheet was halfway down her body. His eyes lingered on her bare, smooth back, to where her plump, round bottom lifted and disappeared beneath the white sheet. 'Merlin, she looks amazing!' Ron couldn't help but lick his lips at the sight of her.

He could see enough to know that she was nude as the day she was born as well. Ron's face flushed red. Just what exactly had he gotten himself into last night? He struggled with his pounding head to make sense of it all. Ginger...

If Ron felt any regret about last night, it was only that he could not remember how he'd gotten naked into this bed with this goddess, but just then, she stirred from her sleep.

"Hmmm... good morning, sunshine," she turned and smiled pleasantly to him, pulling the sheet up to cover her ample breasts as she tussled Ron's hair. Her face and cheeks were as radiant as the Sun.

"Er... good morning,” Ron said impishly, turning his overt gaze bashfully from her to the ceiling.

“A little under the weather this morning, are we?” Ginger teased him.

“Yeah, I'd say so,” Ron groaned as he rubbed at his temples.

“What a night!” Ginger sighed as she fell back onto her pillow, snuggling up close to him.

“Er, did we... last night?" Ron's cheeks burned with embarrassment. Ginger giggled.

"Don't tell me you were that tossed?!” Ginger laughed easily. “Seemed like you were enjoying yourself to me..." she smiled coyly as she scooted herself up even closer to him, rubbing their naked bodies together beneath the sheets.

"Merlin's beard!" Ron choked as her smooth skin sent tingles up his spine, before slapping himself on the forehead. His first time and he couldn't remember a thing of it. "Was I... er... it was my... uh... first time..." he kicked himself for admitting that, feeling like a child.

"You were..?" Ginger baited him as she batted her blue eyes at him. Ron was on pins and needles. "Absolutely ravishing!" she glowed.

Ron breathed a deep sigh of relief, but became even angrier with himself. What had I missed?!

"Here, I'll show you," Ginger seemed to be reading his thoughts as she brought one of her slender legs across his mid section and shifted herself atop him. Ron was convinced this was the best moment in his life.

. . . .

“Morning,” Ginger said cheerily to George and Lee as she came into the flat's kitchen wearing nothing but one of Ron's oversized t-shirts. It just so happened to be a Chudley Cannon jersey.

George choked, fumbling at first, knocking his cup of coffee off the counter and sent it crashing to the floor with the sight of her like that. Lee Jordan fell straight over backwards in his chair with a whelp.

“M-morning...” George finally managed as he scrambled to clean up his mess, averting his gaze, afraid to look at her.

“Morning!” Lee sung from somewhere beneath the table.

“Looks like everyone has the case of the morning hangover,” she moved to the cooler box like she owned the place.

“You could say that,” George grimaced at the reminder. He must've look like shit.

“What's wrong with you two?” Ron soon followed her in, dressed now in some shorts.

“Good night last night?” George wiggled his brows at his brother. Ron's face turned redder than a tomato.

“The best!” Ginger answered as she began to pull a few random items out the fridge. Lee Jordan was meanwhile trying to scramble back into his seat as Ron shook his head at him, joining Ginger by the counter.

“Yeah, well next time you're not invited unless you've got a friend for me,” George gave her a hard time, recalling all the noise she and his brother had made late into the morning.

“Sounds fair enough,” Ginger winked at him.

“Whatcha making?” Ron asked.

“Ravena Wexin's Morning-After-Cure-All!” she stated. “One cup and everyone should be right as rain!”

“That so?” George came over as well to look on. This could come in handy.

“So...” she went on as she made their droughts. “Where's the rest of the Trio?” she asked him nonchalantly. “Thought you all were as thick as thieves, no?”

Ron frowned, crossing his arms across his chest as he turned to lean up against the counter, staring lost out the window. “Don't know exactly...” Ron sighed.

“Hmm,” Ginger nodded. “Guess the two lovebirds wanted a little privacy after the long slog?” Ginger played her cards carefully.

“Humph!” Ron grunted. She played him well. “They're not..!” he started a little too defensively. He stopped abruptly, seeing Ginger narrow her eyes at him.

“Do I sense a little jealousy, Ronnie?” she played hurt.

“Not a chance!” Ron grabbed her by the waist and pulled his goddess to him. “Hermione had sent her parents to Australia as the war heated up. They've gone to fetch them back...”


. . . .

The market was bustling, but the stunning red head did not so much as glance at one of the hawkers as she passed them by at a swift pace. She hadn't been down this way in months, but knew the layout well enough to get herself around.

She turned right into an alley by Murdoch's, passed two more alleys that split off to the left before she turned again at the third. Thirty meters ahead on her right was the back to to the Sleeper's Inn.

There was a small pub on the ground floor in which she was to meet that oaf of a wizard, Fletcher. She saw him fidgeting around nervously at a table at the side of the room. Of course, he was in that hideous burgundy suit of his.

“You sure seem like a nervous little rat,” Ginger announced her arrival harshly, taking a seat across from Mundungus. She did not bother to hide her contempt of him.

“Aho!” Mundungus jumped with her voice. Ginger just shook her head at him. “They came?!” Mundungus seemed on edge. Ginger studied him for a moment.

“What's going on Fletcher?” Ginger asked suspiciously.

Mundungus drew his chin up high. “Tha' none of your business, missy. Did ya ge' yourself in with them?!” he asked urgently.

“It was only the red head, Ron Weasley, and his brother George and one of their friends, Lee Jordan.”

“And the other two?!” Fletcher leaned over the table nervously.

“They weren't there,” Ginger turned away from him in her seat, flipping back the rolling locks of her hair.

“Well then, where they at?!” Mundungus's voice unintentionally began to rise.

“How would I know?!” Ginger's rose likewise in defense. “They said something about Australia... what's the big idea anyways?” she leaned in, speaking low but clear. “You up to no good, Fletcher? Drawing me in to something bad? I don't want any trouble, these three are like gods around here...”

“No, no,” Mundungus feigned offense, leaning back in his seat with his palms held up. “No trouble. I've been looking out for those three for years. You just do your job, and I promise, you'll be well compensated, maybe even a hero yourself!” Mundungus wiggled his eyebrows at her. Ginger scoffed, leaning back in her seat as well, creating as much distance as she could from this scoundrel.

“Speaking of compensation. I got myself in. Went back with the Weasley boys. I'll be seeing Ron again tonight,” Ginger looked pointedly at him.

“Good, good. Just keep me up to date!” Mundungus fiddled with his pouch of gold. “I need to know where the Potter kid is though. Find that out to for me and I'll double this,” Mundungus slid a loaded pouch her way. Ginger picked it up and examined it.

“We agreed on fifty galleons!” she protested.

“We did,” Mundungus admitted, “for information on all three, not just one. You're'a lucky I'm'a giv'n you that!”

“I told you, they're in Australia!” Ginger let her loss of patience flare.

“We'll see...”

Chapter Ten: Together


The week quickly began to slip by, and Harry learned Australia was filled with wonders that he'd never dreamt of. That very next morning, the Wilkins had taken them all snorkeling out in the reefs, followed by more surfing and a day on the beach. They did not try to rush things with her parents, but instead enjoyed their well earned vacation as much as they could.

After a couple of days at the resort, Harry and Hermione dared to apparate elsewhere in Australia. They toured Sydney properly, and then explored the National Park at Kakadu where Harry was afraid he was going to have to adopt a little koala Hermione had fallen in love with.

They hiked the Uluru, the largest rock in the world. Saw kangaroos and wallabies on Kangaroo Island. Visited the city of Cairns and rented a private skiff to take them out to the Great Barrier Reef. Hermione had even talked Harry into going to a show at the famous Sydney Opera House - which she was sure he would never forgive her for.

Most of the time they were by themselves, but it did not phase either of them in the least to have to put on the little newly weds show in front of the others. In fact, it came quite natural to them, holding hands with each other, whispering close to each others ears, leaving short pecks on each others cheeks, embracing one another in each as only two lovers would. It's what they'd always done - to an extent - and it came naturally. After this long dark nightmare, it was what they each needed. Someone to be there, someone to lean on - each other.

But each was also careful never to put themselves into a situation like they had that first night in the spa, as the consequences could be devastating. They'd yet to talk about it, and each struggled not to think of it. They'd been sodden and at the end of a long, hard fought war. They accepted it, but they were friends, best friends, and each of them kept their mouths shut on the topic less they risked all that. All that, however, came to a head their fifth night at the White Sands.

Harry and the Wilkins' had taken on well together and Harry knew that if Hermione's real dad was just half as awesome as Wendell or her real mum half as charming as Monica, then Hermione was undoubtedly the luckiest daughter alive.

They were great hosts and the nicest of people to say the least. They were just... genuine. They treated everyone there like family, and this night, just like every other night, they found occasion to host a party. This celebration was to be held in honor of the Richardsons, who were leaving the next day back to the States.

The dinner itself was splendid – as always - but Harry could see signs of a frown behind the smiling facade Hermione wore. And after dinner, as Harry engaged Wendell about where he might find a Tasmanian Devil, Hermione slipped off alone. When she did not return for over twenty minutes, Harry thought it best to go and look for her.

. . . .

"Make a wish," Harry startled her and she turned to see him pointing to the sky. Hermione looked up just in time to catch the tail of a shooting star.

"Well..?" Harry intoned as he plopped down beside her in the sand.

"Huh?" Hermione questioned softly.

"Did you make a wish?"

Hermione smiled impishly. "I wished we could just stay here forever..." she sighed sadly, remembering Harry upon the giant rock their first day here. Her gaze was drawn out over the breaking black waves, rippling in the Moon's silvery light.

"So let's stay," Harry said casually as he pulled his knees up to rest his arms across them. Hermione gave a slight chuckle and just shook her head.

"Why not?" Harry asked sincerely. “I've been thinking the same thing.”

"We can't, Harry, there's my parents' lives for starters! And then school and Ron..." Hermione trailed off as she witnessed Harry shift uncomfortably and look away, down the deserted beach. "The Weasleys..." she added, "and Ginny and everyone else. We have to go back."

Harry had nothing to say. "So we'll go back," he sighed heavily. "Think I'm starting to miss Burns anyways," he smirked to her with that crooked grin. They both laughed shortly at this as Hermione curled her arm inside of Harry's.

"I've got to tell them, Harry..." Hermione finally said, the weight of the matter evidenced in her long voice.

Harry nodded confidently. "That's what we came here to do. We'll tell them tomorrow."

"I-I..." Hermione stuttered, "Oh Harry, I don't know what to say to them!"

"Not to worry," Harry rubbed at her back and shoulders. "I'll be right there with you, we'll tell them together. They're great people Hermione, we've just got to get them to listen, and I know they'll listen to you."

"Thanks Harry... really. For everything," Hermione leaned her head against his shoulder as Harry placed a gentle kiss atop her head. “I don't know what I'd do without you.” Something Harry could take comfort in.

And so they sat there like that, Harry with one arm holding Hermione close, Hermione with her head leaned against him, each watching the breaking waves, inhaling the cool breeze of the salty air, each lost in their thoughts. They sat in silence as the Moon arced about the star littered sky, no where to be – they were exactly where they needed to be, together.

Without warning, Harry eventually pulled himself free, standing up to shed his shirt.

"Harry! What are you doing?!" Hermione half gasped, half giggled.

“I've been thinking a lot about what you said the other night... about this being the first time you felt free and clear of everything,” Harry paused as he looked out over the vast, endless ocean once more.

“And I feel it. I – I can't remember the last time I've felt like this... happy," the word sounded foreign on his tongue. "Like it's finally all behind us. And then I think of going back to England...”

“Harry... we've-” Hermione tried before Harry cut her off.

“No,” Harry was short but turned back to her with an apologetic smile. “Not now. This is just too perfect, too... too beautiful,” he stretched his arms out to the full moon over the ocean as if to take it all in. “It's like we're standing at the edge of the world and no one nor anything can reach us!” he practically yelled it.

"Come on, if it's our last night here, I'm getting all that I can out of it! I'm going swimming!"

"What?!" Hermione scoffed as if he were joking. "We can't go swimming, we don't even have our bathing suits!"

"Right!" Harry said as he unfastened the button of his shorts. "Look around, Hermione! Look how amazing this place is! Come on!" Harry finished, slipping off his shorts, leaving himself in only his boxers. She tried to avert her eyes, but they kept coming back to him against her will. Without waiting for the blushing Hermione, Harry turned and ran out into the oncoming waves, diving head first into the waters.

Harry finally came back up a few meters out to where he was chest deep. "Ah, Hermione! Come on!" Harry splashed in the water. "Feels great!"

“You've got to be kidding me?!” Hermione gasped safely from the shore.

"Nope. If we're telling your parents tomorrow, this could very well be our last night here. Lets live it!"

Hermione bit at her bottom lip as she eyed Harry's white, glistening figure in contrast to the dark waves.

"You're not going to leave me hanging here, are you?!" Harry pouted, soliciting a laugh from Hermione. "Well?"

"Alright!" Hermione finally gave in, stomping her foot in the sand. "Just - just turn around first and let me get in."

Harry smirked at this. "Fair enough," he said as he turned around, staring off into the smooth horizon against the starry night. He was tempted to glance back, but too much a gentleman to give into those less scrupulous desires.

Eventually Harry heard a splash. Congratulating himself on getting Hermione to step out her shell, Harry turned back around, all smiles.

"Hermione?" Harry called. She was no where to be seen. "Hermione?!" he yelled again, this time a little louder. Taking a few steps closer to the shore, he squinted his eyes against the darkness as he scanned the beach line for her.

"Hermione?!" he called even louder, a trace of worry now in his voice.

"OI!" Harry yelped as he leapt a clear foot out of the water! Something had just grabbed his leg! He came splashing back down in a heap on top of whatever it was - and whatever it was, it was flopping around, laughing hysterically beneath him.

"HERMIONE!" Harry bellowed at her. He lunged for her, splashing her with water. Hermione could not control her hysteria. "Think that's funny, do you?! Nearly gave me a bloody heart attack!"

"Ha-ha-ha!" Hermione was having to grip her stomach. "You should have seen your face!"

Harry lunged again for her and this time grabbed her and dunked her below the waves.

"Hey!" Hermione came bobbing back up in protest, spluttering, her wet hair falling into her face. He let her break free, but instead of giving in, Hermione slipped behind him and with her hands clasped atop his head, she threw her weight up, pushing him under.

Harry let her, collapsing into the water, but then scrambled forward, swimming away a few meters before resurfacing in a laughing fit.

"You cheated," Harry splashed at her.

“All is fair in love and war,” Hermione teased him with a girlish voice, flitting her lashes.

“Careful, Granger...” Harry meant to continue the game, but then became distracted as Hermione flipped her drenched locks back out of her face. He slowly began drifting towards her as he eyed her with awe.

There before him, amidst all this wonder, was a beauty he could not name. Her delicate shoulders, just above the rippling waves shimmered in the moon's light. The flush of her soft neck and cheeks sent a shiver down him as he lost himself in those chocolate eyes. And Hermione stared right back, her white face pitted against the night's sky, shining like that of an marbled idols.

Something shifted. The water warmed. With green staring into brown, they slowly drifted together without a word spoken. As their arms met, and their nearly nude bodies came together, the precariousness of their situation finally dawned and they both chuckled lightly to each other at the somewhat intense situation.

"Er... clear night..." Harry kicked himself after he foolishly turned towards the weather like some fool.

"Uh... yeah..." Hermione's cheeks blushed. But they did not totally pull away. Instead, drawing side by side, they laid back into the water, floating as they stared up at the starry sky, simpy drifting.

They searched to change the unspoken subject. They began picking out constellations they knew – Hermione being much better at this game, reminiscing about their past week, Hermione telling Harry stories about her childhood and of her parents, her real parents.

The water grew calm and tranquil around them, the waves rolling in ever so gently. They let the current take them, drifting them further down shore. There was no rush.

“What do you think the others are up to?” Hermione finally asked him.

“No idea...” Harry answered honestly. He was doing his best not to think of home. “But I can assure you they're not enjoying themselves as much as we are!” he turned to glance at her, taking her hand as they floated.

“I just hope the Weasleys aren't still mad with us when we get back... We did leave in such a hurry,” Hermione said. She turned to look at Harry as he let out a long sigh.

He let his feet fall to the sand beneath the waves as he stood himself up to look out over the horizon once more, losing himself in it's vastness.

“I'm sorry. I just don't want to think about any of that right now.”

Harry couldn't explain what was coming over him, but all the talk of going back... of having to leave this place, this paradise, and return to what..? It was bringing him down - it was taking him back to those less pleasant memories only days and months ago.

Harry's trance was broken by two soft arms wrapping themselves around him. He felt the warmth of her smooth skin press up behind him, holding him close as she laid her soft cheek against his bare back.

“We don't have to talk about that, Harry.” Harry shivered as Hermione's breath trickled across his skin. “We don't have to talk about anything... ”

Harry was no longer thinking about what he was doing. The touch of her against him, the jolt it sent coursing through him, it made him forget all else. Harry turned in her arms, and took her shy face in his hands. Green met brown. Their nervous eyes looked into one anothers, but they could not pull away.

Neither spoke. They were as alone and as far away as they ever could be. They were at the edge of the world, the ocean laid out around them, the shining moon their only witness. The draw was too strong. After so long, there was only here and now.

They struggled. Some echo fought for some reason or some rhyme as to what was happening, but there was nothing to explain it. Nothing to compare it to. They were a team, they'd been a team for so long now, together... a good Bonnie and Clyde?

There was so much there when those eyes met. They could see so deep, touch on so many memories, so much happiness and so much pain. The pent up strain of the last year seemed to finally and truly run out of them each at last as they both took a deep, long breath.

There was no flirtatious suggestions, no teasing or leading up to it this time. With their eyes burning, their lips fell forward as their lids screwed shut, crushing their lips against one anothers.

Hermione's hands ran up into Harry's wild hair, clenching and tugging at it, pulling his lips harder against hers. They lost themselves in that desperate kiss, forgetting even how to breath.

Harry's fingers left tingling trails down her back until his hands ran across the clasp of her soaked bra. Without even stopping to consider what exactly he was doing, Harry's fingers fumbled with its clasp, unwilling to have anything come between them. He needed to be close to her, next to her - in the raw, unabated flesh.

She did not protest as Harry fumbled with it. Hermione was too busy losing herself in this kiss, kneading her lips against his as if expelling all her frustrations through it. Harry finally got it loose, and Hermione shrugged herself out of it, letting it fall into the water and drift away as she pressed her bare, heaving chest back up against his.

Their lips parted with the heat and their tongues began the lover's duel. There was no more hesitation for either, no reservations. As Harry ran a hand down her thigh, Hermione lifted it, wrapping her leg about Harry's waist as she bit as his lip with a sharp hiss.

As Harry broke away to leave a trail of kisses down her chin and neck, Hermione writhed against him as she wrapped her other leg around his waist, allowing him to hold her up against him.

"Hermione!” Harry groaned into her lips as she pressed herself against him. They kissed and explored each other in ways they'd never dared as they drifted ever closer towards the shore, lost in each other. They drifted until Harry's feet began to drag, and then his knees, and then Hermione's back.

The need was just too strong. It was unbearable and broke any barrier either had tried to set up these last few days. They let the rolling waves push them further up, but neither dared to break what they had started.

Harry moved his hands to brace himself atop her. He swirled his tongue about hers before sucking in and nibbling at her bottom lip, eliciting a moan from Hermione. He then shifted himself ever so slightly to begin a trail of kisses to the base of her ear. Hermione bucked up against him as his nipped at her lobe.

Harry dared further as he kissed down her neck, of running one of his hands across her shoulder and down her arm, before tickling it back up her side, to the rising bud of her breast.

Harry let the swell of it nestle into the edge of his palm, just savoring the feel of her, giving her the chance against hope that she would stop him. But no protest came as Hermione heaved her body against his touch.

Their kiss boiled into an even higher passion as Harry pressed himself against her once more. Where the rest of their clothes had disappeared to, who could say? It was magic. His eyes rolled into the back of his head as he could now feel the full heat of her touch searing against his skin. Their body's flowed against each other in unison as they moaned and gasped into each others mouths. Their intimacy reached a whole new level.

Harry's hands dared to cup and massage Hermione's breasts, teasing her with his gentle fingers. Harry took joy from Hermione's moaning at his touch, before he trailed his lips back to her ear, delivering yet another delicious squeal from Hermione. Slowly, seductively, be began a trek down her bare neck, along her collarbone, down onto the top of her heaving chest.

Hermione writhed below him, deliberately and unabashedly thrusting her nakedness against Harry's with ever more desire. As his lips reached her bare breasts, brushing across rising buds of her bosom, Hermione nearly lost it, crying out his name.

Lavishing himself upon her as the waves pushed them up onto the beach, Harry continued his journey down Hermione's bare body. He kissed across her navel, tracing his fingers delicately across her bare stomach, sending shivers across her in anticipation until he reached the valley leading down between her hips. Harry's lips moved onto the inside of one of her thighs as Hermione's delicate fingers twisted into Harry's hair, her trembling voice begging him... “Oh, Harry!”

Harry's mouth explored further until Hermione could stand it no longer. Clenching Harry by his hair, she cried out with lust as she pulled him all the way back up to her lips. She crushed hers back against with an unbridled fury his as Harry felt her wrap herself around him.

He collapsed back down atop her, crushing his lips against hers as their flesh relished in each others heat. And then, moving together like the waves of the sea, the two became one...

Chapter Eleven: Hurt


Hermione sat alone on the cliff edge she and Harry had found their first day here. Even with Eden all around her, she could see nothing but his face, those green, emerald eyes, and it wrought her with despair. She felt sick.

She had locked this little black box up years ago and sealed it with the strongest of spells, but here, alone with him after so long, so much, it had finally broken free. She had done what she had promised herself she would never do.

She could not force herself to regret last night. It was too powerful, too magical to do that. She would steal these last few minutes here to remember and savor it, then she would add it to that little black box and seal it away once again – this time for good.

Harry was not hers. He was Ginny's. Ginny Weasley's. Ron was his best mate, and she and Ron... She could not face that right now. Everyone expected them to be together, Harry included, so that was... enough? The Weasleys, they were all Harry really had. She was his friend - his best friend, she knew that, but they were his family. Harry could never do that to them. She could never force Harry to do that to them.

Oh, she knew could pull a few strings. There was enough girl in her to know that. Harry was loyal and a bloody saint to a fault. She could weigh on that and his guilt, force him... but she never would. Harry was not hers. She had come to accept that, and she could not let herself forget it.

But she did not relish what she would have to do now. She could wait, enjoy these last couple of days with him, wait until they brought her parents back, but she knew that that would never work. It wouldn't be fair to Harry for starters, and she knew that she couldn't keep this charade up either. She'd fall and fall hard, making putting back the pieces of her heart only that much more difficult. It was better to deal with this now.

It was going to hurt. A lot. It was going to hurt her, and worst of all, Harry. But she knew she would have to. She knew Harry all to well. She knew he'd feel obligated to her after last night. She didn't want Harry, not like that. She would have to hurt him to set him free.

. . . .

Harry awoke to a warm, yet practically destroyed bed. The mattress was hanging halfway off its frame, now in the center of the room as opposed to up against the wall like it should be. Goose feathers and three shredded pillows were strewn across the room. He smirked to himself at the sight before glancing towards the clock. It was already in the afternoon!

Harry fell back onto his pillow as the glorious events of the previous night washed over him. It was no wonder he'd slept until now, they hadn't gotten much rest last night. He had no idea at what time exactly they drifted off, but he did remember seeing the rays of the rising sun before they passed out in one anothers arms. Together... Harry sat bolt upright. The bed was empty.

“Hermione?” he called aloud. Silence. As the beat of his heart spiked, Harry threw himself out of bed to check their small bungalow, but she was nowhere to be found.

He searched the main building, the pool, the beach, but relief did not come until he spotted her thin, now tanned legs hanging over the crest of a cliff on the out-crop of rock in the distance. Harry made the climb up.

"You gonna start making a habit of wandering off like this?" Harry said as he hopped across a narrow crevice that separated him from her. She had to force a smile and Harry did not miss that.

"Everything okay?" he turned more serious as he approached, now more cautiously. No doubt Hermione was thinking about her parents. They were supposed to tell them today, not to mention last night...

"No..." Hermione did not try to feign ignorance.

"Missed you this morning..." Harry placed a gentle kiss on her temple as he sat down beside her. Hermione practically startled at the mention of it and the touch of his lips, with a non-to-subtle blush creeping up her neck. "Don't worry, 'Mione. Everything is going to be fine. They'll listen to you, you'll see...” Harry tried soothing her, rather turning the attention back to her parents. There was just no telling what Hermione was feeling about their previous night together. Hermione sighed and leaned her head on his shoulder before she began.

"Last night..." she started, throwing Harry for a whirl, but she did not have the words to finish. Words could not capture it.

“Was amazing...” Harry finished for her, sneaking a glance from the corner of his eyes, but something in his gut told him the rub was to come.

"We - we c-can't do this, Harry... we have to stop..." the words came out like lead in his heart. Harry's brow furrowed as Hermione fought to hold back the threatening tears.

Harry did not answer her right away, but enjoyed her proximity while it lasted. He had a sickening feeling deep in the pit of his stomach that this would be their last time together like this.

"I - I don't think I can... stop" Harry's words were heavy and reluctant as he whispered into the flowing breeze of the ocean. I tear peeled down Hermione's cheek.

"W-we can't..." Hermione could hardly force the words, only able to repeat herself.

"We can," Harry said simply, turning to offer her his trademark, crooked smile, before placing a kiss atop her head. “Always, we'll have each other.”

"Don't Harry, don't say that... don't!" Hermione suddenly jerked away from him, the tears now pouring out.

But Harry held his smile and used a thumb to brush away her tears. "I had a feeling this might happen..." there was a certain resignation in his words. "Last night, Hermione, this whole last week..." Harry gulped, seeing her furiously shaking her head at him, as if in denial to listen to him speak.

"Just... don't, Harry! Please,” she begged him. “W-we... we just got caught up in everything... I understand, Harry, honestly, I do. But you're with Ginny. You don't owe me anything..." she could not finish her sentence.

"That's just about the weakest excuse I've ever heard from you. That the best you can come up with?” Harry poked her. Hermione turned to him with pleading, confused eyes.

Harry took her by the chin and forced her to look him in the eyes. “It's you, Hermione. It's us. Last night was the most amazing in my life. This whole week... after everything, after all we've been through... I'm not giving this up," he said with determination.

"No!" The word came out much more forcefully than she had intended, and Harry flinched back a bit from her harshness. She was near outright balling though and had to pull her face from his grasp less she lost it all. She knew Harry too well. She had would have to do what she knew she couldn't.

"Why?" Harry felt himself deflate with her distance.

"Because!" Hermione groaned with guilt and impatience. "Because you're with Ginny and I... I-I'm with Ron. We weren't thinking last night!"

Her words struck at him like daggers. Ginny... he had not thought of Ginny since they left for the Dursleys. Harry felt the pang of guilt. And Ron... Ron his best mate. Hermione his girl. That guilt would only deepen.

Harry could only shake his head at this. "I don't... Ginny is a boyhood memory... a crush. Ron...” Harry's head fell back as he looked up to the sky. What about Ron, his best mate? Was this betrayal? “I just know that this, you and I... this is what's right. It's always been..." but he himself now found it difficult to speak.

"Don't Harry! Please, you know that-"

"I know what?!" Harry tried to pull her back to him but she resisted.

"I'm the one who had to listen to you go on about her all those months!” a swell of anger and jealousy showed itself. “And then Ron... the Weasley's... they're your family... we couldn't do that to them, Harry. I couldn't let you do that to yourself!" Hermione's chest was heaving with a rush of panic. It was hard.

"And I can't let you do this," Harry caught her by the chin and pulled her face back to his. “Whatever we have to face, Hermione, we have each other. We've always had each other, always only each other. Please...”

"Don't!" Hermione practically slapped his hand away, tears now running freely down her wet cheeks. "Just stop! Don't make this any harder than it already is!"

Harry could only shake his head. “Nothing can change that. I know you can see it – can feel it.”

Hermione stood up, turning her back to him. She was going to have to hurt him and she couldn't bear to face him when she did.

"I-I... I a-am in love with R-Ron..." anyone could have heard the falseness in her voice, but the words were so sharp that they cut Harry deep. “I am going back... to Ron.”

Silence.

Doubting herself, her own heart breaking, Hermione turned around to find Harry standing with his back to her now, his hands stuck in his pockets as he looked out over the ocean.

“Yeah," it came out so pitiful, through a broken voice like she'd never heard in his worst of moments. "Then I am sorry...” was all Harry said, and with a slight pop, he was gone.

“Harry...” Hermione dropped to her knees, crying out her soul.

Chapter Twelve: The Tale



It was already dark. Hermione had searched everywhere and anywhere all afternoon and well into the evening before she started to emotionally break down and was forced to retreat back to their room... Her and Harry's room. But now Harry had left her too. She had no more than let out a wrenching sob then there came a knock at the door.

"Come in!" Hermione called as she frantically tried to pull herself together as best she could. She was in a terrible state, but hopefully her unknowing parents had some kind of news about Harry. She wiped at her tear streaked eyes as the door opened, but it was not Monica or Wendell, it was Harry...

"Harry!" Hermione cried as she rushed him, slamming into him as she wrapped her arms around him, crying.

Harry was kind enough to let her sobs settle before he grabbed her by the wrists and peeled her arms back from about him.

"Harry?" Her eyes pleaded up to his, but he would not meet her gaze, looking out over her shoulder to some unseen distance.

"Hermione, I..." Harry's tone was grave. "I've told them."

"What?!" Hermione's mouth gaped.

"O-only that we have something very important to talk to them about..." Hermione stared back at him, her mind reeling. Right now, she needed to talk to him and him alone. "They're waiting down at the lounge for us now," his words tolled like a dong in her head.

"Harry! Why... I can't... not now, we need to..." her tears started fresh.

"We need to go,” Harry said determinedly, cutting her off. “I came here to help you do that, to set things straight... and... and I can't... I can't stay here any longer.”

"But... But I can't - I don't..."

"I'm going to be there for you," these words never sounded so unsure. “We can do it, together...” Harry winced at his own choice of words. Together... together's days were now numbered.

Hermione wanted to break. This was destroying her. She needed to talk to him, to explain things, but then say what? She'd already made her decision. She'd already done the damage. How could revisiting it all over again help anything?

She tried her best to pull herself together. She had to, she had to do it for Harry. Ron would never forgive Harry. Ginny would never forgive him. She had met the Dursleys herself, the Weasleys were Harry's family, she could not be the cause of that divide. She could not let herself buckle, no matter what her broken heart was telling her.

. . . .

Harry held her hand the whole way. She needed him and no matter how hard it was, he could never deny her.

Wendell and Monica Wilkins were waiting for them in the lounge of the Main Building. They were already suspicious as to the odd summonings, but were even further alarmed by the panic they saw stricken on Hermione's face.

"Is everything okay?" Wendell asked immediately, rising from his seat with a sense of urgency as he looked between the two.

"Kind of..." Harry said as he led Hermione to a chair opposite the Wilkins who sat together on the sofa.

"What do you mean?" Monica leaned nervously forward, watching Hermione carefully.

"Well..." Harry said, looking to Hermione first, but she was staring away, chewing on the nail of her thumb again. Harry leaned down to her, pulling her hand back. "I'm gonna start it, Hermione, okay? Whenever you want to jump it, you just do it, alright?" Hermione nodded. Harry turned back to the wide eyed Wilkins's.

"Well..." Wendell now said, seated again but with both of them now leaning forward on the edge of the couch. He seemed much more serious about the matter now then when Harry had first asked for the meeting.

"Are you in trouble?" Monica asked with a sense of uncertainty.

"Well," Harry said, "that's to be determined..." he gave a nervous chuckle as he scratched at the back of his head. Wendell and Monica looked to each other with alarm. "Where to start..?" Harry asked himself.

Harry waited for them to turn back to him again and Wendell gave him a nod as to go on. "What I have to tell you isn't easy... It's not easy for me to tell it, and it definitely isn't going to be easy for you to hear it."

Monica clutched at her husband's hand.

"It - it's going to sound a little crazy even...” Harry went on, “but I think if you'll just hear me out to the end... I swear to you that every word is true, and in the end, I think you'll see it too..?" Harry said unsure of himself, waiting for them to nod before he continued.

The Wilkins' faces betrayed fear and angst, only spiking Harry's nerves. Hermione was still looking away with tears swelled in her eyes, but as Harry looked to her, he remembered why he was here and how much this brown haired girl had sacrificed for him. Harry clenched his fists and turned back to her parents, determined.

"Our real names aren't James and Anna..." Harry just blurted it out, committing himself to finishing this tale. The Wilkins' brows furrowed with confusion as they stared back at Harry, waiting for him to go on. "Our real names are Harry and Hermione. Harry James Potter and Hermione Jean Granger."

Harry witnessed the two glance at one another with what he could have sworn was some kind of recognition in their eyes. Had they recognized their daughter's name?

"We're not newly weds..." Harry admitted.

"I don't-" Monica tried to interrupt, but Harry stopped her.

"Please, believe me, this isn't easy for me either. It will probably be best if you just let me get through my ramblings, then we can answer any questions you have." They both nodded.

"We're best friends, like brother and sister really..." Harry noticed them share a doubtful glance at Harry's claim. They had seen the two all week together, and that was not the actions of just two close friends.

"Go on," Wendell said.

"I guess it's easiest if I just start at the beginning," Harry huffed. "Well, here it goes..."

"In another time..." Harry struggled with his words, beginning as if he were telling some fairytale. "In a world a lot like this one, there also lived... witches and wizards...” he couldn't have felt more foolish as he watched their faces screw into some form of shock and disgust.

"James!" Wendell slapped the table before him. "If you're just gonna stand there and-"

"Wendell, please. We agreed we'd at least hear them out!" Monica thankfully saved him. "Please, sweetie, go on," she said.

Harry had to struggle to regain his nerve. “ These... well, magic was real. These... witches and wizards...” his eyes darted back and forth across their doubtful faces, “lived along side regular people. But...” he found his words harder and harder to find. “Muggles... er, non-magical people,” he explained, “they... they feared them, as I guess you could imagine. You've heard of burnings at the stake and stuff, right?” he tried with a nervous laugh, but the Wilkins' faces were like stone.

“Yeah, er... well,” he went on nonetheless. “This all led to a bunch of fighting and war and killing... and while the magicians were powerful, their... their numbers were few,” Harry nodded, wishing he'd paid more attention in Magical History. 'Hermione should really be the one standing up here,' he thought to himself.

“Well... rather than risk the lives of their few and the untold number of muggles – nonmagic people," he added, seeing their confused look at his continuous use of the word muggles, "the witches and wizards decided to go into hiding... to separate themselves from muggles...” Harry started fidgeting worse than ever. 'Would rather be in detention with Umbridge!' he couldn't help but fantasize. He'd never felt so ridiculous.

“They... they passed a law. Witches and wizards had to cut themselves off from the muggles. To go on living with them, amongst them, but never revealing themselves to them. It would become the Statute of Secrecy..."

He waited for some understanding, but of course there would be none. But, at least on the bright side, both Wendell and Monica were still sitting there and hadn't yet stormed out on him.

"Centuries passed. The magicians kept to their secrecy, but that doesn't mean there weren't a lot who wanted the law undone, who from the beginning, preferred war and mastery as opposed to exile and oblivion,” Harry started to gain a little more faith in himself. “In the end, it was only a matter of time before one came along strong enough to challenge it all.”

Harry shivered as he remembered those cold, red eyes. “He came... not so long ago," Harry swallowed hard. "His given name was Tom Marvolo Riddle. His chosen, the Dark Lord Voldemort. To those who dare speak of him, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. He is to this day, the darkest, most powerful wizard ever have to lived on this earth..." Harry watched them frown at his child like story.

Recalling this all too familiar past, Harry shared with the two disbelieving muggles the evils and the powers of the Dark Lord. He was doing better with his story now as he watched Monica cling to Wendell at some of the darker tales. He referred to natural disasters and calamities that even they had heard of. He told them stories of war, of harrowing tales of those that fought back against him. Of the blood spilt and the lives lost. Of Voldemort's near success.

"But then there came this fateful prophecy, nearly eighteen years ago...” Harry sighed. He felt sapped just thinking of it. “It... it was a prophecy of him and of one destined to destroy him. "Neither could live while the other survives..."” he quoted it. “Voldemort heard of the prophecy... but there was just one problem. This supposed savior was only an child, an infant, not even a year old...”

His coming words felt weighted, as if he were having to drag a ton of bricks to bring them out. He told them of an baby boy. Of his parents who died trying to protect him. He told them of the killing curse and how, by the mother's sacrifice, it had been rebounded onto Voldemort himself.

Wendell and Monica looked to each other puzzled. What could they say? Harry would not give them the chance though. Moving on, he lead them into another story, of another miracle that had occurred only a little over a year before.

"It does not happen often, but it does happen." Harry told them of squibs, and vice-versa, of muggle born witches and wizards. He told them of two. Of a boy and a girl, born only a month apart, both raised as muggles, but both possessed with powers they knew not.

Harry told them of Hogwarts. Of the letter. He told them of that boy and that girl meeting upon the train their first day, of their following friendship and of their journey together. Harry told them everything of the girl. Of her brilliance. Of her courage. Of her loyalty.

He recounted their challenges in intricate detail. Of the mountain troll that bound them. Of the Basilisk that the girl revealed and nearly gave her life in an attempt to save others from. He recounted the girl's Time-Turner, of her bizarre studies with a light chuckle, and of how she helped the boy get through school. He shared with them of how she helped the boy save his godfather, of her love for the unfortunate and of saving Buckbeak and S.PE.W. He told them of the Tri-Wizard Tournament and how only by the girl's genius, did the boy survive. He told them of the return of Voldemort and the return of darkness.

"This boy was marked for death. The most evil, powerful creature alive was hell bent on it. No one near him was safe."

Harry told them of the boy's only surviving relatives having to go into hiding before he paused once more to look back to Hermione.

'I can't...'she mouthed to him, shaking her head as tears ran from her eyes.

"And the girl... she was the closest thing... his best friend. For that alone, her life was in mortal danger. But the boy had a mission to do. No matter how long the odds, it was he who was destined to end the darkness. It was he that, in the end, would have to be the one to face off with Voldemort. It would have to be he that ended it, once and for all.

And if he were to ever succeed, he would need her with him. But she had a family of her own to think of. Muggles themselves, they would be helpless against Voldemort's thugs. She had to hide them, but they, the loving parents they were – are - would never let their daughter go... but she had to. Using magic, she wiped her parents memories of her, of their true lives, and moved them half a world away, where none could find them. Where they were safe."

Harry stopped here. Wendell and Monica shared a long, reserved look.

"H-Harry," Wendell started, "what exactly are you trying to tell us?"

The two adults fell back in their seats, looking exhausted, as Harry reached to the back of his waist band and drew out a short, intricately carved stick.

"W-what are you..?" Wendell stammered as he and his wife clung to one another.

Both gasped with shock as Harry aimed his wand at each of the windows and in quick succession, as if by magic, each shuttered closed in turn.

"James?!" Monica squealed nervously.

"How..?" Wendell mumbled aghast.

"Magic," Harry answered. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a folded piece of paper and tossed it into the air towards the Wilkins's'. It no sooner began to fall than with a flick of his wand, it transformed into a swan origami and began beating it's thin paper wings, keeping itself a float.

It bobbed haphazardly through the air, drawing ever closer to the now both terrified, and yet astonished Wendell and Monica. Their eyes were glued to it.

Finally reaching them, with a slight pop, the folded swan came undone into a flat, uncreased sheet of glossy paper. It slowly, wafting back and forth, drifted down into their laps. Their eyes did not leave it, but lingered there for several minutes. Harry did not disturb them, but allowed the full weight of what he had just revealed to them set in.

When Monica finally did lift her eyes, they were filled with tears. She looked to Hermione first, who was staring at the floor, before turning back to Harry. "What... what happened then..?" she croaked. Harry looked to her questioningly. "Y-you said... you said that the boy and the girl had hid their families, that they had hid them to go on the run, t-to fight... this - this V-Voldemort?"

"Yes..." Harry nodded with a heavy sigh. "It wasn't easy. It was hard and dark and hopeless. But... somehow, by some miracle, they survived..."

"The boy beat him then?" Wendell asked with furrowed brows, as if he actually believed the story. Harry nodded again, a lump in his throat. And then to Harry's surprise, Wendell added a furtive, approving nod of his own as he knocked the top of the table with the bottom of his fist.

"And then the girl..?" Monica's voice was choked. Tears were streaming down her face now. Their eyes followed Harry's as he looked over his shoulder to the sitting, fidgeting Hermione.

Hermione looked petrified. She could not move. She could not speak as her parents' eyes fell upon her.

"Can... can you help us remember again?" Wendell asked in nothing more than a whisper.

If he hadn't been so distressed, his mind wandering through a thousand different thoughts, Harry might have fallen right over. He was prepared for an argument, for them to laugh at him and call him a fool... but no. They were as good and as honest as he had come to believe. Harry, sapped of all his strength, again could only nod.

Wendell stood up. He glanced to his wife before he looked back up to Harry, and then to Hermione.

"Anna... H-Hermione, is it true?" he asked, tears now in his own eyes.

Hermione first let out a loud sob, before she spoke for the first time. "Mum, dad..?"

Monica then sobbed in turn, clutching at the photo she had in her hand. In it was a young girl and her two parents. Anna, Wendell, and Monica. Hermione, Daniel, and Helen. She could not make sense of it all, of anything, but in her bones, she knew it all to be true. Gasping, she leapt from her seat on the sofa and sprung for her daughter. Hermione met her on the floor and the two grasped each other, hugging, tucking their faces into each others identical brown, bushy hair, sobbing uncontrollably.

Harry just watched them as Wendell walked up to his side.

"I... I don't know how it all works," Wendell started timidly, “but I guess we've always known, always suspected, that something was off. That something was... missing."

Harry looked to him.

"But when you two came here, when we saw her..." Wendell smiled, looking at his wife and daughter, "how could one not see Monica in her?"

Harry chuckled to himself. "I thought the same thing when I first saw Mrs Granger."

"Mrs Granger?" Wendell asked.

"Yes," Harry stated. "Mr and Mrs Granger, Daniel and Helen Granger, to be exact."

Wendell nodded, then frowned. "Will we ever be able to remember again?" he asked hesitantly.

"Yes," Harry answered simply.

"How?"

Harry presented him with the two small vials of purplish potion out a pouch from about his neck.

"What is that?” he asked dubiously.

“An antidote,” Harry kept it simple.

“What will we remember?"

"Everything," Harry said. "This potion will take you into a deep sleep. When you awake, you'll remember this, this last year, your lives before, everything."

Wendell nodded.

With the help of the Half-Blood Prince, Harry had done well with the potion. It's effects were almost immediate as Wendell and Monica nearly toppled over in the lounge. Harry and Hermione helped them to their room, settling them in bed. Hermione had every intention of being there beside them when they woke, but exhausted from all the emotions of the day, Harry used his wand to make her a bed as she drifted off to sleep.

. . . .

"Hermione..." a voice echoed in her dreams. "Hermione..." a second, softer voice beckoned her. Hermione's eyes fluttered open and at once they filled with tears. Standing over her were no longer Wendell and Monica Wilkins, but her mum and dad, Helen and Daniel Granger.

They hugged and they cried as Hermione muttered apology after apology and they pleaded with her to stop. After a long spell of this, Hermione became aware of a missing piece to her.

"Harry?" she called and looked over her parents shoulders for him. She owed him more than one thank you as well. But they frowned for her. There, on the vanity were the only traces they would find of Harry Potter. Three Passports identifying each of the Grangers and three First Class tickets for a one-way flight to Great Britain.

"Harry..."

. . . .

A/N: Can't say I was very happy with this chapter... I felt foolish trying to write Harry's little tale to the Wilkins's, but I also felt it was necessary to the story, couldn't just leave it out. Went through many rewrites and this was the best I could come up with. Well, if you've stuck with me for this long, thank you! Would love to hear your thoughts, remarks, critique, etc. It's the only way I can learn.

Though I did not title it as such, this is the effective end to Part One, if you will, the building and undoing of Harry and Hermione's relationship after the war. I've tried to stay as close to canon as possible, obviously however ignoring the epilogue. What can I say, I'm a Harmony fan.

There will be a total of three such parts. Part Two will be the longest, and begins with the very next chapter, and running until approximately Chapter Thirty. The problem here is that people like different types of stories, and Part One has been exclusively romance, if I dare claim such, and the next will be much, much more action-adventure oriented, so my apologies if your just not into such.

Hope you've enjoyed so far, and please review. Thank you!

Chapter 13: In the Bag



He wanted to see the beach one last time. It was foolish. He'd dawdled too long already.

He'd taken special care to get Hermione and her parents set comfortably within their room. Hermione had been soon overcome by exhaustion herself, Harry had made her a plush bed out of the couch so that she could sleep well and still be there when her parents awoke. Staring down at her sleeping, peaceful form, he pulled a blanket up to her chest before sweeping the hair back out of her face.

“Goodbye, 'Mione,” he left her with a gentle kiss upon the top of her head.

Somewhere between randomly chucking his loose clothes into his trunk and then shrinking it down to size to fit within his pouch, he'd found himself sitting on the edge of the bed - for who knows how long - stopping to stare at Hermione's things.

So many memories. He knew them now as well as his own. From that first day on the train to here, she'd been forever with him. One he could rely on, one he could count on, one he'd loved... his best friend. But the course of their relationship had now come full circle, culminating at it's climax, and thereby destroying it.

Nothing would ever be the same again. He wasn't going back to school, and with no war or no new challenge to pull them together, there would never be Harry and Hermione again. Just Ron and Hermione... he didn't want to dwell on that.

Light from the coming day already shown on the horizon. It was to be a new dawn. Harry, lost in his thoughts, found himself back at the beach and abandoned his shoes at the end of the board walk as he sank his toes into the sand... just one last time.

And then there, knee deep in the surf was an old fisherman. Perhaps he should find this odd, but he didn't. Harry, undeterred and slightly intrigued, moseyed his way right out, knee deep along side him, unconcerned even by his soaked trousers.

“Good'ay,” the old fisherman rasped, flashing Harry a rotted tooth grin.

“Morning,” Harry casually turned his head away from the disappearing moon to look at this anomaly.

The man was old, with Sun scathed and deeply lined skin. He had a long gray beard and scraggly gray hair that wired it's way down to his shoulders. He was clad only in a pair of short, worn, cut off blue jeans. A strange feeling came across Harry that he knew this man from somewhere...

Harry watched as the old man cast a simple cane pole with a single eye at the end that he fed his string through. An old spool served as his reel.

“Been a good morning,” the old man lifted a short string out of the water with several fish tied to it. “Ya forge' yer pole?” he asked in a deep Australian accent.

Harry chuckled at this, turning back to the red and orange horizon. “No fishing today I'm afraid...”

“Ah, tha's a shame, bitin' good I'm tellin' ya, mate!” the man cast his line back out into the waves.

“That so?” Harry watched his line in the water. “I'm afraid this was my last night here. Thought I would come down to the beach one last time before I left.”

“Eh,” the old man grunted, slowly reeling his line back in. “It's a bloody shame you're leaving that pretty girl behind, she looks like a real keepa'.”

Harry's head snapped towards him. “What..?”

“Ya two looked like you got on well together,” the man repeated. “I've been watching ya.”

The man said it with all casualness as he continued to give his attention to his line, but the underlying statement struck Harry like a two-by-four. There was something ominous about it. Harry turned himself fully to the old man, staring him down, his right hand itching to draw his wand from its waist band. The old man paid Harry's confrontational stance no mind as he continued fishing.

“Where ya headed?” the old man asked conversationally.

“Away,” Harry said without taking his eyes off him. “Don't think I've seen you around here before?” Harry implored.

“Ah, fish really only bite in the mornin's and evenin's. Been working my way up and down this beach.”

Harry didn't know what it was exactly, but he did not like something about this man. “This is a private beach,” he said coldly.

“Ah, no reason to be like that, 'Arry, only wish to do a little fishing...”

Harry had his wand in his hand before the old man finished his sentence, his pulse suddenly pounding as he aimed it at him. The old man did not react, but simply went on with his fishing.

“My name is James.”

“Uh huh,” the old man grunted.

“Who are you?” Harry asked.

“Bart,” the man rasped without hesitation. It was Harry who took pause, choosing his next words carefully.

“How do you know my name, Bart?” Harry bit harshly, gripping his wand tight.

“Not'a hard to spot the famous 'Arry Potter, is it? Your mug's been plastered across all the papers, for how long now?” the man chuckled eerily to himself.

“You're a wizard then?” Harry demanded. The man did not answer, but went on with reeling his empty line back in.

“I asked you a question,” Harry felt his temper flaring.

“I'muh simple fisherman, 'Arry. You've got nothing to fear from me,” the old man said, before having finished reeling the string up, he went about casting it back out. Frustrated, Harry's eyes followed the hook as it seemed to float out with the breeze before plunking back into the water. It was almost at that exact moment that the wizard's spell him him square in the chest.

It was powerful. The mere force of the curse blasted him clean out of the water, sending him splashing down in a heap several meters away. Sinking beneath the waves, Harry struggled between light and darkness, between consciousness and unconsciousness.

Drowning... were his last thoughts before in his haze, he saw the hazy silhouette of the old man through the water above him. As darkness encompassed him, the old man reached his left hand down into the water to choke the drowning Harry about his neck.

The great Harry Potter, defeated without a fight. But no, the old man no more than clenched at his neck then Harry felt him fumbling with the collar of his shirt. There was a sharp pull about his neck as the old man tore something from Harry. He could just make it out as he continued to helplessly sink.

Above the surface, the old man was holding up Harry's pouch. And then he disappeared from view.

“No!” Harry raged in a fury of bubbles. A rush of adrenaline struck him. His pouch! But how could he have known?!

By some miracle, some surge rising from deep within him, Harry took control of his limp limbs, pulling himself together and up out of the water. Upon reaching the surface, he first gasped for air, heaving and choking and coughing, spluttering foolishly about, before looking frantically around for the old man and his stolen pouch. Everything he owned was inside there! Everything...

Harry found himself being rocked alone within the ocean's waves. The old man had vanished entirely, but... Harry could not understand it. He'd never seen anything like it, but just before him... was a scar?

It twitched in a pull of energy, something akin to a force-field. Intrigued, Harry stuck his arm into it and it disappeared right before his eyes, pulling at the rest of his body to follow. Harry let it, sucking him through.

A strong suction pulled him right from his core, like squeezing him through a shrunken tube. It was awkward, like apparation, and just like apparation, Harry was tossed and turned like being driven forward a million kilometers a second until the ride came to a sudden halt and he was abruptly dumped out the other side.

He landed hard, on his back. “Unghh!” Harry grunted from the sudden jolt of it as he crawled to his feet. Disoriented, Harry stumbled around a moment before he could gain his bearings. He had zero clue as to where he was.

It was dark again. With two tall brick walls narrowing in on him from either side, Harry first put together that he was in some alley. He spun around to his rear, his wand drawn... nothing. The alley was lined with dumpsters and trash, but nothing else. Only a car here and there passed out on the street ahead with their lights on. Without a second thought, Harry rushed to it's mouth.

Harry came scrambling out onto the sidewalk of a street, frantically searchingly left, seeing nothing he turned to his right. And right ahead, scuttling down the street was an old man with long grey hair and clad only in short, cut off blue jeans.

Harry's jaw grit with his fist. The arrogant ol' bastard moved with a purpose, but did not bother glancing back over his shoulder to see if he was being followed. To him, Harry was now floating lifelessly in the ocean.

On impulse, he broke in a blind fury, charging at the man as if he were to bulldoze him right down. Their distance closed rapidly. Not twenty meters away, Harry raised his wand, the word“Stupefy” already coming to his lips.

Pop!

The old man disappeared. Harry came to a screeching halt, his bare feet skidding across the stoned pavement. “Huh?”

The words no sooner left his mouth than he felt a pulse of raw energy erupt from behind him. Harry spun, slashing his wand as fast as he could, shouting “Protego!”

It came to fast, but luckily enough he'd been able to throw up some kind of barrier. It struck him hard though and sent him tumbling back across the rough ground. 'I'm really starting to dislike this old man...' Harry groaned to himself as he struggled to get a grip. The second wave would be coming, and it did.

It happened too fast to think, he wouldn't have time to raise his wand, so Harry simply mimicked the wizard's move, playing the same trick. With his eyes locked onto a newspaper kiosk right down the road, Harry apparated.

He crashed into it hard, sending both he and it tumbling around on the ground a couple of more meters. For the first time he heard the screams of frightened muggles. Of blaring car horns, screeching tires and the crunching of metal of crashing autos.

He was hurt, but he'd think of that later. Drawing all the strength he had left, he once again commanded his aching limbs to pick himself up.

The old man Bart was just before him, though once again with his back to him. Harry saw his wand in his hand now as the old wizard searched desperately back and forth amongst the confusion for him. Harry's trick had worked.

But then Harry was distracted. These buildings... these people... they were... they were foreigners... Indians? He'd left Australia far behind.

“No time!” Harry chastised himself as he witnessed the old man spin on his heels towards him. “Stupefy!”Harry yelled.

The red light burst forth with a fury and a force Harry had rarely known. All of Harry's anger and madness channeled through it, and not even the shield the wizard had been able to form was enough to save him. The old man was cast somersaulting backwards, his brittle bones cracking from the trauma.

Dark brown skinned people dressed in traditional saris and ghagras fled in panic in every direction as Harry limped towards the fallen wizard. He kept his wand held out, aimed right for the fallen wizard as he cradled his pained ribs with his other. He wouldn't be taking any more chances.

He grimaced with every pained step forward, but nearly vomited when he finally came upon the old man. It was a ghastly scene.

Lost in a rage when he had cast the spell, not even Harry could have comprehended the devastating force he had unleashed upon the elderly wizard. Now, the wizard lay bent and broken, twisted in an unnatural state.

Harry could hardly stand to look at him, but he could already hear approaching sirens and had to get his pouch and get out of here and fast. There wasn't a moment to waste.

As he knelt over the man, he tried to resist, fearing he'd killed him, but he had to know. Harry glanced to his eyes.

Harry gasped. The wizard's body might have been broken and left useless, his limbs were obviously fractured, he likely had a severed spine, but his eyes... The old wizard's eyes were writhing in their sockets, glaring, not with any hint of pain, but with a murderous hate, right at Harry.

“Kill him!” a dark and cold voice deep within Harry echoed. “Kill him!”

Harry shuttered, unsettled by this sudden rush of brutality. He'd heard this voice before, and it reminded him of that old man back on Privet Drive. As he stared back into those hideous, evil eyes... he nearly cast the spell. But spotting his stolen pouch within Bart's clenched fist, Harry bent over and pried it free.

Just then, the old wizard loosed a horrid, blood curdling scream and a sudden burst of dark energy pulsed out of him, striking, driving through Harry as it went.

Harry was cast back as if indeed some spell had hit him. He saw the coming dawn in the sky above him as the back of his skull popped on the hard pavement, and then... blackness.

Laughter. He had no clue as to where he was, or even who he was for that matter, but he was safe. Safe... if felt like such a foreign word to him, and tasted strange upon his tongue. Was he ever safe?

There were people everywhere, most walking briskly this way or that, some pushing carts of luggage, others huddled in tight groups chatting and gossiping freely. The robes some were dressed in did not seem odd at all, but the others... the muggles' clothes... he felt like he'd stepped back in time a century.

“Right through there, honey,” a middle aged woman with deep set, weighted eyes pointed straight at a large, brick pillar. The smile on her lips seemed both happy and yet still hesitant. He did not know who this woman was, but at the same time he still recognized her from somewhere, and more than that, he felt a close connection to her.

He glanced over his shoulder to a wide pillar identical to the one he'd just been staring at. These too both looked familiar and yet foreign. “Platform Nine,” a posted sign read against it. He turned back ahead to another, still identical pillar just beyond. “Platform Ten.”

An understanding settled on him. Suddenly he knew where he was. He been here many times before, but at the same time, it was also his first. An overwhelming sense of urgency and excitement swept through him, but then, the emotion was not his own.

Setting his eyes on the unmarked pillar, he felt himself surge forward at a quickened but steadied pace right for it. He was going to hit it! He flinched – blackness.

And then he felt himself pinched and pulled, tossed in all directions. Things were changing again.

Finally, he landed on his feet. He was in a wand shop. His hand, by no control of his own, sat his wand out on the counter before the other, elder wizard. This wizard he was sure he did not know.

Fear and doubt engulfed him as the elderly shop keeper lifted it and studied it carefully behind a thick set of spectacles. He watched uneasily as a wide, eerie grin spread across the wizard's lips. It was true, he knew it before the man even spoke, but then he'd always known.

“I'll give ya a hundred Galleons for it, boy,” the wizard offered with a crooked, eerie smile, hoping the boy would be gullible enough to accept the offer. He was not so gullible, but he'd come here for a reason.

“It's yours. I don't want it,” he felt himself speak. He needed the money to care of his family. They'd lost nearly everything in that humiliating debacle with his father, and he was glad to be rid of its burden.

A deep, black fog began to sweep in, consuming them both like a rising storm. He was frozen to the spot. The silhouette of the wizard moved forward through the shadow, and then it was upon him and he stared face to face with a shrieking corpse, it's cheeks eaten away, giving it that unnatural appearance of a smiling demon. His throat burned to scream, but he'd no sooner fallen back than its talon like fingers came flying at him and sank into his chest.

“Hughhh!” Harry sucked in a raspy lung full of stank, stale air as the icy water from the bucket crashed over him. He started coughing and spluttering, shaking with cold. What in the bloody hell?! He heard voices shouting, but in a tongue he could not understand. They were followed by a sharp slap to his face, awakening the last of his dull senses.

“Good you to join us,” a mocking voice rang in is ears. It was of broken, uneasy English, but at least he could comprehend it.

Harry's sight slowly returned and squinting up past the dim light, he found himself sitting within a small, dank room with a single lamp hanging from overhead. His vision was blurred, he was without his glasses, but he could still make out a large, brute of a man standing in front of him. Behind him there was a wooden table where two additional men sat. He noticed their notepads and pencils readied at hand. And lastly, a tape recorder. The one on the right hit a button, setting it into motion. Muggles...

Smack! The large man before him struck Harry across the face with an open palm. Harry tried to stand, but was alarmed to find himself restrained to the chair in which he was sat. He glanced to his wrists, finding either of them cuffed to the arms of the chair.

“Wha... what's going on?!” Harry found it hard to find his voice. He struggled, but it was pointless and his body ached in protest. He felt like he had been run over by a freight train.

The man before him grinned with a devilish smile as he leered down upon his prey.

“What is name?!” the man demanded of him with a deep, Indian accent.

“Where am I?!” Harry fought at his bounds, his strength slowly coming to him.

“Unghh!” Harry grunted as the man smashed his fist into Harry's stomach, robbing him of all the air he'd only just regained. Harry bent in the chair, coughing and wheezing and gasping, desperately trying for refill his lungs.

“Let him speak, Raj!” one of the men sitting behind the table commanded. They were all shoddily dressed in some sort of uniforms, but this man perhaps a little better so. The one in charge.

The one called Raj grabbed Harry roughly by the hair and bent his face upwards towards his. “Answer me!” he spat in Harry's face.

Having only just come to, Harry was confounded. What in the name of Merlin was going on?! His mind raced back, recalling all that he could remember.

He remembered telling his and Hermione's story to her parents. Giving them the potion. Leaving them in their room. With a start of adrenaline, he remembered the old man fishing in the ocean. His pouch. The chase. The fight. And then nothing but blackness.

“I... I...” Harry fumbled, shaking his head back and forth in confusion. Why was he here? How did he get here?

Raj crashed another powerful fist into Harry's stomach with a loud thud, sending Harry wrenching, but Raj would not let go his grip on his hair.

“I give you one more chance, white boy, then beat you to pulp!” Raj threatened with gritted, yellow teeth. Harry did not doubt him, the man was a giant.

“Ja... James. James Smith,” Harry coughed, unwilling to give these savages his real name. And then just like that, Raj let him go. Harry fell forward in Raj's wake until his restraints caught him, still coughing and gasping. Raj stood back, looking to the one who spoke from the table for his next instruction.

“Where... where am I?” Harry finally asked, able to lift his head enough to see the three watching him. All three of the men smiled like they were witnessing an amusing skit.

“Mister James Smith, if that is your real name, you are in the Kolkata City Jail,” the man in charge said with a sneer. “You are under arrest.”

“Arrest..? Jail?!” Harry groaned, still panting. “For what?!”

“Where are your papers, Mr James?” the man at the table ignored his question.

“Papers?” Harry could not understand a thing.

“Your identification papers. You carried nothing on you and you are a foreigner here, yes?”

What was happening? What was this?

When Harry did not answer, the man nodded to Raj, who promptly slammed his fist into Harry's jaw, nearly sending him, chair and all tumbling over.

“Aagghh!” Harry grunted as he screwed his face with pain. The taste of copper flooded his mouth. He coughed, spitting out a mouthful of blood to his side.

“Perhaps I should make something clear, Mr James. You are under arrest for murder, a terrorist attack, and being in this country illegally. You have no identifying papers and we have been unable to find trace nor record of you. If I were you, I would start talking, Mr James, or you are in for a lot of trouble!” he hissed with venom.

Murder? Terrorism? Harry could not make sense of anything. Raj was glad to start working him over again.

. . . .

Who could say how long he was out. When he finally did come to, he was still in the small, dank room, restrained to the chair, and alone. His face was bruised and hurt like hell. His left eye was swollen shut. His lip was fat and split and all he could taste was blood. A sharp jolt of pain coursed through his ribs with every breath he tried to take.

Harry spat, marking the floor red. His mind reeled through what consciousness he could gather, but nothing came. Nothing made sense. Try all he may, he could not remember how he'd gotten here. He could only see those murderous eyes of Bart, laying bent upon the sidewalk with Harry's pouch clenched in his fist.

My pouch... How had Bart known of it? Where was it now? A sense of panic coursed through Harry. Everything was in his pouch. It was in his pouch.

They left Harry like this for hours, leaving him to torment in his solace. Finally, the loud cringing of the doors hinges awoke Harry from his latest slumber. This time it was only the single man who had been questioning him earlier that returned. He took a seat opposite Harry at the table. He hit a button on the recording machine, but still he only sat there studying Harry.

“What are you doing in India?” the man finally began, his words short and to the point.

Further Silence. Harry had no answer. 'I followed a wizard through a worm hole in Australia and was dumped out here,' Harry mocked to himself, the slightest of smiles forming on his torn lips. His interrogator was not amused.

“Who was man you kill?”

He died then? 'Of course he did,' Harry thought as he pictured the old wizard's broken and twisted body. Again, he had no answer as grief consumed him. I killed him.

“Must I bring Raj back in here?” the man raised a brow at Harry.

Harry sighed, leaning back in his chair. He had not the energy to even try to think of some clever excuse.

“You cause great deal of mayhem, Mr James. A man was killed. People's property destroyed. There are those who would like to string you up right now. I suggest you start give me answers.”

Harry was stone faced and grim. He had killed a man. And for what? He wished he had something to say.

“Tell me what happen,” his interrogator still tried.

Harry searched, but nothing came. Nothing. His brain felt empty. What could he say, 'I'm a wizard, not a terrorist.' The man tried to steal my pouch, so I hunted him down and killed him?' No... he had not meant to kill him. His pouch, what Harry held inside it... he could let no man take it. But it was gone now anyways.

“You hang!” the man slammed his fist down onto the feeble table, rattling the recorder.

Something snapped in Harry. At first it was deep and wrenching, twisting his gut into knots. The realization dawned on him like some epiphany. The massive guilt gave way to a startling laughter. It came as a chuckle at first, but deepened with each convulse of his bound body until it became outright bellicose, as if he had gone mad. He was Harry Potter. He had stood before the most powerful wizard ever to live and he had won. And now here he was, at the hands of muggles, he would die. He had fulfilled his mission in life. Now, he would die.

His ward became enraged.

. . . .

For three days the interrogations went on, but there was nothing Harry could offer them. And each and every day, of every hour and of every minute of every day, Harry kept his eyes on the door to his cell, waiting for some witch or wizard to come walking in.

It was not as if he were pleading for help, groveling for some rescue, but simply as if it were expected. He and Bart had had an outright duel on a street filled with muggles. In England, the Ministry would have been all over the scene. Surely someone would come, wipe these muggles' minds clean and take Harry for a proper interrogation, like all those he'd already had in the basement of the Ministry before. But none came.

And Harry took a beating. Day after day, the man asked him questions Harry could give no answers to, and day after day Raj beat Harry an inch from his life, until one day Harry woke up in a gurney within some run down infirmary. The interrogations were over.

The first thing Harry saw was some young, male nurse in scrubs cleaning his wounds and changing his bandages. The man was Indian, he hadn't gotten far.

“Where...” it took Harry all he had to gather the words. “Where am I?” he rasped.

It was now their turn to ignore him. The nurse offered no response.

“Please...” the words burned at his sore throat. “Just... where am I?”

“Dahkal Prison,” the nurse said without emotion, going on about his work.

Chapter Fifteen: Missing


It was a lonely night sky. The Moon was only a crescent of what it was before, jeering Hermione. Only once in a Blue Moon.

Hermione stared longingly out the little, round window at the passing stars, away to the glowing moon. It's light reflected off the pastures of clouds below, rolling beneath them like fields of snow. The Moon and all it's silvery beauty, it reminded her of that night.

It had been nearly a week since Harry had left. It took them time to make all the final arrangements with the resort, and in the end, her parents weren't even sure they wanted to sale the place to return back to their dental practices.

Their memories had been restored, yes, but they also still remembered all of this last year, all they'd experienced, all they'd learned about each other and themselves. Hermione had a feeling that she was going to like her parents' new selves.

If it were even possible, Hermione and her mum seemed to be closer than ever, staying up long hours of the nights with each other, remembering old times, recounting this past year, this past week.

She had been so consumed by what had happened, what she was having to return to, to Ron... to Harry. She had her parents back, yes, but she had no more than filled one hole when another was ripped right out of her. She looked to the moon, wandering if Harry was out there somewhere now, looking back up at it at the same time.

She felt a soft hand placed on her knee. Hermione looked to her mum. Seeing the worry on her daughter's face, Helen tried to offer her a reassuring smile, but it looked more like a frown to Hermione. She looked past her mother to her sleeping father.

This was it. They were going back. After her parents had dropped hints about wanting to keep the resort, Hermione could not forget Harry's words of just wanting to stay, leave England all behind them, and oh how good did that seem now.

Hermione had eventually admitted everything to her mum during their last days in Australia, what had happened between her and Harry, what he truly meant to her. As her mother, it was obvious Helen did not approve, but Hermione was now a woman, she'd fought in a war for crying out loud, and Harry's absence had been destroying her inside. She had to talk to someone.

“Just don't run off thinking you can tell your father any of these crazy stories! He still likes Harry,” her mum had teased her then.

“Don't worry, hun,” her mum reassured her now as they road back on the plane, just two hours away. “You'll see, it will all work out for the best.”

“I know...” Hermione sighed, “and I think that's what I am afraid of...” she pictured Harry and Ginny together.

. . . .

Upon their arrival, Hermione scripted several letters to be sent out at once, letting those she had left worrying know she was back with her parents and safe and of how sorry she was for leaving like she had.

She wrote to Ron. It was not easy. She wrote another to Mr and Mrs Weasley, to Professor McGonagall... and one to Harry.

Although she now had her parents back, Harry's absence had left a massive void in her. She hated herself for what she had done to him, necessary or not, and now, not being able to talk to him, to explain further... it was eating away at her.

She took two more days getting settled in, stalling, starting any time the door bell rang, both hoping it was, and was not, Harry or Ron. She received kind replies and understandings from Arthur and Molly and McGonagall, but no word from her two boys.

Unable to stand it any longer, she finally gathered that Gryffindor courage to face them. No doubt they both hated her now. No more than she felt she deserved.

She called on them unannounced, dropping in at the Burrow. She mulled around on the front porch for nearly ten minutes before she dared to knock.

It had been exactly seven days now since Harry had left her with her parents in Australia. Thirteen since they had left from here for the airport. Only sixteen since the end of the war... was that really all? So much seemed to have happened since then.

As she stood on the porch of the Burrow, about to knock, an insane amount of guilt and insecurity washed over her. Harry... How could she stand before him and look into those eyes after what she had done? How could she ever mend things with Ron? This was going to be dreadful.

Hermione knocked. The Burrow seemed oddly quiet for midday. She heard the screech of a scooting chair. The padded echo of nearing steps. The door opened. It was perhaps the worst person imaginable. Hermione had not anticipated it.

"Hermione?" the redhead cocked her head to one side.

"Hi Ginny," Hermione said sheepishly, catching the sight of a boy at the kitchen table. Harry was here, with her... she was going to have to face them together. No less than she deserved.

"Where's Harry?" Ginny demanded immediately.

"Wha-?" Hermione glanced back over Ginny's shoulder - seeing a wide eyed Dean Thomas staring back at her. 'What?'

"Where's Harry? Is he here?!" Ginny asked with more urgency looking past Hermione about the yard.

"I... no..." Hermione sighed, looking back to the girl in front of her with utter confusion. "I thought he'd be here..."

"Here?!" Ginny scoffed, narrowing her eyes at her. "He was with you." Hermione did not miss the malice in Ginny's voice.

"He left seven days ago..." Hermione's mind was now wandering. Where could he be?

"Well, I haven't seen him. I'd try Ron," Ginny said with distaste.

"Ron's not here?"

"Ron? Here?!” Ginny laughed pitchedly at this. “Well, you have missed a lot, haven't you?! Here,” she turned around and grabbed an issue of the Daily Prophet off the table. “Read up. There's some great entertainment in there. You can find him at George's... if you still want to, that is,” she said, and before Hermione could ask what she meant by that, Ginny frowned a deep frown, almost like she was on the verge of tears. “He'll be really happy you two are back. Hope you can straighten him out before he gives mum a stroke.”

“Oookay...” Hermione drew out the word, not exactly understanding.

“Anyways, did you want to come in?" it did not come out as exactly a warm invite.

"No," Hermione said. "I need to find the boys." My boys.

. . . .

The world had done a one-eighty in her absence. The dark times of the war were over and everywhere she went there were witches and wizards out celebrating. She found it hard to get around, being stopped and thanked or asked for an autograph at every turn. She couldn't help but think of Harry through all of this and of how miserable he must be.

At the end of the lane she came before the place she knew she should have looked first, but wanted with all her heart to come last. Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes.

It was later now, nearing closing time, but the shop was still bustling. Stressed parents chased their little ones around the winding aisles as miniature fireworks popped off and glowed over their heads above. Bells chimed and whistles blew. Bright and vibrant colors sparkled from every direction.

"Hermione?" she heard her name called from behind her. "Hermione!" George cheered as she spotted him. The two met each other half-way down the aisle with a very warm hug.

"How's the parents?!" he asked, looking her over.

"Good. We got back three days ago... just been busy getting them settled in. Looks like the shop is doing well!"

"Better than ever!" George gleamed with pride. "Now that we've got Ron as a full time guinea pig,” he winked at her, “we've been rolling out the new tricks daily! But enough of that, where's Harry? We've got a load to fill him in on!" George could hardly contain his excitement.

Hermione frowned. Harry was not here either... "I-I'm not exactly sure... I was hoping..." Hermione trailed off as her shoulders slumped. Where was he? George looked down to her suspiciously.

"Ron..." Hermione shifted with unease, "is- is he here?"

George grew more serious. "In the back, stocking," George thumbed over his shoulder. Hermione did not like the look in his eyes.

. . . .

Ron did not notice her come him. With sweat pouring from his brow, his focus was diligently on his work at hand.

"Ron..." the sound of his name wafted faintly through the air. He looked up.

"Hermione?" Ron looked back at her surprised, as if she were a Crumpled-Horned Snorkak. “Wow, I...” he started fidgeting as his eyes darted nervously about the room. “Everything all right then? With your parents I mean...” Ron ran his fingers through his hair. If Hermione had seen any of the papers... and he knew how much of a glutton she was for news and for the Prophet, he was in some serious trouble.

“Yeah...” Hermione was at a loss for words. “Everything is... oh, Ron!" she could not hold back any longer. The calamity that was now her life came gushing forward in the form of tears and sobs as she collapsed into Ron's arms.

The two did not talk for the longest time. He held her, cooing her. He was not daft, he knew his lecture would be coming, but right now... right now she just needed his friendship. He chewed on his lip as he remembered their last parting and his subsequent behavior these last couple of weeks.

They moved up to Ron's flat before they started their explanations, accounting for the past two weeks of their lives. Each left much to be said, but neither grew angry with the other, as each had enough on their own consciences at the moment.

“Then, where's Harry?” Ron asked confused.

Chapter Sixteen: Dakhal


The Sun's unfettered rays were already intense, and it was still within morning. Its heat emanated back up from the hard ground in an undulating haze. Already beads of sweat formed and rolled down his brow to join that already soaked into his ratty shirt, and they'd only just begun.

The small and jagged rocks cut into Harry's bare feet as they shuffled along in quick succession, restrained by the short shackles about his ankles. The metal cuffs bit into his skin, leaving it raw and blistered. He carried a heavy pick in his hands like this others in the long line, which left him nervous. The one behind him need only raise it and bring it down upon his skull and it would all be over. 'Maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing after all?' Harry thought deprecatingly.

Harry shook his head as if in an attempt to shrug off such morbid thoughts. He tried to think back over his last few days, make some sense of what was happening around him – to him. It hadn't taken him long to heal of his wounds from the interrogation. At least, he didn't think it had taken him long. He'd been in and out of it laying within the bed of the infirmary, the light of day sometimes piercing his sore eyes, darkness at others. It slipped by him.

No one bothered to inform him of the status of his injuries, the nurses simply coming and going to change out his bandages as often as his consciousness skid by. If they ever did speak, it was only to one another, and always in their very foreign tongue. He had taken such a rough beating at the hands of Raj that without the skills of a Healer, he thought he should have been out for a month, yet, here he was. Maybe it had been a month and he'd just missed it all?

Once able to stand on his own two feet again, they had taken him from the infirmary only last night and delivered him to a small, sad cell. Alone... it was a despair worse than the pains of the injuries. He was alone in his head, alone in the world, unable if he wanted to talk to anyone.

The cramped cell on that first night only helped to solidify his isolation. Ten square meters at best, it was all of cold, damp stone with a solitary window perched high above one wall so small, that Harry had laughed to himself at the iron bars across it. As if it were even large enough for one to stick their head through.

There were hundreds, if not thousands of small tick marks, grouped into sets of fives, seemingly adorning every spare inch of wall space. A calendar system. Artwork left from previous prisoners, a type of pass time to cling to some sense of their sanity.

Needless to say, Harry did not get any rest that first night. He did not cry or break like he heard two other new guests of Dakhal down his cell block. He did not curl up by the door, begging for them to let him out, groveling that this was all some type of mistake. No... Harry lay within the bunch of soiled straw, stained by the sweat and the tears and the louse of its previous tenants, staring at the ceiling.

He was unsure of his fate, but then again, when had he ever been? Would they hang him, like his interrogators had so often threatened? Leave him here to rot? In the end, Harry found himself uncaring. He had been born for a purpose, as the prophecy so rightfully foretold. He'd served his purpose. What happened now did not matter.

The next morning they came for him. The guards had barked a couple quick orders, and when Harry had hesitated, unsure of what they were saying, they took pleasure in reopening his so recently healed wounds once more with their short clubs. Harry would quickly learn and not forget his first word in Hindi, “Cala!” or “Move!”

Without so much as an offered breakfast – he wasn't quite sure when the last time he ate was – Harry's first task of the day had been to retrieve the waste pales from each of the cells along his block. All the prisoners filed out as Harry filed in. It was a disgusting task, rising the gorge in his throat, and would only grow worse when he'd later learn that these would be the same pales that the guards would deliver their meals into. The day was just beginning however. Done with that task, Harry was lined up with the rest and the shackles placed about his ankles and a pick ax in his hands, a days hard work ahead.

Harry kept his head down, mimicking the sad others as he followed along in a shuffling line. Only the bravest took their eyes from the ground or from their work ahead of them. The guards were always looking for an excuse to give someone a good beating, and the slightest transgression was an open invitation to do just thus. But the anomaly of this young, white boy mingling within this sea of brown seemed too much for many to resist stealing a few menacing looking glances his way.

Most eyes were broken, looking far away to another place, another... better time in their lives. Most their frames were thin and boney within their shaggy, loose worn clothing. But some, the newer ones like himself, or the fiercer ones he'd later learn who preyed and took from the others, still had meat on their bones, and they all stared at him now, like new bait, only awaiting their moment to pounce.

The rock quarry their guards snaked them through was massive, a city of pits and mines and stone cliffs in and of itself. Thousands upon thousands of thin, trodden prisoners, dressed just the same as Harry, labored away within its shafts and alleys.

Harry's crew was delivered into a long, open gut near the heart of it all. No instructions were given, at least none that he could understand, but as the others began lifting their pick axes and sledged away, Harry mimicked them.

It was back breaking, grueling work. They hammered away all morning, Harry's palms and fingers turning into painful blisters, until they turned the hard rock before them into gravel. Others with shovels and carts were brought in behind them to carry it away as Harry's group was led to another rock face not far away to start all over again.

Noon lunch, with the blazing Sun high overhead, was a short reprieve from the tiresome affair. They all sat just where they had been standing as a posse of old men, too old now to lift the hammers but with crooked, bent backs proving they'd done their fair share in their own time, came around to offer each a single ladle of brown water. It tasted of dirt, Harry cringed at it, but his cracked dry found a way to savor it nonetheless.

A second passing group offered them each a small piece of hard, stale bread. Harry had barely managed to pluck at the corners of it when a large prisoner sitting two down from him leaned right over and snatched it out of his hands.

Harry balked incredulously at the man, but the thief, just like any of the others around, completely ignored him, as if that were just the way of things here at Dakhal. Harry looked to the thin man who sat between them, his bones so frail that it seemed that the gentlest of breezes could break him in twain.

Harry's next actions came almost compulsively, without thought to the consequences. He was never one to be walked over. Harry lunged over and snatched his piece of feeble bread right back. Unlike before, this managed to catch everyone's attention.

Harry ignored their leers as he went about poking at his bread again. The large prisoner, the one who had so ungraciously helped himself to Harry's only food and who Harry had likewise reclaimed his bread from, sat shell-shocked, as if he could not conceive what had just transpired.

And then it all hell broke loose. The man came at Harry once again, though this time with no intention of going for the meager morsel. His large frame toppled Harry over onto his back as the man's giant hands clasped about Harry's throat with all the intent to choke the life right out of him.

Harry reeled beneath him, half his size and weight, there was absolutely nothing he could do to stop the assault. A mob of the other prisoners surged around them, cheering “Lara'i – lara'i (fight)!” with great enthusiasm.

Harry's face turned from a burning red, to an ashen pale, and then a deepening blue as blackness began to seep into his vision. But then, sweeping up his knee, Harry managed to pull off a lucky shot, slamming it right into the man's groin as he straddled across Harry's abdomen.

The man's eyes lit up and his grip on Harry's neck weakened. With all the strength he had left, Harry pushed the thief off of him. The mob swirled about the two in a frenzy as both struggled to get to their feet. Harry had no sooner managed than the man swung out the back of his hand and caught Harry right across his face. Harry was sent flying, once again landing on his back, the now familiarizing taste of metal flooding his mouth.

The unsteady shadow of the large man hovered back into his view as Harry tried to collect himself upon the ground. Harry kicked futilely at him, but the man caught his ankle and as easily as if he were swinging a child, the man slung Harry around, sending him flying yet again until Harry landed hard, rolling atop the lose rock of the quarry.

From his peripheral, he saw the man charging at him like a rabid boar, foaming at the mouth. And then... something happened. It was fast, too fast for Harry to make sense of any of it, a reflex, like a jolt of electricity sweeping through him. Harry bounded up off the ground to meet the charging boar.

He felt something solid connect with his face, splitting his brow, but Harry somehow weathered it and caught the charging man right in his ribs, thrusting him up into the air before tackling him over, slamming him hard onto his back.

Arms and legs, fists and feet began to flail and strike and punch. The shriek of the mob was ear splitting. And then... then came a rain of clubs, like pieces of hail pelleting down atop him. Harry covered his head with his arms from the blows before angry hands clenched at his shirt and pulled him off and to the ground where they picked back up the beating with their clubs.

Before they tired themselves out to drag a bloodied Harry off to the stockades, Harry caught a glimpse of the thief lying sprawled out on the ground, unconscious, where Harry had left him. Had they attacked him with their clubs as well? He couldn't remember them doing so, but it wasn't as if he'd had a chance to get a good look around either.

Chapter Seventeen: Prisoner


Azkaban. Its named drifted across Harry's chapped and split lips like some revered place of paradise compared to this hell, to this... Dakhal.

He lay atop his straw bed, tucked away within the corner of his small cell. His arms were bent, his hands cupped beneath his head as he stared without expression at the stone ceiling above. The dark, wet stone closed in around him, forever reminding him just how small, just how alone he was.

A new set of engraved tallies shown just a hint brighter than the older, weathered ones around them on one of the formidable walls. If one bothered to count these, they would have reached twenty-seven, but Harry had long since given up on the hobby.

There was also a small coned dent in the stone, right in the very corner of his cell. No larger than a galleon, it's grains were a lighter shade and smoothed by days of Harry grinding away at it with his smuggled in rocks of the quarry. He'd once fantasized about tunneling out of here, but like his calendar, he'd given up on that too.

In those first days, he had fanciful dreams of a delegation being sent to retrieve him. Of the Indians even contacting their British counterparts and of him being extradited. But alas, no one was coming. And even then, what if they did? He'd killed a man. 'I am a killer.' Azkaban...

Swallowing that hard pill, Harry had come to accept his fate. He forgot his lost pouch. He forgot his wand. Not once had he ever sat before his locked door, contemplating Alomohora wandlessly. He toiled away in their daily labor within the rock quarry in his locks and chains, just like the rest of those sad souls. It was hard work, the Sun grueling, the guards merciless, but never once did Harry break like he saw so many do.

He no longer cried out when the guards came by on their nightly visits to punish him with their whips. He merely grit his teeth and took his lickings. His bare back bore the countless scars of the abuse, evidence of his crime and punishment.

He no longer dreamt of home. This... this dark, hellish place was now his home. Fight it all he may though, in his darkest, most solitude moments, her face still came to him. It came to him now.

The corners of his mouth pulled into the slightest of frowns, his face ticking in protest as he tried to force it away. That lump burned in his throat with the memory of her... her smiling, pinkish lips. Her full brown hair blowing in the salty air in that last memory of her. And her eyes... those deep, chocolate eyes, taking him in, they consuming him that night underneath the moon and stars on a beach of white sand. Never again. He'd had his moment. 'Now she lives in my memories.'

His reverie was broken by the echo of footsteps outside, and by the opening and closing of the slots of the doors down the block, almost in a rhythm. One by one, until his slot opened. He did not turn to watch the rusted, filthy ladle dip within and tilt to empty it's putrid mush into Harry's grimy pale. The ladle disappeared back out the hole at the base of his door and the slot slammed closed once more.

Still Harry did not move. He did not flinch at the shrieking, rusted metal grinding upon itself. He did not blink.

It had been another long and arduous day. He was hungry, but he did not eat. Something was changing... something was different about him now, but he did not bother sparing too much of his thoughts on it. He just accepted it.

He'd lost his glasses in the fight with Bart, like his pouch never returned, but slowly, just as his body would heal all too abnormally fast, he'd found his lost vision had returned to him as well. He could see every line and scar and blemish in the stone above with absolute clarity. He did not dwell on it.

And he never ate. The slop they fed them was not fit for a pig. Others, those who had been here the longest, most were mere skeletons of men. Even with their bread at midday and this putrid soup in the evenings, he'd seen several collapse within the quarry, their still eyes open, but dead and as empty as their bellies. He'd watched others come in after him and deteriorate at a rapid pace, their bones and ribs showing beneath their weathered skin in a matter of weeks. He'd seen more death here than all his time in war. But not Harry. Fate it seemed, simply took too much joy in tormenting him so. No matter how many times he left his bowl full and untouched at its place by the door, his body stayed fit and healthy and undeterred.

And through all the beatings and whippings, through the labor and scuffles in the yard, through the abuse in the fights, his body always bounced right back. It was an anomaly. He did not understand it, and he did not try to.

More footsteps. The clanking and scraping of his door's metal bolts. In stepped an older man with a shaved head and face, but dressed in the same dirty rags as Harry. The guards slammed and locked the door behind him.

“Kokerel,” the older man said solemnly, bowing his head with respect. It was the name the other prisoners had given Harry.

“Koca,” Harry greeted him, though with his eyes still locked on the ceiling above. Like Harry, Koca was different from the rest. He was Indian by nationality, but hailing from the northern Himalayas, he looked like an old Tibetan monk. Soft in the eyes and smile, but strong and fierce in spirit.

Koca stepped forward to the middle of Harry's cell before dropping with his legs folded beneath himself, his calm hands placed gently on his knees, his spine stiff and erect.

“You must eat, Kokerel,” the older man stated with concern, spotting Harry's untouched pale. Harry gave only the slightest of nods, barely noticeable.

“You train today?” he moved on, having long since lost this battle with Harry.

“No,” Harry said simply. Being the only “white boy” at the labor camp, just like that first day within the quarry, Harry found himself at the brunt of many of the other inmates' cruel insults and attacks. But just like that day, Harry proved that he was not one to be trifled with. This would all culminate, however, in his forced entry into the Jhagares, or the fights held within the prison.

“They grow tired seeing Kokerel win,” the man smirked with the slightest hint of amusement. “You will fight Pumar tomorrow night...” Koca warned. The Jhagares were the main source of entertainment at the camp, for both the prisoners and the guards alike. Much money and cigarettes both, the prisoners' main form of currency, traded hands in betting on the victors.

“Have you brought me anything new?” Harry asked, ignoring Koca's warning.

“Odds ten to one he crushes you face in. Pumar Dakhal's reigning champion,” Koca continued his attempts at baiting Harry into taking this seriously. And Harry, to Koca's continued annoyance, did not respond.

Koca sighed a long sigh before reaching back behind himself. He lifted his ratty shirt and pulled out a worn book from the waistband of his pants. “It missing many pages, but as you request, Kokerel.”

For the first time, Harry stirred from his straw bed and lifted himself to a sitting position in mirror to Koca. The old man held the book out to him and Harry took it.

“The Art of War?” Harry mused in a low whisper as he ran his fingers over the worn cover.

“By great Chinese General, Sun Tzu. If you no let me train you, I hope you get wisdom from him,” Koca said straight faced, glancing towards the collection of books Harry had stacked in the corner of his cell. It had been the one small privilege, apart from his companionship with Koca, that the Warden of the prison had allowed Harry following his many winnings from Harry's many victories. Harry opened the tome randomly, scanning over the first few words his eyes fell to.

“...Can you imagine what I would do if I could do all I can..?” he read to himself before skipping on.

“Know thyself, know thy enemy. A thousand battles, a thousand victories,” Koca quoted in his deep, monotone voice the next lines Harry's eyes had fallen to.

It happened fast. Koca slung his fist out. Harry caught him by his wrist, just before it struck him in the face.

“Good,” Koca said pleased, one corner of his lips pulling into the faintest of smiles. “Pumar big and strong, but he much slower than you.”

Koca had no more than finished speaking and withdrew his fist than with a quick, fluid motion, he lifted himself from the ground by his hands and his two feet struck Harry squarely in his chest, sending him crashing back against the stone wall of the cell.

“Too slow!” Koca cut at him. Harry grimaced as his head popped against the wall, but it soon spread into a crook of a smile. Koca would never let him rest in peace.

Koca was now on his feet, standing at the far side of the small cell. Kicking his legs into the air, Harry popped himself back up onto his feet, just as Koca had taught him. There was little room for maneuvering, but the two began to stalk each other, moving in a circle about the perimeter of the room.

“You must no let him get hands on you!” Koca was before Harry in a flash. Grasped by the shoulders, Harry felt himself suddenly falling forward. With his foot buried into Harry's stomach, Koca sent him flying across the cell as he rolled down onto his back.

Their practice, as they always were, was just as real and as brutal as any of the fights, leaving both bruised and bloodied, but Koca had been a master of the martial arts in his previous life and was intent on training Harry thus. While almost all of the prison guards despised the white boy, Kokerel, and would forever bet against him, the Warden was quite enjoying the handsome sum off of Harry's fights and had begun sending Koca to train him.

“I do not understand you, Kokerel,” Koca bowed once again, preparing to leave. “But I can sense is a sleeping dragon inside you. You fear his fire, but it is fire that set us free."

. . . .

"Come on, Hermione, we've got to go..." his voice was soft, not wanting to provoke her, but they'd put it off long enough. They'd have to apparate to the airport now. Hermione did not respond to this, just as she had not responded to any of his previous attempts to usher them along.

The rain was coming down hard. Hermione stood at the window of their hotel room, hugging her arms about herself as she watched it patter against the pane. Another fruitless search, like looking for a needle in a haystack. She'd come back to Australia, hoping to find Harry at one of the places they'd visited before. How many times had he told her he just wanted to stay here? Why hadn't she just listened to him..?

Ron had been kind enough to accompany her on these goose chases, but Harry was no doubt thousands of kilometers from here. To find him would be nothing short of a miracle. He was adept to moving without being noticed, she'd been with him on the run. But she could not force herself to do nothing... she had to look for him.

Ron came up behind her and placed his hands gently on her shoulders. "He'll come back Hermione... we've just got to give him time."

"Somethings wrong..." Hermione said in barely more than a whisper. Ron sighed, as he always did when she said this. "I don't... I don't know how... I just know. He needs us..."

Chapter Eighteen: The Jhagaraes



It had been yet another grueling day in the rock quarry, stone smashed by hammer. The Sun brutal and the guards even more abusing. They had taken special care to single him out, a blatant attempt to grind him down like the rock under the prisoners' hammers and picks. Tonight was the big fight, and no one here save Koca and the Warden wished to see him succeed and that was made clear to all, especially to Harry.

The air was tense and thick with anticipation that evening amongst the camp. There was a brooding excitement. A thrum pulsed through Kokerel's cell block. The strong and more audacious jeered him, but the many, the weak and the desperate, looked upon him with pity, and perhaps a few with some type of wonderment. A reckoning was coming for the boy who did not belong.

They came for him near dusk. Harry was slumped atop the rough straw that served as his bed with his back against the stone wall of his cell, and his newest book perched in his lap. His untouched dinner remained festering in its pale. He did not bother to look up when he heard the bolts on his door pulled back.

His door swung open. “Cala (move)!” they barked at him. Harry calmly marked his page and sat the book aside. He stood and without the pause or hesitancy of a poor sap who should expect their fate, he exited his cell with his back straight, chin held high.

He was clad in only his pair of dirty pants that were frayed high above his ankles, worn from days in the pit. The prisoners were not provided shoes but his feet had long ago become callused to handle the sharp terrain. His soiled and blood stained shirt laid abandoned on the floor of his cell, cut to shreds in those first few days here by the whips of the guards.

Harry did not meet the eyes of his guards as they each fell back a step at his presence. Had he looked, he would have seen fear there. They may have despised him, but that did not mean they could not respect him for what he was. He had not earned the nickname Kokerel for naught – a mad, fighting cock.

“Cala!” one gathered his courage and struck Harry in his back with the butt of his rifle. Harry fell forward a step with a grunt, but did not try to resist. They led him out the block.

The roar in the yard was deafening. The Jhagaraes were everything in the prison, and both prisoners and guards alike swarmed like angry bees about the ring that stood in the middle of the main yard. Hawkers, the traders in blood, called out the odds they were offering as swathes of gamblers held out their wages to bet. Already money and cigarettes were being traded in ernst.

All was muted to Harry, however. His eyes were locked forward, he ever drawing nearer towards his fate at the center of the mob as he was being shoved along by the butts of his guards' rifles. Two led him from the front. Two guarded him from the rear. An aisle opened up before him as his audience peeled back to let him pass, both gaunt and fiery eyes alike following him as he moved amongst the crowd.

He did not want to fight. He'd been fighting all his life. Everyone made him fight. Dudley. Malfoy. Snape. Dumbledore. Voldemort. Bart. Koca. The Warden. Why could he not just live in peace?

Pumar was already in the roped center, striding about the ring with his fists held in the air, already declaring his impending victory. He roared back at the mob like a fearsome lion, consuming all their cheers and shouts like alcohol, letting them intoxicate his already swollen ego.

He was a giant of a man, nearly seven feet tall, and his bulging muscles rippled beneath his leathery hide. He had every reason to be confident of the fight to come. Harry had to be a quarter of his weight and nearly two full heads shorter. Pumar had never lost a fight in Dakhal, and he was certainly not expecting to fall to this little “white” runt.

Upon spotting Harry, he stopped and sneered, his jowls foaming like those of a hungry hyena's. After pointing a fat, thick finger at Harry, singling him out, Pumar then raked one of his thumbs across his own neck, promising a grim outcome. As all the prisoners and guards were undoubtedly hoping, Pumar meant to kill the Kokerel, and Harry did not doubt it himself. He'd seen Pumar kill before.

Harry's face was stoic though and betrayed neither fear nor confidence as he entered the ring. There would be no referee. There were no rules. The victor was named only after the other was rendered unconscious, or more often than not, killed.

Harry took his place at the opposite side of the ring and bringing one fist to his opposite palm before his chest, Harry bowed his respects. Pumar only sneered and spit on the ground, mocking this foolish display.

“You dead, white boy!” Pumar jeered him to the roar of the crowd.

“Kill him! Rip his head off!” came shouts from every direction. They were all in Hindi, but Harry had been able to pick up enough of their language to understand it. The mob was hungry for blood. Pumar flexed his mighty muscles, pounding his chest while booming into the air like an angry guerilla.

Pumar wasted no time, charging Harry at once like a mad bull. Something snapped, like a switch being turned. To Harry, everything - the swarm and roar of the mob, the barreling Pumar - everything seemed to grind into a slow motion. Many things crossed his mind in that split second. He remembered Cedric in the graveyard of Voldemort's murdered father, the first person he'd ever seen killed. He remembered the rotting corpse of Bathilda Bagshot swarmed with flies in the basement of her home. He remembered that gut wrenching moment as he watched Dumbledore killed, struck with an Avada Kedavera and sent tumbling off the Astronomy tower. He remembered all those fallen in the halls of Hogwarts in that final battle. He remembered the bent and broken Bart on the streets of Kolkata. He'd seen death. He was tired of death. He wished it to visit him now and end it all.

But no matter how many times he had these feelings in the pits of the quarry or at the start of the fights, as if it were not of his own power, Harry always fought back. Lost in his thoughts, it appeared Pumar was going to run him right down. It happened too fast from there for any spectator to really see what happened next.

Somehow Harry side-stepped the charging beast. Spinning while sweeping out one leg, Harry caught Pumar by his shin and moving with such force, Pumar tripped and went tumbling face first into the ropes, nearly pulling the whole ring apart. The mob groaned.

“Get him! Bash face in!” the mob screamed for blood.

Now red in the face with a blood-thirsty rage, Pumar leapt to his feet, spinning around madly, looking for Harry. “I KILL YOU!” Pumar growled ferociously before charging at Harry again. His strategy was one dimensional - get his hands on Kokerel and pound him into the ground.

Harry tried to spin out his path once more, but one of Pumar's massive arms flung out and caught him. Before he knew it, Pumar's solid arms were wrapped around his chest with the death grip of a giant python, trying to squeeze the life out of him.

With a surge of a truly unnatural force, Harry stomped on Pumar's foot with the weight of an elephant, crushing it.

“Argh!” Pumar grunted in pain, bending forward.

With his legs bent, Harry lunged off the ground with all the power of a Seeker pushing off from the grounds of a pitch, and the top of his head was sent crashing into Pumar's unprotected face.

“Ungh!” Pumar spluttered backwards, releasing Harry as blood spouted from his broken nose and mouth. Before Pumar had a chance to gain his bearings, Harry spun and landed a strong kick squarely into his chest. Pumar tripped further backwards and though Harry had managed to knock the air from the man's lungs, he stayed on his feet.

With two swift steps, Harry was on him again and jammed his bare foot into Pumar's knee. Pumar whelped with the pain of a wounded beast, crumbling down, but before his knees even had the time to hit the ground, Harry struck him fiercely, right in the throat with a knuckled fist.

Pumar's eyes bulged with the shock of it, but his agape mouth could only let out a silent wail of agony. With Pumar clutching his burning throat, Harry struck him hard in the face, splitting open his brow just above his eye, but still the strong ox held to his knees.

With his adrenaline surging and a pulse of electricity surging through him, Harry struck him again, hard in the face. Some unseen force seemed to pass from his core, through his arm and out his fist into Pumar's unprotected face. The blow rang out with a loud crack as if Harry had struck him with a wooden bat. Pumar was blown backwards. The bones of his cheek crushed, he now laid motionless, sprawled out on the ground. A pool of blood began collecting around his unconscious head.

Utter silence. The once roaring mob stared on with unbelieving eyes and dropped jaws. In not even a full minute, the little white boy had taken apart their reigning champ. Kokerel.

With absolute calm, Harry turned his back on the fallen Pumar and exited the ring.

“Where you think you going?!” a seething guard moved to block his path. Harry recognized him at once. It was Raj. “Get you ass back in there, Kokerel. This not over 'til I say it over!”

. . . .

Until this day, Harry had fought in only seven fights in the Jhagaraes. By the time the last rupee and cigarette had been traded, Harry had fought fifteen. They had forced him to take on one challenger after the other until he lost. But he hadn't lost. He'd won them all.

'Wha..?' Harry breathed silently to himself, his cut and bleeding fist cocked back, ready to strike again. He was straddled across the chest of the man beneath him. It was a gruesome sight. The man's face was crushed, bleeding, and unconscious.

Harry raised his own bruised face with a fat lip and swollen, hemorrhaged eyes to the star lit sky.'What am I?' Harry rolled off the man, collapsing onto his own back beside his challenger with exhaustion. He was losing himself. Who he was, in his heart and in his soul... it was slipping away.

He was only semi-aware of the four rough hands grabbed him by either arm and hauled him up onto his feet again. Harry let them drag him from the ring as the now timid mob parted to watch him go. The next thing he knew, they were carelessly tossing him into his cell. He heard the metal door slam closed and the bolts lock back before he slipped off into darkness.

Chapter Nineteen: A Price to Pay


When Harry finally awoke, his entire body was sore and strained in protest at his every command. He was still in the center of his cell, laying upon the cold stone where they had left him. Light from the morning Sun peered through his sole window.

“Ungh,” Harry groaned as he rolled onto his back. He lifted his hands to his eyes, examining his split and now scabbed knuckles. He opened and closed his fists several times trying to judge if it was broken. It hurt like hell, but everything still felt in one piece.

He brought his fingers to his face, touching it gently. It was tender and sore, his eyes and lips swollen, his nose crooked, but nothing he hadn't been through before. It would heal. He grunted loudly as he popped his nose back into place.

Harry let his hands fall back to the ground as he just laid there, staring at the ceiling. His mind started wandering, replaying the fights within his head, his opponents busted faces and broken limbs and bodies. 'I'm becoming an animal. I am an animal,' Harry shuttered.

And then that's we he saw him, just in his peripheral. “Koca..?”

His mentor was laying slumped against the wall, not at all in his normal, erect posture. “Koca?” Harry rasped to him as he crawled over onto his hands and knees. Something was not right.

Something indeed. Harry stopped short. Koca's eyes were open, looking away into nothing, seeing nothing. Harry's eyes trailed down to the man's chest where a large ring of nearly black-red painted the old man's shirt. The handle of a shank was sticking out from the center of it.

“Koca... NO!” a hideous sob croaked out from somewhere deep in Harry's soul. “Koca!” Harry scrambled to the old man. “Koca... Koca, no!” he repeated over and over again as he felt tears begin to spill down his cheeks. He ran his hands over the still, stiff man in a panic. He gripped as the handle but it would not budge easily and Harry left it, pulling the man instead into his arms as he wept over his only friend in this hell. So much death.

Everything came pouring out of him. Hate. Fear. Desperation. Everything had been taken from him in his life. Everyone close to him. Everything near him was destroyed. Everything. Always. Harry hated himself. A hate that was dark and black and whole and unforgiving. Koca...

No one came for Harry that day. They left him in his cell to torment over and dwell upon the fate that awaited him. It was a warning. He was no longer welcome here, but there was only one way to leave this place.

They came for him the following morning. Harry was in a daze, lost to that happening around him. He held the shank that had been stabbed into Koca's chest in his hands now, fantansizing of plunging it into his own, ending this dark nightmare.

They came in with their rifles raised, trained on him, but Harry did not so much as flinch as the barked at him. It appeared as if he did not even notice them as he cradled his dead mentor to his chest.

With two rifles aimed at him, a third guard wrenched Koca from Harry's arms and the shank from his hands. He drug him to his feet. Like that of an Inferi, dead to the world, a slumped and defeated Harry allowed them to push him out into the cell block.

Instead of leading him to join the others for a day in the quarry, his guards took him to the showers. They left him there, unwatched, which was an odd thing, but went missed to the lost Harry. They never left him unguarded outside his cell.

Harry just stood there for the longest time, his mind only seeing the slumped and dead Koca before him. So much death...

What could have been hours, maybe only minutes, Harry slowly became aware of the blood stains trailed down him and he frowned. Looking to a shower head, Harry shuffled towards it, readied to wash it all away.

He didn't think to bother with removing his pants. He jerked the knob mindlessly and the cold water, their only water, rained down upon him, shocking him awake. Harry leaned into the wall, soaking it all up. The groan of the rusted pipes and the splatter of the water drowned out the turmoil ripping him apart from the inside out... and the approaching steps filing into the shower room behind him.

But Harry did not have to hear them. He could sense them all the same. A gang of thugs sent by the guards to take revenge for their humiliating losses, to kill him, just as they had Koca. Harry intended to just let what happened, happen. Let them end this nightmare for him. Harry did not bother to move nor show any sign he knew they were there as they closed in around him.

Why go on? What was the point? More days in the quarry, having to struggle to live. More fights in the Jhagaraes, hurting others he did not want to fight until one finally did best him. What was the point? Let them end this all now...

In the moments it took for the one nearest him to raise his lead pipe into the air to bring down upon his head, Harry's whole life seemed to flash before his eyes. His parents sacrifice for him. Cedric's sacrifice. Sirius's sacrifice. Dumbledore's sacrifice for him. Snape's, Lupin's, Tonk's, Creevey's. Koca's... Koca's wide, dead eyes staring back at him.

“No,” Harry breathed as he turned and caught the lead pipe with his hand. His attacker froze, shocked. “No!” Harry put his foot into the man's chest, sending him tumbling across the shower room. Harry was now the owner of the lead pipe.

“NO!” Harry screamed murderously as he wielded the baton, opening the next closest man's skull, dropping him to the ground.

“NO!” he parried anothers wooden club with the pipe and struck him savagely in the ribs, cracking them as he sent him reeling to the stone floor.

“NO!” he laid waste to a third, before they came swarming about him like a hive of angry wasps, swallowing him and stinging him all over.

Harry wielded his stolen pipe mercilessly, dropping one after the other, but there were just too many of them. He felt a sharp pain in his side. Harry caught the man's wrist and brought the lead pipe down upon him.

Harry's grip was left on the handle of a shank stuck into him, just below the ribs. A blow now caught him in his own head, sending him to his knees.

The attack was gruesome. The world slowed to a bloody haze and throb. The room itself began to spin. His limbs now moved of their own accord, trying to shield his head from the coming blows, but they were unrelenting.

His hands and legs moved of their own accord, he no longer able to wield them. He caught one of his attackers legs and pulled them out from under him as the blows kept raining down. Another sharp stab in his upper chest. Harry grabbed the man by the arm, reigning him in before he struck him in the face with his fist.

And then everything started going black as blow and blood poured down upon him. It was slipping from him. Koca's killers were going to win. He felt that surge of hate and spite boil of inside him. A sleeping dragon... The anger and the fury came swelling up inside him like bile. Their was a sharp crackle of electricity, and then a booming, blinding explosion.

Blood. So much blood. With his last ounce of consciousness, Harry scratched against the wall of the shower room as he used it to pull himself back to his feet. No other was left standing. Blood was spilling from an untold number of wounds, but something inside of Harry kept him pushing, holding back the darkness trying to consume him and bring him down. Koca... He tripped across and out of the shower room.

Everything was moved so slow and as a blur before him. He saw doubles and triples of everything. The guards were waiting in the hallway. They themselves were just recovering from the shock-wave of the explosion that had just rippled out of the shower room. Harry charged them as they raised their rifles and opened fire. He felt several sharp stings bite him in his chest and shoulders, but then... but then they too were laid sprawled out, unconscious upon the floor. More blood...

How or where his legs were carrying him, he did not know, but he gripped and clawed at the walls to stay on his feet. There was no conscious thought, no plan, just a guiding hand leading him along. A pull. Something was calling him.

Left, then right he stumbled forth. Hallways, corridors, he could not stop to think. He collapsed into a locked door and the bolt was blown from its socket.

More twists and turns. More long corridors. More fallen guards. More locked doors that didn't stand a chance. More blood. So much blood.

And then he was there. Where? He did not know. A short, squat man gawked back at him from a mesh screen, evident shock and a sickening disgust at the battered prisoner before him. There was a small hole though at the base of it atop the counter and Harry unknowingly stuck his hand through. The words just came.

“A-accio... Accio wand!"

He felt something hit his hand, and then that all too familiar blackness consumed him once again.

Chapter Twenty: Healer


He knew at once that he was somewhere else. The light was brighter and clearer and freer. The air was fresh and crisp and felt good in his lungs. Had it all just been some nightmarish dream?

“Ungh,” he groaned as he tried to sit up. Nope.

“Your wounds heal well, my English friend, but I would not try to move just yet if I were you,” he heard a friendly, though still very Indian, voice sing over, almost as if it were amused. Harry had to struggle to peel his eyes back and turned to it.

“Where... where am I?” every word burned at his throat.

“You are safe now,” the man said kindly. He was older, thin, with an even thinner, graying beard. He wore a flowing white robe with a matching white turban atop his head. It was a pure white and Harry had to shield his eyes as it glowed in the sunlight through the window.

“Wha'... what happened?” Harry's memory was incomplete, a distant recollection of pain an solitude.

“I was hoping you could tell me,” the man started tinkering with something on the counter.

“I... I don't remember...” Harry breathed laboriously, rolling his head back onto the pillow.

“Well then, whatever it was, it was quite nasty,” the man frowned, he turned and approached Harry. “Here, drink this,” he offered Harry a steaming mug.

Harry eyed it suspiciously, but there was no hint of danger in this man's kind eyes. Harry took it. He needed... something, and there were a thousand other ways this man could have killed him to wait only to poison him with a laced draught now.

“What is it?” he asked.

“A special blend of herbs and tea. You heal unnaturally so. This should have you back on your feet in a quick time,” he smiled kindly, but there was something deeper telling in his eyes.

“Thank you,” Harry rasped hoarsely after taking a sip. “How long have I been out?” he asked.

“Two days,” his caretaker shrugged. “If you do not remember what happened to you, how about we start with your name, yes?” the man asked. Harry hesitated a moment.

“Kokerel,” Harry answered as if by impulse, for some reason unwilling to give his true name. He was not sure how far his fame would precede him, even this far away from Britain, but Harry Potter could be a dangerous name to give to the wrong person, especially in his current state.

“Kokerel?!” the man mused. “A fighting cock?! Well, that would explain a lot then!”

“I... I do not like to fight...” Harry grimaced inwardly, feeling the need to defend himself.

“And yet you show up at my door with a fractured skull, three broken ribs, a broken collar bone, seven stab wounds, five bullet holes, and I have as of yet to count all the lacerations...” he crooked a brow at Harry.

“Was that all?” Harry managed a smirk as he sipped his given tea. The older man chuckled as Harry felt the liquid wash through him, springing life back into his ailing body.

“This..?” Harry looked curiously to the drink. “You're a wizard?” he asked.

“A wizard?!” the man laughed pitchedly. “Something to that effect. The people of Duma like to call me the Witchdoctor.”

Harry eyed him precariously. “Witchdoctor?”

“Yes,” he answered simply. “I practice healing those in need.”

"Like a Healer?" Harry asked.

"Hmm, yes, I do believe that's what you call us in your country."

Harry nodded, though not sure if he fully understood. “Well, witchdoctor, how is it that I got here exactly?” Harry could not remember a thing past his fight in the shower room.

The old man took his time to answer. “Kokerel...” he sighed, staring a long while at the wall. “I do not know where it is you came from. I do not know what trouble you were in, but I do not want trouble here.”

“I do not want trouble,” Harry said.

“That is good to hear,” the doctor said as a shadow fell across his face. “It was a great omen that delivered you here. By the Bird of Fire...” the witchdoctor spoke forebodingly.

“Only a special kind of wizard..." he went on, "a particular kind of warlock could have such a fowl under his spell... I do not want trouble here,” he repeated.

Harry had no answer. Bird of Fire..?

“And those who are after you?” the man turned to him. “Those whom gave you all those wounds,” the Witchdoctor signaled up and down Harry's tortured body. Harry had to think about this.

“Muggles...” Harry finally said.

“Muggles?!” the man asked surprised. “Did all this to you?!”

“I... I didn't have my wand...” he tried for some explanation without saying too much. The good doctor eyed him carefully.

The old man made as if to speak, but they were suddenly interrupted by the bursting open of a door from another part of the house followed by the wail of a despairing plea.

“Kitsaka! Kitsaka!” a desperate woman cried from outside the room. Turning from Harry, the witchdoctor rushed through the door without pause. Harry took one last, long pull from the tea, finishing it before pushing back his covers to follow. He was a bit wobbly, but soon found his balance to carry on. The doctor could certainly perform some miracles. Only two days...

Harry found another man, covered in blood, cradling a limp and battered young girl in his arms. She looked an awful sight. A hysteric, weeping woman, presumably the girl's mother, trembled over her, stroking tenderly the unconscious girl's cut and bruised face and blood matted hair.

Both the man and the woman were rambling to the doctor, Kitsaka Harry surmised, in their native tongue. He could not understand all of it, but he had picked up enough words at Dakhal to gather that the girl had been in an accident and they were pleading with him to save her.

“This way,” Kitsaka went right to work, guiding them back to the room he and Harry had just left. He had the girl's father place her on a spare bed before he went about cutting away her torn clothes and addressing her numerous wounds.

“The alcohol – in the bottle there!” he shouted at Harry, his light hearted voice now laced with anxiety, and pointed to a shelf as he gathered an armful of gauze. Harry leapt to action, ignoring the protest in his own sore limbs.

“The five-finger grass, cinnamon twig, echinacea, rosemary, and yellow gentian!” the doctor demanded as he cleaned the girls most serious cuts and gashes. Harry recognized each of the ingredients from his potion classes – all that was necessary for a proper Blood-Replenishing Potion. “Prepare them in the mortar, quickly now!” Harry did not have to be told twice and knew just what to do.

He could not help but glance to the distraught parents as they clung to each other in absolute grief. He had to admit, it didn't look good. So much blood, so much death, everywhere he went. The girl's wounds looked fatal, but as long as she clung to life, he knew they still had a chance.

Kitsaka and Harry labored for hours. The mother had long since fainted and the doctor suggested to her husband that he lay her in the opposite room upon the couch while they waited. It had been bleak at times, but they did, in the end by some miracle, they did save her.

“They're muggles...” Harry collapsed down into an armchair in complete exhaustion, both physically and mentally from the work and stress. Kitsaka had just returned from delivering a soothing tea and the good news to the girl's parents.

“Very observant,” Kitsaka answered him with a touch of sarcasm.

“But...” Harry started, “but what about..?” he hinted at the universal Statute of Secrecy.

Kitsaka smiled amusingly. “There are very few doctors in these parts. I treat any who seek out my help... just like I helped you, Kokerel.”

Harry gave this some thought. “And they don't..?”

“Report me to the authorities?” Kitsaka chuckled. “This is not England, young master. We have no such grand Ministry. You will learn.”

No grand Ministry? Harry still had many questions, but even with such few words, it explained so much already.

“You are very good with your herbs and potions, young Kokerel. This girl owes you her life. You have studied medicine?”

“No...” Harry said simply, his eyes falling to the girl. "I just took to potions a bit... at school," he explained himself.

As Kitsaka's words played over in his head, he watched her chest rise and fall with an uneven breath. The girl had been on the precipice of death, and they had pulled her back. Harry felt a certain, unnamed weight lift off of him. A piece of that violent animal that had been consuming him for over the last couple of months, the last year, ever so timidly took a step of an inch back.

Her wounds were already beginning to close and heal, turning to a raw pink instead of a red gash right before his eyes as the magic worked through her, just the same as it would on any witch or wizard. The blood was gone. Death was gone. Death had been defeated.

And something changed inside of Harry. Something shifted. He did not have to fight. He did not have to kill. He could help heal. He could help save.

Chapter Twenty-One: No Peace


Two more days and the only evidence at all to what had happened at Dakhal were the now healed, raised scars coursing across Harry's war torn body. Being of muggle origin, Kitsaka had offered to remove them, but Harry had curiously declined.

“To remember,” Harry had whispered, more to himself than Kitsaka as he brushed his fingers across the one on his forehead. His first one, but now only one of many.

“Well, young master, I do not have much to offer you to send you on your way, but I trust, having been reunited with your wand, you can find your path back home?”

Harry was working in Kitsaka's makeshift infirmary, organizing the recently harvested herbs and potion ingredients he'd picked from the garden out back into their proper assortments when the witchdoctor's words hit him. Harry paused.

'On my way... home... Where is that exactly?' Harry owed Kitsaka his life, more than his life.

“I... I don't have much to repay you...” Harry started. Kitsaka smiled joyously to his back.

“Your good health is payment enough, but you have been more than helpful these last couple of days. Reuniting Shima with her family is more than I could have asked for in any payment,” Kitsaka referred to the muggle girl Harry had helped save.

“Kitsaka...” Harry continued, ill at ease, carefully choosing his words with fear that the good doctor might reject him. “I – I have been fighting all my life, hurting people...” Harry frowned with grief, admitting his darkest sins. “Shima...” he remembered that swell of relief in the girl's parents' faces at seeing their daughter healed again, “I think... if you would let me... I don't know much about healing, but I am good with potions... could I stay, help you with what I can?” his words were troubled and fraught with doubt. He could not see the smile spreading across Kitsaka's face.

“I am honored, Kokerel,” Harry felt the doctor's gentle hand upon his shoulder. Harry would be staying.

. . . .

Doctors were indeed in short supply in the sparse lands of India's expansive countryside. Villagers from across the state made the long journey to Kitsaka's simple home to seek his healing powers. Most were muggles, but Harry did get to interact with India's magicians here and there as well. All revered Kitsaka as a savior, and he didn't have to kill a soul. On the contrary, he saved them.

And Kitsaka did not accept payment from his fellow countrymen. Their well of joyous tears and unending thanks were forever more than enough to the humble doctor. He lived as a pauper, but such materialistic things were of no importance to him. And Harry, for his part, was far from being a burden. Harry was well adept to just getting by. Kitsaka provided the roof over his head, and his patients and their families brought them their food to eat. Kitsaka's true payment, his true joy in life, was seeing his patients heal. And Harry reveled in it.

The poor, sick and injured showed up on a near daily basis, at all hours of the days and nights. And Harry helped where he could at first, mostly in brewing the potions. But he watched and he learned and he studied until Kitsaka entrusted Harry as much as himself to take care of the lesser ailments. Here, Harry found fulfillment in life.

Lost in his work, Harry forgot of Britain. Dakhal became a distant memory. That monster that had threatened to consume him, turn him completely into something he feared worse than death, was quickly outpaced, left far behind on that dark trail.

But there was still one... one long lost, cherished memory that would visit him late at night as he laid in his bed reading. Those brown, glimmering eyes. He held them close to his heart, never forgetting them, but always locking them away. She lives in my memories now.

The days and weeks began to slip by. Harry immersed himself in every waking minute and hour that he was not treating someone to listening to Kitsaka's stories, hearing his knowledge and wisdom, or pouring through his books. A great bond began to form between them.

Kitsaka did not care for the name Harry had given him, Kokerel, and had begun calling him Isake, or son in Hindi. And Harry in turn, first as a joke, but then as a sign of the relationship that was building between them, he began calling Kitsaka, Pita, or father.

As Harry's abilities and confidence as a Healer improved, he began venturing out from Kitsaka's disparate home and clinic. Kitsaka had not approved at first, afraid that Harry might draw too much attention to himself, obviously looking the foreigner in these distant lands, but as the stories of Harry's visits to the local orphanages and slums, healing all those he could, or bringing those back with him that he could not, Kitsaka found it ever more difficult to deny him.

“I shall become a student of yours one day...” Kitsaka told him after Harry had managed to cure a most difficult case of the Veezon Pox from an elderly woman they'd been keeping. The words echoed around in Harry's head as if he had heard them before. Koca had once told him those words.

“I do my best,” Harry blushed humbly.

“That you do,” Kitsaka intoned as he watched Harry scourgify and straighten the sheets of the recently vacated bed, only to move to the map he now kept on the wall to see what village he was scheduled to visit this day. “Though I have to wonder, Isake, when is it that you find time to sleep, to eat?”

Harry paused, his shoulders slumping in preparation for the oncoming lecture. “I...” Harry started defensively. Of course he slept, he ate... but then, when exactly? It had been a habit that had started in prison at Dakhal. Harry thought of the dreams that had still plagued him, those nightmares, of Death always coming to visit him. But he had not had them in quite some time. He'd have to sleep to dream. “I... do, its just that...”

“Hmm...” Kitsaka took a seat on the edge of a cot across from Harry. “Isake, I know you do not like to talk about your past...” Harry glanced a warning shot back over his shoulder at the doctor before returning to his map. “You will always be welcome here, my Isake, you have earned your place, but you cannot run from your past forever...”

“I'm not running,” Harry said with such finality, as if trying to convince himself.

“Aren't you?” Kitsaka asked him in all tenderness. “You are doing great things, Isake, but you are far from your home. Why do you not talk of it? Why do you not go back?”

“Trying to get rid of me?” Harry quirked an uneasy smile, trying to infuse some comedic relief in the suddenly tense exchange. Kitsaka smiled briefly, but his eyes seemed to frown all the same.

“Hmm...” Kitsaka intoned again. “We can never change our Past's, young Isake, but we can learn from them. And with that knowledge comes wisdom to guide us in our Future's. Do not dwell too long on your past, but remember it only for what you wish to change in your path ahead."

Harry nodded.

"Just think on it. And try to eat something and get some rest for a change, will you?” he tried to sound more light heartened as he joined Harry in the chores.

. . . .

There was no more talk of Harry leaving as Kitsaka had become just as accustom to leaning on Harry as Harry did on him.

Outside of his powers of healing and herbs, Harry was surprised to learn that Kitsaka was not very well trained in the other arts of wizardry. Kitsaka got a kick out of apparating, and started to travel regularly with Harry on his ventures to the surrounding local towns and villages. They were able to help so many more this way.

Harry'd even given him some rudimentary lessons in transfiguration and charms, getting a good laugh when he often caught Kitsaka practicing in their down times. Like their lack of any proper Ministry in India, Harry learned that there was no such think as a magical school or anything else that resembled Hogwarts here.

Kitsaka's house was given some much needed repairs, and Harry magically expanded the room of the infirmary to hold more patients. The magical garden out back doubled in size as well as the stock in potion ingredients as Harry began traveling far and wide to acquire them. Kitsaka was pleased with these changes, but protested when Harry tried bringing home more luxurious gifts to adorn his simple abode.

“I need only my potions!” Kitsaka reminded him, but that didn't stop Harry. He expanded Kitsaka's own bedroom, and touched up his worn furniture. He was doing just thus on one of their more idle days when this new world, this new happiness would be shook from its foundation.

“Pita, do you know where the...” Harry stopped mid stride at the top of the stairs, frozen with horror. “No...” the cry barely escaped his lips.

“Yes!” a raspy, thick voice sauntered back up at him. Harry did not recognize the face. It did have that damaged, wiry hair and beard, that lined, weathered skin, but the features... the features were different. But not the eyes. He'd seen those eyes enough to recognize them. He'd seen them on Privet Drive. He'd seen them in Australia, and on the streets in Kolkata, and so many times in his forgotten nightmares. Those cold, dead eyes.

Those eyes bore into him now as Harry stared mortified at the scene before him. His Pita, Kitsaka, laid prostrate at that devil's feet. His head was turned unnaturally so, his eyes open... his eyes open and dead and lifeless. That devil had found him. That devil had killed Kitsaka... Pita. Death had come back for him.

“NO!” Harry cried forcefully, the wail sounding from deep in his soul with the pitch of enraged Banshee, rattling the pictures on the walls of he and Pita and the very foundations of the house.

Pita was dead. Isake died with him. Kokerel returned. The animal returned with him.

There was no meditated spell. Pure, raw rage and fury rose up from an untold well and spilled out like the swell of an unrelenting, unforgiving storm. What could have rivaled the most murderous clasp of thunder broke through the house. The heat of Harry's wrath lit like a bolt at the devil.

And then Harry was on him. Had he charged or apparated, it happened so fast, but the two suddenly collided and were sent tumbling out through the open door. The force of the collision had been so strong that they did not stop rolling until that were out in the yard.

Harry did not stop to draw his wand, but in his spike of rage, rained down blow after blow onto the beast's face with his bare fists. He wished for nothing more than to pound it into the dirt. No matter his anger, he was fighting a wizard like a muggle. A spell finally hit him and he was cast off his victim.

“You bloody, stupid, insolent...” the wizard cursed angrily as he crawled up onto his knees, spitting blood out into the grass. Harry smiled to himself as he saw the man's physical pain. Shaking off whatever spell he'd been hit by, as if it were nothing, Harry now went for his wand.

“Stupefy!” Harry shouted, and though the spell was strong, the wizard corrected himself and be no novice, blocked it before countering with a terrible spell of his own. Now they would duel.

Harry just managed to deflect the wizard's counter spell and the ball of energy crashed back into Kitsaka's house, exploding it into a ball of flame.

“Damn you!” Harry cursed him, sending spell after spell at the wizard, but he blocked and countered each with his own. The two moved about each other with a blinding speed, apparating and disapparting, casting spell and curse with ever rebound.

A duel to match all duels persisted right out in front of Kitsaka's burning house. The street, the other buildings and houses, all were being laid to ruin. People, muggles, were sent screaming and crying in all directions.

“You never learn, do you boy?!” the wizard caught Harry and sent him crashing into a parked car, its frame giving way beneath his body.

Pops of apparation began emanating from every direction as for the first time Harry witnessed Indian wizards began to arrive onto the scene.

'Not this time!' Harry seethed. He'd been bested for the final time. For Pita!

With all the agility he'd learned from Koca, Harry suddenly kicked out before flipping back, up over the damaged auto. Flourishing his wand mid air, Harry sent the car hurdling towards the devil.

It was violent and loud as pieces were slung off in every direction, but it was nothing for the wizard deflect it, sending it tumbling towards some of the new arrivals.

“Sectumsempra!” Harry had apparated and reappeared once again at the devil's flank. The wizard could now do nothing as he stared in frozen horror at his severed arm. His wand lay useless, still clasped in the fist, but now laid upon the ground. With one final slash of his wand, the mocking face of the devil twitched with shock, before his head tilted and fell from his still standing body to join his arm and wand on the ground.

“Freeze! Drop you're wand!” the new arrivals shouted at him in Hindi as the devil's headless body crumpled to the ground. Harry watched with awe as a black spirit seemed to suck right out of the dead form and dissipated into the air.

Harry tried to apparate as he dodged the incoming spells. Nothing. They'd already put up a disapparting jinx.

“Damn!” Harry cursed as he searched for some way out the enclosing noose about him. But then, something in the sky...

It came hurdling down at him like a fiery comet. Harry was struck motionless, just like the rest of them as they watched this anomaly come soaring in. It was going to hit him. It was going to kill him.

But just before it crashed into him, the smoldering ball suddenly burst forth wings, two wide, scarlet feathered wings of an eagle. And that's when he saw the talons of the raptor reaching down for him. Harry raised one hand into the air and with a sharp pinch and crack! He was gone.

. . . .

A/N: I am conflicted how this is all coming off. Any thoughts or words of advice? Are the fighting scenes too much and too often? I have gotten a bit gory, applying that NC17 rating, but just trying to build a certain aspect into Harry's character...

It is impossible for an author to judge his own story, so I am curious as to how it's going from your end. Sorry to fish for some reviews, but this is one of my first real attempts at writing and I just want to learn, so anything you can offer would be greatly appreciated. Any guesses as to the character in the dreams? The devil that keeps showing up in different forms? What exactly Harry is carrying in his pouch? Have I revealed too much? Not enough? Dragging it on too long? I like shorter chapters, always makes me feel more accomplished as a reader:).

Well, Harry's stint abroad is at it's end. I have a hunch he is about to return back to England, but as a very different Harry. Part Two still has about seven chapters left in it, with Harry continuing his transformation. Part Three will bring certain revelations and the antagonist more into direct confrontation with Harry as well as the conclusion to the story. I have up to Part Three written and will get posted as soon as I can. If you've stuck around this long, thank you for reading, and would love to hear your feedback. Thanks!

Chapter Twenty-Two: Back


It was a warm day, Spring fading into Summer, though still nothing compared to the heat of India in all her fury. Many were out and about, the park flooded with picnickers, joggers, playing kids and strolling couples. Had they been able to see Harry, he would have stuck out like a sore thumb.

Why had he chosen this garb? The soles of his feet now well hardened, he'd become accustom to going without shoes, so he had not thought to bother. The gharab he had been given by Kitsaka had been torn to shreds in his most recent and unexpected duel. He could have mended it, but then it have reminded him too much of his friend. Instead, he transfigured it into a simple black robe. Black... the color of his heart at the moment.

The crowds in London Park would have stopped and stared at this odd sight. They would have been startled by the harsh, unmoving features of his frowning face, of the cold, stone look in his eyes. All, had he not been hidden beneath his trusted Invisibility Cloak.

His steady gaze was locked onto a small group sat out upon an unfolded quilt at the heart of all this happiness going on about him. Hermione and Ron, Ginny and Dean, Neville and Luna, Seamus and Susan. All perfect compliments to the joy in the park on this bright, sunny day.

A small piece, the smallest of pieces, some remnant of that young raven haired boy with glasses, dressed in his dirty sneakers, faded jeans, and hand-me-down t-shirt, stared at them with a longing in his heart. Eager to forget the last few months, the last year, the last years of his war torn life and run to them, to sit with them, to talk absently with them, to laugh with them.

So happy. So care free. The dark times were over. For them. Too much baggage now saddled his broad shoulders. He was a dark shadow over everything, bringing only pain and tragedy and heartache where ever he went. Koca... Kitsaka... Pita... They were only just the latest editions to his heavy list. There was no end to it. He would not join them. He could not join them less he risked adding them to that list.

As a breeze swept through, billowing about his cloak and bent the grass blades as a passing wall down the green field to them and past them, those brown eyes he knew so well, that had kept him through his most darkened times, looked up and in his direction... at him. But of course she could not see him.

He swallowed, the memories of those enchanting orbs so deep and unrelenting. He turned and left, leaving that small piece, that ghost of a boy still standing there, remembering, wanting, longing, but never again having.

. . . .

Three months. Such a short amount of time, not even a drop in the well of time, and yet a lifetime seemed to have passed him by. So much had happened in that time, it was hard for him to wrap his mind around it. It all blended in so much so with the war, his small reprieve in Australia the only bright star in all that darkness.

Harry had come to accept that he would be alone.

Like the lighting bolt scar on his forehead, he would forever be a marked man. He would never again allow his curse to be brought down on another, most certainly not on those he loved so much.

He had been destined to face down Voldemort, live or die, but he had lived. And now he had to live, but he was not sure how. He'd been given a glimpse of normalcy, of happiness on the shores of White Sand, but his sad life and dark fate swallowed him again. There was no escaping it. He stood with only the clothes on his back, his wand in his hand, his pouch about his neck and he had all he could in this world and from this point on, it would be all he'd need.

He apparated just outside the lonely mansion of Grimmauld Place. He waited patiently, studying it. He did not want any surprises. Why he came here? A lack of better ideas perhaps.

Someone had been by and tinkered with it, most likely from the Ministry. Every spell and ward imaginable covered it, sealing it whole. Yaxley was dead, but how many had he revealed this place to before he had departed this world? How many had been by here before it had been locked down, looking for him, ransacking the place, desecrating his given home?

In the two years prior, he had never met the neighbors of Number Eleven or Number Thirteen Grimmauld Place, but he observed them today from amongst the brambles and shadows of brush from across the street in the small neighborhood park.

Number Eleven housed a family of five. Two doting parents with two girls and a boy. Number thirteen belonged to an elderly couple with two small pooches they took out frequently to stroll the block and check in on the gossip with the other neighbors.

"Kreacher," Harry beckoned without any more thought, and with no more than a few seconds passed, a loud crack! announced the arrival of an aged old house elf with a piece of his ear missing from that final battle.

"Master Potter?!" Kreacher did his best to disguise his utter surprise, and bent low to the ground, Regulus's locket swinging below him.

"Please, Kreacher, stand up - stand up," Harry insisted while kneeling down to be eye level with him. Kreacher stared back up with bewilderment for his master.

"Hello, old friend," Harry clapped one hand on the elf's small shoulder, reaching out his other for an intended hand shake. Kreacher first looked at it curiously, without understanding, but then slowly felt compelled to reach out his own. He no sooner did though, than Harry took it and pulled Kreacher into him, giving the wrinkled skinned old codger a firm hug.

"I'm glad you're okay," Harry pushed him back to arms distance and smiled to him. Kreacher was speechless, part mortified, part horrified. Harry only laughed at this. "So where've you been holding up, helping at Hogwarts I'm sure?" he tried to sound light.

"Y-yes, Master. K-Kreacher has been helping the magnificent Headmistress McGonagall restore the great Castle!" Kreacher finished with his chin held high. Harry was both surprised and pleased with this new sparkle on his eyes.

"That's good to hear, Kreacher," Harry clapped him on the shoulder again. “I hope you've been happy there.”

Kreacher seemed confused by this, emotions such as happy were a very foreign thing to him. It seemed he and Harry shared much more than met the eye. “Y-yes, Master, Kreacher has been... happy?” he said it more like a question. “A-and you, Master?" Kreacher looked down to the ground. "There have been many worried that Master Potter had gone missing..."

"Not missing, Kreacher," Harry forced a hint of a smile. "Just... detained for a bit."

"Detained?" Kreacher betrayed his sudden alarm.

"Sidetracked, Kreacher. That is all."

"Yes," Kreacher grumbled. "Kreacher assured them Master Potter, the greatest of the Purebloods would return.”

"I'm a Half-Blood, Kreacher,” Harry reminded the old, prejudiced elf. “Can you get us inside? Past all the wards without sounding any of the alarms?"

"Of course, Master, Kreacher is servant to the House of Black!" he made it sound as obvious as day, and taking Harry's hand and with another loud crack! the little old elf and Harry were gone.

Kreacher apparated them straight to the kitchen. Number Twelve was eerily still and quiet, that is except for the old house elf who went straight to work clanging pots and pans as he began with the intention to make Harry some dinner, grumbling all the while under his breath about the foolish witches and wizards who'd worried about his Most Powerful Master. Harry could not help but watch him with amusement.

"I'm afraid the stores here are not quite fresh, Master..." Kreacher pulled out a rotting, unrecognizable vegetable from the pantry. He didn't even bother with the ice box. "Not to worry," and with yet another crack!, Kreacher was gone.

Harry studied the kitchen in Kreacher's absence. Just as he remembered leaving it... the memories of that past life washed over him before he spotted a stack of mail on the table. "What the..?" Harry walked over, picking up the top letter. "Ron..."

The following was from Hagrid, the next few from Hermione, even one from her parents. The Weasley's, Molly and Arthur, Ginny, even Neville and Luna had written to him. There were also several from the Ministry, and Harry did not miss the one with the crimson "H" etched across it. "But how?"

Just then Kreacher returned, bursting the silence which sent Harry jumping.

"Kreacher can make Master some Gnu Stew, perhaps a Fleagel sandwich. No, no, this is a special occasion, Wombat Steak!" Kreacher had his arms full as he made his way over to the counter.

"Kreacher, where did you get all that?" Harry asked with a chuckle, thoroughly amused.

"From Hogwarts' kitchens of course, nothing finer!" Kreacher announced with pride.

Harry watched in silence for a moment as Kreacher began his preparations, pondering what he had just said. Even Kreacher's damp spirit had seemingly done an about face with the end of the war.

"Kreacher..." Harry finally interrupted him. "How can your kind do that, but not mine?"

"Do what, Master?" Kreacher asked offhandedly, keeping on busy with his task at hand.

"You can't just apparate in and out of Hogwarts. And then this house has an Dis-Apparating Jinx on it. So did the Malfoy's and Dobby was still able to get in and out without any problems. How?"

Kreacher shrugged as he fired up the stove. "We go to where our Masters require us, Sir."

"But..." Harry started, "how? It doesn't make any sense."

"You said it, Master Potter. This home is protected against apparating, but we house elfs are not allowed to use wands. We cannot apparate."

"But..."

"We Crack."

"Crack?" Harry asked confused, his faced screwing a little at the odd yet obvious name Kreacher had given it. "Is it not the same?"

"It is not, Master."

"Then why... why wouldn't the house be protected against... cracking?"

Kreacher scoffed. "Against cracking, Sir?! But why would a wizard need to protect themselves against an elf, Master?!" Kreacher found the idea most preposterous, but not Harry.

Could it be true? Were wizards so arrogant that they would completely overlook the magic of their servants? Harry knew the answer to this as soon as he'd thought the question.

"Kreacher..?" Harry asked with care. "Can - can you teach me how to... to Crack?"

. . . .

"Protego!" Harry bellowed as Kreacher's spell hurdled towards him. Kreacher's curse crashed into the invisible wall, rippling a bluish haze out in front of Harry. "Petrificus Totalus!" Harry shot back, but with a crack!, Kreacher was gone and the spell froze only the already immobile wall. Kreacher reappeared on what would have been Harry's flank, but Kreacher missed the second loud crack as Harry matched him.

"Bindum!" Harry yelled from across the room and the little house elf was suddenly being wrapped in a coil of thick cord. He struggled for only a moment before losing his balance and toppling over, cursing fouly along the way.

"Ha-ha-ha!" Harry gripped his stomach with laughter. "Got you again, Kreacher!" Harry walked over to him. "Defindo," he cut the rope and extended a hand to help up his friend.

“With your wand, Master,” Kreacher challenged him indignantly. Their time spent and many duels had given the humble elf a bit more liberties in his otherwise closed mind.

“Yeah, well, you still got me there, old timer. Just not that good without my wand... yet!” Harry promised.

Harry and Kreacher had gutted the attic to make it into something akin to a dojo. Upon mastering the elfs' form of apparating, Harry had learned there was much, much more to elfen magic than met the eye, and had begun requiring Kreacher to teach him everything he knew. At the heart of it all, their magic was centered around wandless abilities, and after his time spent in Dakhal, Harry was adament that he would never succumb to being powerless without his wand again.

Kreacher had at first thought it ridiculous and demeaning even for a wizard to lower himself so, but commanded by his Master, as the days slipped by, Kreacher began to relish the time and new attention his Master was bestowing upon him, and how important he seemed to him.

To Harry, the value of what he was learning was obvious and immeasurable. He thought every other witch and wizard a fool not to learn from the elfs. Had Dumbledore? Surely...

Elfs were not nearly as helpless as wizards made them out to be, and Harry learned that the hard and painful way. However, it inevitably allowed him to practice the various healing charms he'd learned from Kitsaka as well as the moves he'd learned from Koca. His two lost friends. Two amongst many.

As Kreacher and Harry squared off for round number five of the day, a frantic tapping came from the window. Harry frowned. He knew what it was, yet another owl. He had yet to open a single letter that laid upon his kitchen table and the pile grew daily. He wished he could simply ignore the messenger, but he knew the poor little owl would keep at it for hours until Harry relented. Harry only knew this because he had tested it.

Harry opened the window and the little owl sputtered in before taking up a roost on the mantle at the fireplace. Harry obliged it and retrieved the letter, summoning a treat to feed the owl before sending it on its way. Harry nearly deposited the letter straight into the flames of the fireplace before the emblazoned "M" and thick block letters above it caught his attention. "FINAL NOTICE," it read.

Harry recalled the last letter he had read from the Ministry and the path it had led him down. He was not eager to read it. But between the warning of Final Notice, and a hard, thin object he could feel enveloped within, he could not restrain his curiosity from tearing it open. It was short and to the point.

August 12th, 1998

To a One Harry James Potter:

As the heir to a one Lily Potter, you have hereby been notified as the recipient and sole executor to the Estate of the late Severus Snape. A sum of Four Hundred Ninety-two thousand Galleons, thirteen Sickles and Four Knuts have been transferred from Mr. Snape's vault at Gringotts into your own.

The additional possessions of Mr. Snape have been collected and await your inspection at his former residence at Spinner's End. Due to your lack of response and instruction by the Undersecretary Mister Weasley, the key has been provided.

Regards,

Hugo Bently
Department of Property and Possessions Clerk
Ministry of Magic

The hard object inside was an old fashioned skeleton key.

Chapter Twenty-Three: Snape's Gift


"Now what?" Harry fumbled around with some of the books at the top of the mountain of tomes. There were stacks upon stacks upon stacks filling up Snape's old living room. The house was small and modest, but every wall served as a filled bookshelf. Snape had kept few trinkets. Apart from his gold in Gringotts, which Harry had learned from the logs that Snape had hardly ever touched, Snape had invested himself totally in books.

Harry felt high. Never, not in a long time at least, had he felt so giddy. He felt like a child at their tenth birthday party surrounded by mountains upon mountains of toys and presents.

The potions book of the Half-Blood Prince sat on his nightstand back at Number Twelve now. A torn off strip of the Daily Prophet was feathered out four-fifths the way through it, measuring his pace. It was his bible. And now... Harry felt a tingle up his spine. Each and every book he picked up and fanned through had the slanted scrawl of the Prince blackening out it's margins.

"Ten Terrible Tendrils and How to Unravel Them." "Battling Blistering Baguls." "Understanding the Undead." "From Asprits to Zyngum, the Supplies of a Potionaire!" Each and every one of the titles further spiked Harry's curiosity.

After Voldemort of course, Snape was Harry's greatest nemesis for the entirety of his adolescence. He could never understand Dumbledore's acceptance of him. Not until he could see - not until he had seen, and then it was too late.

Snape had known his mum. He had been close to her. He had sacrificed everything to try and save her. He had left her everything, given her everything. Harry hadn't the chance to know this Snape, but he had seen glimpses of him in the Pensieve, and he had seen his brain at work as the Prince.

'Snape is here,' Harry looked across the stacks, at the countless worn spines, their aged covers, their frayed corners. He reveled over the smeared ink, the rising smell of heavy parchment. Reflected back in Harry's glazed eyes, there was no greater treasure in all the world. 'I sound like Hermione...' Harry thought to himself.

"Kreacher," Harry beckoned. The slumped elf promptly appeared from the opened secret passage that was itself a bookcase. "What are we going to do with all these?"

"I am afraid the Library is full, Master."

"Yes, I know," Harry said. Hermione would be proud of him. In his solace, he had found the Library and many relevant books within that had helped him in his lessons with Kreacher. "We can't leave them here..." Harry sounded almost desperate. The thought of leaving this treasure here, unprotected, was abhorrent.

"Perhaps the basement, Master?" Kreacher offered, seeing his Master's unease.

"Kreacher, we don't have a... what basement?"

. . . .

It was pitch black. The rotting planks creaked loudly beneath his steps. The walls were of cold stone.

"Luminos" Harry raised his wand.

Being within the House of Black, Harry saw that the basement resembled, for all intents and purposes, a dungeon. It was all of stone without a single window. As he reached the floor, torches began to ignite about it's walls. Cobwebs and dust covered everything. No soul had been down here in ages.

As his eyes adjusted and the room came into focus, Harry could not believe what he was seeing. He paused, waiting for the floor to open up and swallow him in, for the ceiling to come crashing down, breaking him - something, anything, some kind of calamity, for he was never this lucky. How had they not found this before? Why had Sirius or Kreacher when they were here in hiding not tell them about this? It was nothing short of magnificent.

Harry slowly moved about the room, taking in everything. "Beautiful," Harry mumbled to himself, "Just beautiful."

Loaded bookshelves, cupboards filled with rotting stock, tables overflowing with dust laden contraptions. Cauldrons and beakers and vials of every shape and size with wooden ladles and tongs, mortars and spindles everywhere he looked. There was also a deep sink and drain and a cutting table. And taking up one entire wall, stores upon stores of potion ingredients organized into small wooden dividers, sealed glass jars, and some even hung from the ceiling. It was a Potion Lair.

. . . .

A/N: Whoops! Sorry about the short chapter, meant to tack this on to the previous one. Oh well, thanks for reading, leave a review on your way out!

Chapter Twenty-Four: Discovered


The witch moved briskly, her robes whipping about her as she went. She offered only a stiff nod to those whom tried to stop and greet her, passing them each and all right by.

“Professor?!” George pulled back at first, seeing her enter his shop as if on a mission. His mind suddenly scrambled as if he were still a student of Hogwarts, wondering what he'd done to get himself into trouble this time.

“Hello, Mr Weasley,” she forced a curt smile of greeting. “Do you know where I could your younger brother and Miss Granger?”

George's mouth opened and closed like a fish several times, trying to spit out some sort of alibi, before her words finally sunk in and relief swept over him that he was not the one in the path of her ire. “They're in the back,” he pointed over his shoulder. “This way,” he led her. George attempted idle talk, but soon gave up by the wary expression worn on her face.

“Thank you Mr Weasley,” she excused him once in the back, and George was more than happy to take leave. She found them lounging, Ron tossing up Every-Flavor jelly beans into his mouth while trying to get the reading Hermione to guess what the next flavor would be.

“Professor McGonagall? Headmistress?” they each said in turn, abruptly standing to greet her.

“Please, it's just Minerva outside of school,” she tried to sound cordial, but her stern face and taut lips said otherwise. They both gulped. There was a long silence as she looked between the two of them.

“I didn't...” Ron started on the same train of thought as his brother had, but then he didn't exactly know what he was trying to excuse himself of.

“You may wish to take a seat,” McGonagall took a long breath. They both fell mindlessly back into their chairs, their eyes glued nervously to her. This wasn't good.

“We've found him...” she began. Ron nor Hermione found themselves able to respond. “Or rather, we believe he is back in England.”

“Harry?” Ron asked confused. McGonagall nodded.

“Where is he?!” Hermione nearly came out of her seat, but she found her legs difficult to command. McGonagall frowned at this and they both felt a tug deep in their guts. Something was not right.

“I'm afraid...” McGonagall paused to choose her words carefully. “I'm afraid he is not exactly well,” the corners of her mouth dipped even further.

“Where is he?!” Hermione practically shrieked, causing Ron to jump in his seat.

“Wha... what's wrong?” Ron asked, afraid to hear the answer. McGonagall took a deep breath before she continued.

“We do not know the whole story, but we've learned that he some how ended up in India.”

“India?!” they both blurted out, baffled.

“Yes,” McGonagall said. “As I said, we do not know the full story, but there was a skirmish. A man was killed. He appears to have been a muggle, but by all accounts, it had to have been by a fight between Harry and another wizard.”

Ron and Hermione could only stare back, wide eyed and confounded.

“Harry had been arrested,” she went on, “by muggle authorities.”

“Muggles?!” Ron sputtered. “But how?!”

“He had been rendered unconscious during the fight.”

Silence. Hermione suddenly clenched at Ron's arm, digging her fingers in with angst. 'This is all my fault...'

“You got him out then?” Ron shook his head, lacking proper understanding.

McGonagall's deepening frown did not look promising. “It's all been a mystery to us until only recently. I am afraid he was held in prison within India for nearly six weeks.”

Harry's two best mates each gasped dreadfully.

“And this prison...” McGonagall shook her head as her eyes fell to the floor. Neither of them had ever seen this strong woman ever act so deflated. “India is not England... I cannot repeat the stories!” she let out a heart wrenching sob, covering her mouth from the sudden rush of emotion.

Hermione felt her own heart sink into her stomach. If it had been bad enough to incite a reaction like this from the strong McGonagall... Oh, Harry, what have I done?

McGonagall battled her tears as she told them as much as she dared. “They were very hard on him...”

“Why wasn't someone sent for him?!” Ron demanded furiously.

“We didn't know...” McGonagall looked defeated, holding out her hands defenselessly. “India is not like here, Ronald. And the muggles had him. He gave them a false name, I do not know why, we had know idea...”

“Someone had just tried to bloody off him!” Ron was red in the face. Hermione... Hermione had forgotten how to speak. A dire, gut wrenching pit consumed her. 'This is all my fault...' repeated over and over within her head as she thought of the last day she had seen Harry and what she had done to him. Harry, I am sorry...

“Tell us where he is!” Ron demanded.

“It is not so simple, I am afraid.”

“And why not?!” Ron threw up his free arm with exacerbation.

McGonagall's tearing eyes fell closed as she began to speak, low and hoarsely. “Harry was tortured...”

Ron and Hermione listened in rapture as McGonagall recounted the harsh interrogations and punishment the guards had laid upon him, of the grueling labor he was forced to endure, and of the fights he was thrown into – all that they had come to learn through the Ministry's investigation. She told them of a final brawl in which Harry was reported killed by a gang of other prisoners.

“But he wasn't?! You told us he was back!” Ron shouted angrily.

“That is just what the muggles reported, Mr Weasley,” McGonagall was finding it hard herself to go on. “His trail resurfaced several hundred kilometers away in the Indian town of Duma, at the house of a Witchdoctor.

“A Witchdoctor?” Ron asked, unsure of what that was exactly.

“Yes,” McGonagall nodded. “A Healer of sorts. I can only presume he'd made it there for medical treatment, but how... only Harry can say.”

McGonagall went on, filling them in on what she knew of Harry's time there. The stories had been rampany of the young, English foreigner, of his healing, of his aiding the doctor with his patients. “And then... two weeks ago... there was another fight. Two more were killed, the Witchdoctor Harry had been staying with was one of them. His house was burned to the ground.”

“What in the bloody hell are you talking about?!” Ron was beside himself. Hermione... Hermione sat there helpless, her gaze as if in another world. “This all has to be some nutter's bad joke?!”

“I wish it were, Mr Weasley,” McGonagall took another deep breath, trying to swallow back the raw emotion that was surging forward. “The trail runs cold from there, but...” McGonagall tried to offer them some relief. “Starting a couple of weeks ago, Kreacher went missing from the school. And then... Harry had been left Snape's residence per his Final Will and Testament,” she back tracked to explain. “Someone visited Spinner's End only four days ago. There is only one possibility as to who could have entered past all the wards and would not have announced it...”

“Harry?!”

McGonagall nodded. “Putting two and two together, I summoned and confronted Kreacher. As it turns out, several of Hogwarts' elfs have been delinquent. Where they have been going and what they have been doing, they have all taken an oath of silence which not even I can break, but I still have a good idea as to where.”

“Where?” Ron sputtered.

“Mr Weasley, before I tell you, you must promise me you will not run off and do anything rash. We have to be smart about this. If Harry truly is back, he is not keeping himself hidden without reason. It is safe to say, I believe, considering this past year, and then this, that he has become a bit traumatized. He may not be well. We need to approach this carefully.”

Ron nodded.

“Grimmauld...” Hermione breathed her first word since McGonagall began the tale.

. . . .

The two moved carefully down the long hall as to not disturb the portrait. That old hag's wails were the last thing they needed.

It was odd to be back within these familiar walls once again. Little had changed except for maybe the inexplicable number of books spread across the foyer and anti-chamber. The only sound that could be heard in the house was from down below within the kitchen, so they made their way to the stairs first.

"Harry?" Ron called aloud, announcing them as they entered nervously. Hermione clenched tightly onto his arm. As they pushed open the door to the kitchen, Kreacher immediately whirled about.

"Mister Weasley? Mistress Granger? How..? But..? No!" his confusion spun to outrage.

"Glad to see you too, Kreacher!" Ron scoffed. But then he noticed the little old elf was not alone. There was Winky and four other small elfs all there, busying themselves in the kitchen, dressed in what appeared to be makeshift, miniature maid's and butler's costumes.

“How did you?! Master himself..!” Kreacher was aghast.

"Hermione is pretty good with wards..." Ron left it at that as he started making his way around the kitchen, inspecting suspiciously. “What's going on here, Kreacher?”

"No, no, no!" Kreacher began shooing them. "You must go! Master has forbid it! No visitors, Kreacher! That is what he told me!" the old elf seemed possessed, attempting to herd both Ron and Hermione towards the door. They had enough trouble trying to handle him, but then all the others got involved.

"Kreacher..." Hermione called out forcefully, pushing her way forward, taking hold of the little elf's hands. "Please, Kreacher. Have you already forgotten us? Surely Harry did not mean us?" her voice was soft and gentle, yet pleading.

Kreacher paused at this, contemplating her words. "Master said no visitors," the raw impulse to obey absolute.

“Yes, no visitors, only elfs!” another seconded him squeakily.

"We're not visitors, you scroungy old elf! We're Harry's friends!" Ron towered over the kneeling Hermione and elf. Kreacher shrunk back a bit.

"Ron, don't!" she pushed him back. "But he's right, Kreacher, surely you understand that. We are Harry's friends. Best friends."

The reasoning was strong and unsettling for the elf, but all he did was flap his long, crooked ears as he shook his head no back and forth.

"Whatever!" Ron said, turning away from the two. "HARRY!" Ron yelled through his cupped hands about his mouth.

"Don't! You mustn't!" Kreacher tried scrambling around Hermione to get at Ron.

"HARRY!" Ron yelled up at the ceiling again as he headed for the door to search the rest of the house.

"Foul... dirty... loud mouthed..." Kreacher began flailing his arms about, circling, trying to over-shout the shouting Ron. "Must be quiet! Must not defy Master!"

"We're not defying any Master you pea brain! Why can't you get it into that monstrous head of yours, we're Harry's mates!"

"Master Harry will not be pleased! He told Kreacher, NO visitors!" the little old elf was near frantic.

"Hermione, you've better get this elf out of my sight before I go S.P.E.W. on his arse!"

“Ron, stop, he's just trying to honor Harry."

"You're taking his side?!"Ron was appalled.

"I'm not taking anyone's side!"

"S.P.E.W.! HA! You see how they are?!"

"That's not fair!" Hermione cut across Ron with the most scathing glare she could muster.

"Get OUT of Master's house!" Kreacher shook his fist at Ron.

"Kreacher, Merlin help me I'm about to-"

“Ron, stop!" Hermione tried to intervene.

"-you stupid little elf!" Ron took a threatening step towards him.

"Despicable! Scoundrel! Ugly!" Kreacher started unleashing every insult that he knew.

"One to talk! Have you looked in a mirror, gorgeous?!"

"Ron, you can't seriously-" Hermione's efforts went in vain.

"Miscreant!" Kreacher went on.

"Yeah..." Ron paused, unsure of what a miscreant was. "Well, nice pants you got there. Harry finally couldn't stand you around and want to get rid of you by giving you some clothes?!" Ron laughed hysterically at his jab as if to rub it in. He did not notice the little elf crumple from the blow. Hermione did.

Hermione dropped to her knees beside the elf again, holding him up by his shoulders. "He didn't mean that Kreacher. You know how much an idiot Ron is. All of England knows how brave you are, how you helped Harry fight, how you took care of all of us during the war. We know how brave you were for Regulus too. That locket about your neck proves it. And I like the clothes," she tried her best to reassure him.

"They're... they're not clothes!" Kreacher stomped his foot. "Kreacher does not own clothes! M-master Harry has required these as part of Kreacher's uniform!" the elf informed them none-too-happily.

"You're uniform?!" Ron blurted out.

"Yes," Kreacher grumbled. "Master Harry has forbid Kreacher from serving unless Kreacher wears the pants. Master Harry has assured Kreacher that he is not dismissing Kreacher, only requiring him to wear pants around him," the elf made the distinction through strained tears.

"Well that is bloody brilliant, Harry!" Ron clapped his hands together for his absent friend. "Too bad he didn't think of that a couple of years ago! Haha! Brilliant!"

"Kreacher..." Hermione turned the elf back to her, "Kreacher, this is not about Ron. This is about Harry. Is Harry here, Kreacher?"

The elf frowned and looked to the floor. Though he still held his old prejudices against her for being a lower Mudblood, at the same time, he was still capable of holding her in high regard as a kind, loving, and powerful witch. Kreacher had never known another in all his long years to treat his kind so, for better or worse. And he knew how his Master favored her so. In their months spent in Number Twelve during the war, Hermione had earned herself a soft spot in the old elf's cold heart.

"Kreacher, please..." Hermione begged him, seeing his doubt.

"Master does not wish to be disturbed during his studies."

"Studies?!" both Ron and Hermione asked stunned.

"Yes, Master Harry takes his studies very seriously. He is a great wizard!" Kreacher announced this with pride and admiration.

"Where is he Kreacher?" Ron demanded with more force. So much so the little elf fell back a step.

"Knock it off, Ron!" she scolded him, before turning back to the elf. "I know you care about Harry," Hermione placed a gentle hand on the elf's shoulder. "And so do we. More than anything. Kreacher, Harry is not in a good place right now... and I think you know that too."

Kreacher faltered for only a moment. "Master is in the best of places!" Kreacher pulled back in offense. "Master Harry is the greatest wizard! His humble servant takes the greatest care of him. Better than any elf could!" Kreacher began shouting at them once again.

"Kreacher, please, that is not what I meant!" Hermoine pleaded.

"Kreacher loves Harry Potter! The greatest of the Purebloods!" he screeched, his love so deep that he willfully forgot that Harry was only a Half-Blood.

"We know that," she had to work to settle the old elf back down. "We love Harry too, Kreacher. He is our friend. Doesn't everyone need their friends in times like these?"

The cat caught Kreacher's tongue before he could state another proclamation, and he deflated a bit, staring back to the floor. There was a long pause before he continued.

"All Master does is train and study, study and train. He does not eat, he does not sleep. Harry Potter is the greatest wizard ever, but even the greatest wizard must rest from time to time, should he not?" Kreacher searched pleadingly, asking for support with tears swelled in his eyes.

"Yes he does," Hermione reassured him. "We want to help Harry, Kreacher, can't you see that?"

Kreacher nodded silently. "Master needs his friends..." he said so low they hardly caught it.

. . . .


"Harry?" a voice called, rousing Harry out of the mist he was in.

The room was quite literally in a haze. If you were to have counted them, there were a total of nine, small desktop cauldrons boiling atop Buenser Fires lined up across the tables. Four much larger ones were centered on the floor. All billowed out an endless pillar of smoke and steam into an ever amassing cloud of fog. Even being a potions lair, Harry was pushing the room to its limits.

At the call of his name, the dark haired boy's head popped up from behind the column of smoke coming from the second large cauldron which sat at the middle of the room. It's flickering flames rippled shadows across Harry's sooted figure with an eerie undulation.

His now longer, unwashed black hair stuck out in haphazard directions. His clothes and face were all masked in a charred soot. Harry lifted a gloved hand to his face and pushed up his tinted goggles to his forehead. Two green eyes perfectly encircled by clean, white skin, stared back at his friend's shocked blue ones. "Ron?"

Harry's mouth gaped. "What..? How..?" he uttered as Ron wafted the smoke from his face. "What are you doing here?"

Ron coughed as he began to move about the room. "Good to see you too, mate...” Ron said as he inspected the first of the table cauldrons suspiciously.

"Don't touch that!" Harry rushed forward to push Ron back. Catching him by the shoulder and spinning him around, Ron's eyes dropped with alarm to Harry's death grip on him.

Ron could only stare at his old friend for the longest time. Harry himself looked livid.

"Harry..." Ron's voice was shaky. “It's me... it's Ron.”

Harry's expression dropped from anger to... confusion? Sorrow, maybe? As his head started to shake back and forth.

“It's been awhile...” Ron suddenly forgot the words they had planned out for this. “Everything alright, Harry?”

Harry's head began to shake more fervently. “It's not safe for you here... Ron,” Harry said his name with some difficulty. “You need to go.”

Ron huffed at this. “I'm not going anywhere, Harry. We've come to get you out of here, you're coming back home, to the Burrow.”

That look of confusion swept back over Harry's face. Home..? Burrow..? What is that? “I can't...” Harry finally said. “I've got my work here.”

“Huh,” Ron huffed again, looking about the room. “What exactly are you doing here, Harry?”

“Nothing,” Harry responded sharply.

“Oh?” Ron said as he turned to begin his investigation once again, looking about the basement. “Definitely looks like something.”

“Don't!” Harry shouted as Ron peered over on of the larger cauldrons. “It's not safe for you here. You need to go!” Harry demanded once more.

Ron sighed, looking back to his friend. “I don't want to give you the run around, Harry. McGonagall told us what's happened to you. You need to come with us. We need to talk and straighten this all out. You've got friends, Harry.”

The memories came crashing back to him. What does he know? Nothing. “Get out!” Harry suddenly shouted at him.

Ron fell back a step at this as another sharp gasp came from the top of the stairs.

Harry turned towards the sob, screwing his eyes to see through the fog... Hermione. A thousand different emotions suddenly rushed through him at the sight of her.

Seeing him when they had entered, remembering all, Australia, the war, the stories McGonagall had told, she had been unable to face him. She had frozen at the top of the stairs. Ron had been gracious enough to take the responsibility upon himself.

As Harry's eyes now met hers, he saw that she had one hand covering her mouth and even from there, Harry could see the tears streaming down her face. And that look in her eyes... pity.

Anger swelled up inside him. He had seen pity and he loathed pity. How dare she! He turned back to Ron.

"Go,” Harry said. “Leave!" Harry stated with a false, calm facade that hid the rage within. Another loud sob echoed from the top of the stairs, but Harry did not turn.

It was now Ron's turn to frown. "No.”

“Harry, please...” that soft voice he hadn't heard in so long cracked from atop the stairs.

Ron had hardly a chance to shield his eyes from the blinding light of the spell before he was sent hurdling across the room. He was sent crashing into the bottom rungs of the stairs, breaking them. Before he had even the time to right himself, he suddenly found himself in a reverse tumble, like he was falling down, yet back up the stairs until he suddenly crashed into Hermione and they fell back out into the hall that led to the Kitchen. The door to the basement slammed closed behind them.

“Well... that went well,” Ron mused as he and Hermione untangled themselves from each other.

“I told you Master did not want visitors,” a voice croaked from behind them.

“Shut it, Kreacher!”

Through blinding tears, Hermione pushed herself back up and with an "Alomahora" cast so strong, the door to the basement was nearly blasted from its hinges. But the fires had been extinguished. She did not have to search the lab, she could sense it. Harry was gone again.

Chapter Twenty-Five: The Invitation


Those faces. He knew them, he'd seen them over and over again in this strange... world? But who were they? They were all in a room and a house he recognized, and yet did not. It was an unknown, yet comfortable, as if he were home.

And they were all sitting around in a circle, smiling and laughing. The man and the woman and the younger boy... his family, and yet strangers. He felt happy. All of their love and attention was being devoted to the tiny toddler at the center between them. She was trying to take her first steps on her two, tiny legs.

“No, no, not that way!” he witnessed his hands of their own volition reach out and grab her beneath her arms to correct her course. There was love and tenderness and... happiness. What a strange word.

He'd no sooner come to enjoy this feeling than the scene changed, just as it always did. Happiness, then sadness. It jerked at him right from his core, sending him spiraling and plummeting until he landed on his two feet in the very yard of that house, but seemingly years later.

“You can't!” the younger boy that he'd seen many times before, that he knew, got right into the face of another, red with rage.

“And who will stop us?” the other asked smugly.

“I will!” the boy shouted.

Wands were drawn. Spells were cast. It was terrible and frightening and so much power himself, he was so very powerless to stop it.

And then she came out, ranting and raving, trying to come between them, trying to stop it. Her delicate arms were flailing above her head in protest as her wild hair trailed behind her. A flash. An explosion. Earth and rock were sent flying. When he picked himself up off the ground, he saw the other, his friend, tripping backwards before turning and running to flee. He heard the tell-tale sound of apparation, but he did not try to give chase.

“No!” he heard himself cry. The yard had been turned into a massive crater. His brother and sister lay motionless at its fringe, one injured, the other mortally. He crawled to his sister, pulling her lifeless form into his arms to cradle her head as he cried over her. “Ariana, no...”

And then the face of Death was sweeping in on him. That rotting skull, those talon like claws. He did not even flinch, welcoming its release.

Harry's eyes shot open. He threw back the sheet covering him, lifting himself from his makeshift pallet on the floor in the attic of Grimmauld Place with a purpose.

So many dreams, and with this last one, they all suddenly came together - made sense. Ariana... Dumbledore. His black robes materialized about him as he pictured the place he wished to be in his mind's eyed. A loud and forceful crack! ripped through the room. And then he stood before a large stone Gargoyle, guarding a spiraling passage beyond.

His loud arrival echoed down the hard corridor, setting off a commotion of voices. Harry looked about himself, expecting an audience, but the halls were empty. As the voices picked up, it was in the portraits that Harry found their source.

Ignoring the, “It's Harry... Harry Potter's,” echoing around him, Harry turned his attention back to the statue that blocked his way - that blocked him from his answers. Harry's head tilted at the unmoving, stone beast as he considered what next. He had no patience at the moment to delay his answers any longer. Harry raised his wand.

“Tally-cats!” one called from the nearest portrait. Some turned on the the speaker, shouting him down and denouncing him for giving out the password, but most just stared at Harry with that wondrous gaze. That entire portrait was filled with admirers, in fact, the next several in line were all filling fast.

“Thanks,” Harry said, turning to the glowing figure of Sir Cadogan, his chin held high, honored to have been of service to the Great Harry Potter. “Tally-cats,” there was no more time to waste. By grinding stone, the statue turned away, revealing the winding staircase beyond.

“Come in,” the Headmistress beckoned, lifting her eyes above her spectacles as she sat busy at her desk. Expecting a mutual professor, McGonagall gasped when she witnessed the raven haired boy enter. “Harry..?”

“Morning, Professor,” he said, glancing up to the empty portrait above her desk. McGonagall did not miss it. "I..." Harry stalled. He'd been in such a rush, he'd yet to think of an excuse for his sudden, unannounced arrival.

McGonagall dropped the quill she had been using and leaned back in her chair with a long sigh. “It is good to see-”

“Where is he?” Harry cut her off, being perhaps a little too forward. Perhaps a lot too forward. McGonagall frowned.

“I presume you are asking of Albus?” she raised a brow at him. Harry did not respond, but looked on coldly. “I do not know, Harry.”

It was Harry's turn to scowl as he soon lost his patience and began to pace back and forth amidst her office. The dreams... what did they mean? He was so close, and of course Dumbledore would be absent at a time like this.

“Perhaps, Mr Potter, you would like to have a seat?” McGonagall asked him. Harry simply glanced at the offered chair before ignoring it. Continuing his pacing, McGonagall went on to insist with her stern, schoolmaster demeanor. Harry, despite all that he had become, found himself seated.

“Harry...” McGonagall tried to begin carefully. “May I ask what brings you here today?”

Silence. Harry just stared back at her. McGonagall's frown deepened.

“Very well, Mr Potter. I will not, how does the saying go, beat around the bush with you. I am the one who informed Mr Weasley and Ms Granger of your return,” she admitted, in hopes of goading him on.

Still, nothing from Harry.

“I know, to a lesser extent, what happened to you in India...” McGonagall baited him, but Harry did not give. No sign or hint of any emotion at all.

“I want to help you, Harry,” she pleaded with him.

“You can summon Dumbledore for me,” Harry said flatly.

“To what end, might I ask?”

Nothing. Cold, stone face. McGonagall stood up and walked to her window, looking out over the grounds below.

“I will not pretend to understand what you're feeling, Harry. What you've been through... but I can still imagine,” her lips pulled down. “I have not earned all these gray hairs for naught,” she glanced back to him over her shoulder, offering him a short smile. “But what I do know, Harry, is that your friends are important. Why won't you let them help you?”

Harry's lips pursed with anger, but he swallowed it. “They're not safe around me. No one is,” he did not mean to admit this, but it just slipped. McGonagall nodded, still looking out the window.

“And you think you can keep them safe by pushing them away?”

“Yes.” Harry bit his tongue. He did not feel like having this conversation.

“That's not true, Harry,” McGonagall said softly, motherly.

“It is too!” Harry suddenly found himself up out of his seat, standing with his chest heaving. He may not want to have this conversation, but a years worth, hell, seven years worth of pent up emotion came flooding out of him. “Look what happened to all those around me! Remus, Tonks, Dumbledore, Snape, Moody, Fred!” he shouted at her. "The list goes on!" Koca, Pita... he did not add the latest unfortunates to have met him. “Look at what I have done to the Weasleys, to Hermione! I'm a god damn curse!” He was furious.

McGonagall turned to face him, presenting a calm facade. “That is not true, Harry, and don't you believe it for one instant.”

Harry threw his hands up with exacerbation. It absolutely was true.

“Then tell me Harry, what would have happened had you never been born? You think Voldemort would have just stopped? Given up without a Harry Potter to antagonize him so?”

Harry's eyes narrowed in on her.

“Do you think the Weasleys would have just buckled, gone along with him, their entire family left unharmed? Do you think Hermione, born of muggles, would have been spared had you not been her friend? Remus, Tonks, Dumbledore, Snape, their deaths were not your fault Harry, no ones' were. They rest solely at the feet of Voldemort.”

Harry balled his fists. He did not believe a word of it, but then... he had no response.

“Believe what you will Harry, but had you done before what you are doing now and just pushed everyone away, we would have lost a lot more than we did. We would have lost everyone. You saved us Harry. You saved us all.”

“Shut up!” Harry raged, quite forgetting to whom exactly he was speaking so. He did not want to hear any of this savior crap, not now, not ever again.

McGonagall, for her part, did not flinch at his tirade or disrespect, but went on. “So now there is someone else after the Boy-Who-Lived, and instead of turning to anyone for help, you're trying to settle this all on your own?”

Harry was caught off guard. “What..?”

McGonagall betrayed nothing. “I have only managed to put together just bits and pieces, Harry, but, as you are cursed and all,” she threw his own words back at him, “it is not difficult to surmise. You think Dumbledore has answers for you?”

“Yes...” Harry said, again caught off guard. “I mean no... I don't know...” Harry sank back into his seat, bent over while rubbing at the scar across his forehead. “I don't understand any of it.” He was depleted. Everything, of these last few months, of this last year, all suddenly caught up with him.

“Why don't you try me, Harry? Tell me.”

“No,” Harry groaned behind his hands. McGonagall walked around her desk to confront him.

“You do not have to, Harry,” she spoke tenderly, with love. “And I cannot force you. But that does not mean I cannot still help you.”

Harry glanced up to her from behind his hands.

“From what I've gathered, you are attempting to train yourself like a mad man...” Harry's eyes grew suspicious. “Do not accuse Kreacher, he has kept your secret to the extent that he can, but I am a witch after all, and a rather clever one at that,” she smirked at him. “You are preparing for something. The one after you, the one you faced in India?”

Harry did not respond. What was he doing? He didn't really know. He didn't really have a plan. Plans... they were never really his forte. Hermione...

“I think that is very prudent of you, Harry, but why don't you come back here. Come back for your last term. Prepare properly.”

Harry screwed his face at her, as if that were the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard.

“Please,” she intoned, “hear me out before you right it off. I do not deny it, Harry, you are well beyond your years, but if you think this threat you now face is as grave as it is, and if India was any sign... well, I just want to help you prepare, and there is only so much one may learn from training on their own.”

McGonagall paused for a moment, letting her words sink in.

“I am prepared to offer you a... special arrangement, if you will. I do not expect you to return as a regular student. For just such an instance, if you will return, I have prepared a specific curriculum for you. You will return as a graduate student, so to speak. Your secrecy, and your privacy, if that is what you wish to uphold, will be respected. No one has to know you're here. You will be given your own dorm. I have blocked time with each of the professors within the core curriculum: Transfiguration, Potions, Charms, and of course, Defense against the Dark Arts, to tutor you privately, and I myself will help conduct some of your lessons.”

Harry just stared at her.

“Harry...” she was more pleading this time. “I would give all I have if I could change things for you... give you a normal life you've never known, never enjoyed... but of course I cannot. We do not control the roads that are laid before us, but we can choose the paths we take. You do not have to be alone in this. You can have all the power in the world, but if you do not know what to do with it... if you truly wish to protect those close to you, then this is the path. Finish your education and then, whether you wish to have an army behind you or not, you will be ready for all of the obstacles that are laid out there for you... for him, should you face him again.”

Harry's gaze dropped to the floor, his thoughts jumbled within a tumultuous storm. McGonagall had said a lot, but Harry zeroed in on the last of what she revealed, "him." What did she know? What could she know? Not even he knew anything of him...

“What if he comes for me here?” Harry murmured, seeing those black, beady eyes of death standing over him victoriously, Hogwarts burning in the background.

“Then he is more foolish than you think.”

Harry's eyes shot up to hers. The question was there on his tongue, but he bit it back. "What do you know about any of this?"

“I don't even know what day it is... when's the term start?” he asked, and even managed, as gloomy as it was, to chuckle a little at this admission.

“The Hogwarts Express leaves from King's Cross in the morning,” McGonagall said.

. . . .

Her office quiet and still once more, the Headmistress stared at the door Harry had used only minutes ago to take his leave. As she held her quill paused atop the letter she had started drafting, she could feel all the eyes of the previous headmasters weighing down upon her, all but the two she needed most.

Should she have told him more? Told him all? “All in time...” she answered herself aloud. “When he's ready,” she heard Albus's voice in her head. McGonagall blinked away the tears swelling up her eyes as she thought of all he'd been forced to face, and that which still haunted him today... The Ghosts of the Past.

Her quill scribbled angrily once more across the old parchment before her.

It is done. He has agreed. The plan moves forward.

McGonagall stood, folding up the short letter and sealing it in its envelope. Her Masked Owl awaited dutifully atop the mantle for its charge.

“Albus...” her eyes turned up to the empty portrait, just as Harry's had before, searching him out, “I need you now more than ever.”

She hesitantly sent her owl with the attached letter on its way, wholly unsure if this was indeed the right path, but what other was there?

Chapter Twenty-Six: Perspectives

Anger. It was so much easier to be angry with him. Angry at his boyish temper. Angry at him for running off like some foolish child, disappearing without word or trace. Angry at him for not responding to her letters. But now her anger had been stolen from her like all else, and she was left once again with only her guilt.

“Arrested... prisoner... tortured...” McGonagall's hellish tale of the fate of Harry after Australia screeched like the harsh wails of a banshee in her ears. She could not feel any lower. Harry had not abandoned her. He had been taken from her. It had been she and she alone that had rejected him, abandoned him, and she could not find a way to forgive herself for it.

She plopped down on her lonely bed, staring back at her packed trunk. Her room felt like some distant past of herself, she matured out of it. But here she was, and the summer was over. She was going back to Hogwarts, today, still a student, still a child. It all felt so surreal.

It had been over a year, fourteen months precisely since she had left Hogwarts last as a pupil. It had been just after Dumbledore's funeral, just before they would leave on their quest for the Horcrux's. A long, arduous journey – a wide arching circle filled with harrowing tales that would lead her back here today. Where had the time gone? It felt as if that day were only yesterday.

Nothing in her life, not even within those bleakest hours, in the midst of the war, with the weighted locket about her neck did she feel so helpless and without control. The world was spinning on without her and she could not keep up.

Those guilty of crimes had met a swift and harsh judgment in the days and weeks following the final battle. Shacklebolt and the Ministry were as eager as the rest to put it all behind them, and now it was almost as if the whole thing had never happened. Thoughts of war and hiding and running and dying were all forgotten, pushed out of mind and out of sight for a more amiable future. The three who had been at the heart of it all seemed to be the only ones unable to forget and forgive and move on with their lives.

“Am I really doing this?” she spoke aloud to herself as she still stared at her trunk, overladen with books and notes, robes and clothes, quills and the rest of her assigned supplies – all monotonous and meaningless to her now. Her "Head Girl" badge sat right on top. The day's Daily Prophet sat just beside her on the bed, speculation on the return of the Golden Trio to Hogwarts its cover story. Harry's doubts filled her now.

When she had first read of the annulment of the previous term and the invitation to return to complete her education, she'd been elated. It had been what felt right, the next logical step, but now, she wasn't so sure. Harry...

Hermione's thoughts drifted back to her best friend as her fingers curled around a worn, leather bound journal laid beside the Prophet. She brought it to her lap, gripping it tight, as if to squeeze all that it held out into her. It's pages were now full from beginning to end with her life over the last seven years, ending appropriately on the very last page with their very last battle with Him.

It had been the first gift she'd ever received from a real friend before... a Christmas present from Harry their first year. She'd gotten him a package of Chocolate Frogs. She'd never admitted it, she'd felt so foolish by her inadequate gift to him, but more than any other memory she'd first had of him, he'd whole heartedly endeared himself to her with this... how well he understood her right from the beginning.

She was to return to that same Hogwarts today... without her Harry. These last few months without him, able only to dream of and remember him, unable to see him and talk to him... they had been a slow and wrenching torture unto her, seemingly eroding her away. Her last images of him, alone in that grim dungeon of Grimmauld... that was not her Harry. Those empty, fearful eyes... they were of someone afraid and running. Not her Harry.

It was a cruel punishment not to be able to go to him now, help him, hold him, comfort him, just be there for him, and if she left for school now, it would be a whole other ten months before she would be able to get back to him, reach him. A part of her felt treacherous for this, like she was abandoning him all over again. He needed her, just as she needed him, but...

“I wanted you to be able to get away, to escape, to be free from it all... It is not safe for you here...” It was now Harry's words that came to her. She knew what Harry was doing, why he thought he had to do it. That damned savior complex! Everywhere he turned, he found trouble, or rather, trouble found him.

“Do not trouble trouble, unless trouble trouble's you.”

It was not his fault! They – it - would not leave him alone. He'd been pushed too far. Now, he was trying to shut everyone out. To protect them... from himself. But they did not need protection from him, but by him. Why could he not see that?!

A knock came from her bedroom door, interrupting her depressing thoughts. “Hermione?” It was her father. She took a deep breath, trying to undo that knot in her stomach. “It's time to go, sweetie.” he cracked open the door, stopping short when he saw the long look across her face. The sad frown drooping across his was indisguisable.

“Y-yes...” she moved frantically, knocking the paper off her bed as she tried to conceal her private journal and move to her trunk, as if she'd been caught doing something wrong. “Just a few more...” she scrambled on nervously. “I can't seem to find..?” she buried her journal in her trunk and turned to look about her room curiously.

“Hogwarts: A History?” her father said coyly, holding out the thick tome.

“You..?” Hermione started, but stopped, at a loss for words. What was her father doing with that?

Dan sighed as he set the book on her desk. “We just – we just wanted to understand it all a little better...” he tried explaining. “It's been seven years already and we feel like we hardly know anything about that half of your life,” he admitted a little boyishly.

“We?” Hermione intoned.

“Yes,” her father answered. “Your mother and I,” he stated the obvious. “Shortly following our return, we were visited by your Headmistress, Professor McGonagall...” he stalled as he saw his daughter's brow rise with the revelation. “We don't expect you to delve into it all now,” he quickly explained. “She was gracious enough to fill us in on some of the more particular details from Harry's and your own tale...” Dan trailed off when he witnessed his daughter flinch at the mention of her friend's name.

“It's...” he went on after it was clear Hermione did not wish to speak on the matter. He took her by the hand and led her back to the bed, sitting them both down. “Your mother and I always wanted you to get out and live a little... you know, outside of your books...” he chuckled impishly at the irony, shaking his head at his thoughts.

“I will not pretend to understand... I can't even begin to fathom what it must have been like...” he spoke in short, incomplete phrases, his stress evident. “But... I don't know... you've always been so exceptional... and I guess, now that it is all over, that we didn't have to live through it, so to speak, reading about the heroics of my little girl, to see how others speak so highly of you... it's quite amazing, to say the least.”

“Read?” Hermione shot out.

“Yes,” he admitted. “McGonagall gained us a subscription to the Daily Prophet,” that coy smile of his returned. “I just... we're so very proud of you Hermione, of both of you.”

“Both of us?”

“Harry...” Dan spoke the name with unease, for his daughter's sake, but Hermione knew, she had witnessed the bond form between them within the White Sands.

“Oh...” was all she could say.

“If I may ask... how is he? You do not speak of him.” Hermione gulped heavily, and her father read in to it. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to...”

“No,” Hermione interrupted. “No, it's okay...” But it absolutely wasn't okay. “He's just...” she shook her head feverishly. Harry was anything but okay, the last images of him plaguing her soul.

“Forget it,” Dan said, gripping her hand. “I know it's not my place...” he started awkwardly. “But I just don't want... well, after what we've read and speaking to McGonagall and the Weasleys-”

“The Weasleys?!” Hermione jerked her head up with surprise.

“Yes,” Dan admitted further. “Arthur and Molly. They wrote not long after McGonagall's visit. That poor, little owl!” he seemed still quite amazed by it all. “We're still adjusting. They were nice enough to meet with us at Dorothy's...”

Hermione gasped. Dorothy's was a local coffee shop near their house. “What..?” How had she not been aware of all of this?!

“Well, we figured after what all you three had been through, it only seemed proper. We tried to write to the Dursleys...” Hermione scoffed at this. “But we never received a response.”

“How surprising!” Hermione cut underneath her breath.

“Anyways,” Dan went on, “Hermione...” his look turned more serious. “As I was saying... I don't mean to overstep, I know you are far more clever than I could ever dream...”

“Daddy,” she cut his flattery short.

“Harry...” he dropped the bombshell, sighing heavily. “You don't have to say anything, I just want you to hear me out.”

Hermione was left speechless.

“Your mother and I did not give birth to a genius being dimwits ourselves...” he went on. “We've gathered enough to guess at what is happening, between you and Harry and Ron...” he waited for some reaction from his daughter, but she was left stricken.

“We've seen how you've been since we've been back, and whether that is all from the war, or...” he took a deep breath to go on, “we saw how you two were together, how happy you both were in Australia... that was not all show... and how you've been since...”

“Dad...” Hermione tried to interrupt. “It's not...”

“I am proud of you Hermione,” her father said with all seriousness. “For what you've already done, already proven. Your courage, your loyalty, your love... I can hardly believe you're my own daughter, and I say that only because I could never imagine myself rising to such an occasion as you have, but...”

“Daddy...” Hermione's voice was strained and rattled.

“When it comes to matters of the heart... I will not pretend to know everything, but I still know my own daughter, I know enough,” Dan took a deep breath. “When you find your true love. You never let it go, not for anything. It comes along so rarely, if ever, in one's life,” he explained.

Hermione struggled to speak. At first she was angry again, she wanted to scream at him, but he persisted.

“There is nothing more real, nothing more true in this world than that. When I was your age, there was this girl...”

Hermione shot her father a disapproving look, aghast at his words.

“We were good friends. She was the most beautiful I had ever laid eyes on, funny, smart, a wit like no other... But I never said a thing, never wanted to risk what we had. Then, one day... she and my best friend, Gregory and her started dating. He was handsome, popular, athletic... I'd had plenty of chances to make a go at her first, tell her how I felt, but I didn't. At the time, I thought my world was over...”

“What are you..?”

“Until one day,” he ignored her, lost in his own story. “One day I just told her. I let it all out... I risked it. Told her everything, even with Gregory and her...”

“I'm sure that went over well...” Hermione found a way to tease.

“Actually,” Dan chuckled lightly, “it did.” He smiled over at his daughter. “I shocked her alright, but.... turned out she fancied me too. Oh, Gregory was plenty pissed at me, we had a good couple of rows over it, but in the end... in the end friendship overrode all else, and he could see what I had seen for so long, what she had seen.”

“If it all worked out so well, why have I never heard of this Gregory and mysterious girl before?”

“Gregory?” Dan laughed, “he moved off to the States after school, we keep in touch from time to time. And the girl..? She's your mum. Love, Hermione, true love, overrides all else. Do not let it go.”

. . . . .

“Five minutes! Lets go, Ronald!” His mum called up to him. Ron simply started chucking anything and everything he could get his hands onto into his trunk without any real rhyme or reason. Of course he would wait until the morning he'd be leaving for Hogwarts to start his packing.

“Hey...” he heard a soft, feminine voice from his doorway.

“Hi, Ginny,” Ron only glanced at her as he continued his frantic scrambling about his room, tossing shirts and jeans, robes and socks over his head towards his trunk.

“Need some help?” she offered, taking a few cautious steps in. His old room looked like it had been ransacked by the ghoul.

“Thanks, but – just – about – got it!” he struggled with a shirt that had somehow gotten wedged beneath his dresser, before it suddenly gave and he landed hard on his arse.

“Yeah..?” Ginny just laughed and shook her head at her lame brother as he smelled at the armpit of the now free shirt, before making a face and tossing it back towards his closet.

“Yeah,” Ron grumbled, moving on.

“Ron, I...”

“What is it, Ginny, I'm a little busy here,” he said impatiently, still rummaging about his things.

“I wanted to ask you about Harry...” she finally just blurted it out. Ron froze in place without looking to her.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah...”

“Ginny...”

“I know Ron,” she wringed her hands nervously in the middle of his room. “It's not like that... I just... George told me you've seen him...” A long silence followed as Ron slumped in place.

“Yeah?” Ron seemed to be reduced to that one word.

“Is – is he okay?” The worry could be heard in her voice.

It wasn't a total collapse, but Ron slunk to the floor, crossing his legs beneath him as he stared away into his closet.

“Ron?!” Ginny moved fluidly to him, slinking down beside him. Seeing he was otherwise okay, she just sat there too, waiting for him to explain.

“We broke into Gringott's,” Ron started with a distant reverie. “Escaped on the back of a dragon,” his brow wiggled in jest at the recollection. Ginny watched him silently, a slight hint of amusement at the remark evident. “Did battle with a mountain troll at the age of eleven. Got lost in the Forbidden Forest at Twelve, almost became dinner for a hive of angry spiders. Won the Quidditch Cup three times...” he did not let that little fact go unsaid. “Snuck into the Ministry twice, once during the war with His drones all over the place,” Ron shook his head, picking up something to throw. “Took us nearly a year, hunting the darkest objects known to man, but we still beat His arse!” a fire seemed to light with inside Ron. “Harry beat him...”

“Ron...” Ginny placed a hand on his shoulder. "You all beat him."

“NO!” Ron shouted angrily, but it was not directed at his sister, rather at the trainer he chucked next into the wall. “Ron... Ronald Weasley, member of the Golden Trio!” he mocked. Ginny said nothing, but let him vent. “Who am I?” he asked rhetorically. “What would I be without Harry Potter?”

“Just what you are. A savior, just like Harry, one of the-” Ginny tried again, but Ron wasn't having it.

“Goddammit!” he cursed, cutting through her. “I wouldn't have done a damn thing without Harry. It was Harry! Harry who was my best mate. Harry who led us. Harry who showed me...” he trailed off. “And what was I to him?”

“You were his friend,” Ginny answered. “His best friend.”

“One of his Trio,” Ron answered,” and a traitor.” Ron added with disgust. “Turned on him our fourth year, just like the rest of those cocksuckers, giving him hell about getting into the Triwizard Tournament. I wasn't there to help him save you from that damned Basilisk. I wasn't there to help him save Buckbeak or Sirius. I left him and Hermione alone in the woods during the war because I couldn't take it anymore, because I afraid, because I was too weak!” he spat, his voice was harsh, as if meaning to shout, but too out of breath to give it his full.

“Ron, no... That's not true.”

“YES!” he shouted fully and with finality. “And he asked me to go. Damn near begged me, but I abandoned him and Hermione again when they left to get her parents. I left them, and now... now – they got him, Ginny. They got to him and I wasn't there to help him.”

“What are you talking about, Ron?” Ginny did not understand, unaware of the latest, harrowing tale.

“Ha!” Ron laughed with a touch of insanity. “I saw him. Just like mum told you,” Ron could not look at his sister. “They got him. They always come for him. In Australia. And I wasn't there. I'm never there for him, not when he needs me most.”

“Ron, you've always-”

“Goddammit, Ginny! Are you not listening to me?!” he finally turned his fiery eyes towards his sister and they scared her. “They got him,” he took her harshly by the shoulders. “They took him, they imprisoned him, tortured him, and damn Merlin I wasn't there!”

“Ron, I don't..?!” there was fear and panic in her eyes as her chest heaved. Seeing this, Ron deflated. He deflated all the way, letting her go, slumping down almost into a curled ball.

“They got him. But they didn't know who they were messing with," he whispered. "Didn't know who the fuck they were messing with," his words were vulgar with his spite. "Harry got them, got away, as he always does... but they took something from him... They took that last bit he'd been hanging on to. He's here now, at Grimmauld, but he's not coming back. He's not coming back, Ginny, and I wasn't there.”

. . . .

It was dark, the thick fog hanging over the grounds setting a certain doom and gloom about the now sordid, yet sprawling estate. This was all of no matter to him, however, for his soul was much darker and fouler than the worst nature could bestow.

He had no problem maneuvering through the labyrinth of wards, he'd been here many times before, and the weak additions added by the owner failed in comparison to those left by their Master. Invisible, soundless, unplottable, this land no longer existed outside the few trusted who had made up His inner circle, and were all now its Secret Keeper. The concentration of dark magic still lingering within his left forearm allowed him to pass the final, impassable barrier marked at the wrought iron gates.

The crackling gravel beneath his feet was the only sound this quiet night as he marched briskly down the hedge-lined lane. The two, large, oaken doors rent a booming echo through the mostly empty house as they swung inwardly, revealing their owner awaiting just inside the entry, his bright, blond hair practically glowing amidst all the darkness.

“You're still alive then?” the owner welcomed the uninvited guest, obviously displeased.

“Hmm...” the guest's taut lips turned into a sneer as he paced leisurely forward, looking lazily about the old mansion's grand hall. “Good to see you too, Malfoy,” he said mockingly.

“What are you doing here, Lestrange?” Malfoy was cold and harsh.

“Reckon the Ministry's got ahold of all your funds too. I've been offered a job,” he revealed.

“I'm not interested,” the elder Malfoy retorted.

“Oh?” Lestrange intoned. “Sold us all out and now everything has been forgotten?”

“Not in the slightest,” Malfoy said. “It's over. I live for my family now.”

“And the cause?”

“The cause is dead!” Malfoy growled at him. “I've given everything!”

“Hmm...” Lestrange continued his idle laze. “Everything? Not interested in earning a few thousand Galleon then?”

“No,” Malfoy was short. “Shouldn't you be off in hiding with Dolohov?”

“We can't all afford such luxurious abodes,” Lestrange said. “And I will die before I go the way of Dolohov, Lucious. They killed her!”

“You lost her long ago!” Malfoy dared, shouting back at his compatriot, but Lestrange was not rattled.

“I've got Rookwood.”

“Good for you.”

“Our patron offers well.”

“I'm not interested.”

“No... didn't suppose you would be.”

“Then why are you here?” Malfoy demanded.

“I need a center to operate out of. To have my revenge!” that maddening look of Lestrange fell across his dark face as he remembered his fallen love. Bellatrix. "We'll all have our revenge!" his voice was pitched and sinister, on the edge, if not already over, mad.

Chapter 27: Hogwarts Again



“Oi! Out of the way, you little squirts!” Ron shouted over the raucous of what had to be a group of rowdy second or third years, blocking the center lane down a carriage of the Hogwarts Express. Their unrestrained joy and frivolity at returning once again to their beloved Hogwarts, the mere pitch of their boisterousness might have seemed daunting to even McGonagall to attempt to wrangle, but as soon as they laid eyes upon the tall red head, a hushed murmur began to spread.

Hisses were called for those not paying attention to quiet down. Elbows were cast into the ribs of those not listening. “It's him... it's one of them... Ron Weasley...” echoed across the small mob until they all fell into line with undisguised awe. How they, one after the other, drew erect and stood at attention, as if miniature soldiers awaiting his orders, even Hermione would have been proud.

'Where is that brown headed witch?' Ron thought passively, distracted. “Huh..?” he guffawed, when he finally took in what had happened about him, genuinely surprised by how silent and still the carriage had grown – never mind the Prefect badge upon his chest. “You see that?” he turned back to wink at his trailing sister.

“Yeah, yeah, go on then. There is Luna and Seamus just ahead,” she pushed him along, not wanting to allow his already bloated ego to become any more inflated than it surely already was.

“Oi! Luna, Seamus!” Ron called out, ignoring the countless young eyes following him with admiration.

“Ron! Ginny!” the aloof blond tured to hug each, welcoming the two to join them for the trip. “With the Marklarks out, it's probably best to stick to the cabins,” she warned.

“Right...” Ron kept his eye rolling to a minimum as Seamus battled to stop himself from bursting out with laughter from behind her. They'd all become more than accustom to her oddities by now, and accepted her just the same.

“Hardly seems real,” Seamus extended a hand towards Ron. “Glad you decided to come back.”

Ron just shrugged, not eager to expound upon that certain matter. “Dean told me to save you two a seat,” he hugged Ginny.

“Thanks,” Ginny blushed a bit.

“Where's Neville?” Ron asked Luna.

“I imagine he is at the Prefects' Carriage, handing out instructions to the rest with Hermione, who is no doubt fuming about your absence,” her words were light and airy, just as they always were, and the stricken look that fell across Ron's face with them was nothing short of comical.

“Shite!” he turned and scuttled off without another word said.

. . . .

The brief meeting was already adjourning, but it was the Head Boy, Neville Longbottom, not the Head Girl, as Ron had suspected, leading it. As all other twenty-one Prefects made their way out, back down to the other carriages, Ron found Hermione sitting quietly, studying a piece of parchment in her hand.

“Ron,” Neville interrupted him. “Good to see you,” his greeting was most genuine.

“You too, Neville. And congratulations on Head Boy!” Ron offered, though his eyes kept darting to the distracted brunette.

“Oh,” Neville reddened, “you know, it's only because...” he grew antsy. “How is he? Have you seen him lately? I don't suppose he's coming back?” Neville finished his first sentence with a rambling, naming the unspoken name. Ron shook his head as he looked to the floor.

“Right,” Neville said. “Not as if he needs anymore schooling...” he attempted an uneasy chuckle. “Well, I will see to my rounds then,” he looked between the last two before parting. “It's good to have you two back.” Ron offered only a nod.

“Find Merlin's lost scrolls?” Ron plopped down opposite Hermione as her eyes stayed glued to the parchment.

“My schedule,” Hermione revealed. “Our new DADA professor.... Hans Krieg...” her look was curious. “I feel like I know the name, but I can't...”

“Ha!” Ron laughed with amusement. “Don't tell me..?!”

“What?!” Hermione finally looked up to him, protesting defensively.

“Hans Krieg... Krieg?!” he stated it as if it were obvious. Hermione could only stare blankly. “Well, this is good!” Ron gloated with glee.

“Oh, stop it!” Hermione chastised him. “Who is he?”

“Helmut Krieg... Rudolph Krieg...” Ron went on, and while the names rang some sort of bell, Hermione could not place them, shaking her head. “Hans Krieg's uncle, Helmut Krieg is only the current Supreme Mugwump. Rudolph, his grandfather, was only the one before Dumbledore. Hans himself was only the Chief Auror before becoming the Fuehrer of Germany awhile back, one of the most notorious family's of Europe, Hermione, really...” Ron seemed aghast at her lapse in this knowledge.

“Really yourself, Ronald!” Hermione was affronted, but angry with herself for having missed this more than anything. “Some of us did not grow up in wizard families!” she reminded him, none to politely.

“Ah, stop it!” Ron waved her off. “Just having a little fun with miss Know-it-all!” he teased, and Hermione visibly relaxed, not prepared to have a row with Ron right now.

“Well then, I guess we're fortunate to have him as a professor then,” she was genuinely intrigued by the prospect.

“Yeah,” Ron added. “Mum and dad could hardly believe it when they read about it.”

“Guess I haven't been keeping that close a watch on the Prophet. If he's so famous, wonder how McGonagall got him to come?” she pondered aloud.

“What?” Ron asked with a smirk. “With the promise to teach the Golden Trio, of course!” It was a joke, but with the mention of the Trio, that was not so much a trio anymore, the mood sombered. “Come on,” Ron said, “you're missing all your fun. Let's go bust some of those little runts for cutting up!” he stood and grabbed Hermione's hand, leading her out into the corridors.

. . . .

Three carriages along, it had been quite awkward for the both of them. This new celebrity was going to take some getting used to. They had both had to earnestly refuse no less than thirty-eight attempts at an autograph and twelve photos, before they came to the fourth carriage and were brought up short by a commotion ahead.

“Wait,” Ron grabbed Hermione by the arm. A small group of what appeared to be fourth year Slytherins were picking on a small and lone first year, jostling him about by use of their wands. Two were pushing him back and forth up the aisle while the rest were having good fun hitting him with juvenile hexes. Bullies.

“Look,” Ron motioned towards an approaching group of Gryffindors, the Slytherins same age.

“Hey! Whatcha there!” the lead boy cut in and caught the tumbling first year. “Everything okay?” he asked sincerely. The first year looked absolutely terrified and disheveled.

“Mind your own business, Creevey!” a dark haired boy squealed at the intrusion.

“I am, Magnus,” he said cooly, before looking to the scared first year. “Say, what's your name, kid?”

“Duh-duh-Douglas...” he stuttered.

“Well, Douglas, my name is Dennis. Nice to meet you,” he offered before turning back to the Slytherin with a harsh glare in his eye. “You see, Magnus. Me and Douglas here are friends. Promised my mum I would look after him his first year, so you see, it is my business.”

Magnus and his Slytherin friends glared down the daring Gryffindor. “Beat it, Creevey!” Ron had to continue to hold back Hermione.

“Why don't you try picking on someone your own size for once, Magnus?” Dennis dared him, raising his wand. There was a long, tense pause as the Slytherin contemplated his options.

“You're not worth my time, you – you Potter wanna-be!” Magnus spat.

“Better than a slithering snake!” Dennis cut back. Eyes were narrowed for the pitch of a fight.

“Come on,” Magnus fell back. Hermione felt the chilling tingle of a disillusionment charm trickle down her as she was pulled back into the seats, out of the way of the retreating fourth year Slytherins.

“What the..?!” she whisped under her breath.

“Not our fight,” Ron was short. The two of the remaining Trio just sat there, watching Dennis and his crew recover the dizzied first year as his friends came to his aid.

“I feel so old...” Hermione lamented.

“Yup,” Ron laughed.

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Lessons


He could see all from his solitary perch, the Threstral drawn procession winding its way through the winged boar gates, the row boats laden with First Years skimming across the lake. Off in the distance, within the reflection of the Moon's ghostly light, he witnessed several long tendrils of the giant squid worm their way out of the lake's otherwise placid waters, curling and bending to clutch at something that wasn't there. Beyond was the blacker than black, daunting Forbidden Forest.

So far, McGonagall had kept up her end of the bargain. Apart from the stunning view of the grounds, his quarters were spacious and well stocked, but more importantly, it sat at the top of a high turret at the very corner of one end of the castle. No one would come wandering here, much less know how to find it. Per his request, she had given him the portrait of Sir Cadogan to guard his portal.

Memories of the years past flooded his mind as he watched all the students arrive. Some where down there now were Neville and Luna, Dean and Ginny, Seamus, Cho, Lavendar, Padma and Patil, countless others that he once called friends, and then Ron and Hermione. Ron and Hermione...For the first time since his days in Dakhal, he felt utterly alone. He wished for nothing more than to be down there with them, laughing and reminiscing, but that was no longer possible. As Hagrid herded that last few through the main door, Harry grabbed his Invisibility Cloak and made for his own door.

He had spent what was left of the previous day, after speaking with McGonagall, and this, reacquainting himself with his first, and only real, true home. He had been careful to avoid being spotted, even if it were only the professors, always remaining beneath his trusted cloak.

He'd gone back to the Gryffindor common room, taking a moment to sit in each of the chairs he had before over his years here, time spent studying, time with friends, times carefree. He'd stared at the fire place he'd once talked to his godfather through – other times not so carefree. He'd gone up to his old dorm and laid within his old four-poster bed. It was someone else's now.

He'd visited the girls' bathroom he and Ron and Hermione had once battled a troll in, smiling to himself at the memory. Had that troll just bashed his head in then... He'd gone by the bathroom that Moaning Myrtle called home and which led to the Chamber of Secrets, but thought better of disturbing her.

He'd gone down the corridor that had once been “off limits,” to the room that had once held the giant three headed dog, ironically enough named Fluffy by Hagrid. The trap door they had disappeared down was still at its center, closed, holding all its memories within. Down there through that labyrinth, the Trio had faced their first real test together. There, his two closest friends had made their first of many sacrifices for him. Somewhere down there he'd faced Voldemort for the first time.

He'd visited the Room of Requirement, which oddly enough formed into a sort of library. On the far wall, there appeared to be a network of worn images of a family tree, much like the one at Grimmauld of the Black's, but all the names were illegible and the faces so blotched, one could not make any of them out. He lingered here for a moment, tracing his fingers across the silhouettes, feeling some sort of connection, a reason for them being here, but what? He left to find the empty classroom that once held the mirror of Erisend. Here, he had seen his mum and dad for the first time. Of course, it was not there.

Harry'd wandered the grounds outside, passing by the Gamekeepers hut. He'd thought of visiting Hagrid, but knew all too well of Hagrid's inability to keep a secret, so he settled for walking about it and through his garden. That solemn post Buckbeak had once been tethered to was still there, serving as yet another reminder of his always troubled days. His eyes drifted to the tree he and Hermione had hid behind, chucking stones through Hagrid's window to alert their alternate selves of the approaching Minister and executioner... Executioner.

He'd walked out onto the Quidditch Pitch, remembering better days, past days of glory, of innocence and days spent worrying over more trivial things. He'd gone to the Great Hall. So many memories. This was where it had all ended. This was where the new chapter had begun. This was where he went now.

He did not go down amongst all the other students, but to a secret balcony he had discovered in his recent wanderings. The Hall was unusually quiet for such an event, but then Harry noticed McGonagall at the front, finishing her prepared remarks. He did his best not to look for his friends.

With everyone's attention drawn there, and hidden within the shadows, Harry pulled off the cloak as he watched McGonagall place the old stool before the teachers' table and a worn hat atop it. With a sense of both amusement and bewilderment, Harry crossed his arms over his chest as he leaned against the wall to watch this time honored tradition, the sorting. It began:

'Tis true I have seen a better day
With time my brim has grown dull and fray
But once again we've come to learn
knowledge which we seek to earn
So new to here come and sit
beneath my cap I'll judge your fit,
Perhaps to Gryffindor courageous and brave
the world could be yours one day to save
Perhaps to Hufflepuff you'll seed and grow
They're the most just and loyal I've yet to know
Perhaps to Ravenclaw with wit of mind
There are none smarter of their kind
Or to Slytherin you will belong
Where they shall work right the wrong,
The time has come to sort you out
Where you go, do not pout
For no where on this world's wide map
Will you find a wiser Thinking Cap!

The hall filled with a thunderous applause and Harry could not help but join in, the faintest of smiles curling across his otherwise pursed lips. So many memories past – not all so bad.

. . . .

He got little sleep that night, which was now nothing out of the ordinary for him. Many nights since Dakhal, he'd skipped it altogether. Just through those meandering hallways were his friends. So close, and yet, so very far away.

Instead of laying in the large, plush bed provided to him, Harry made himself a simple pallet on the floor and lay on his back staring up at the ceiling. Images of his dreams scrolled through his mind. There was no doubting it, these were of Dumbledore's life. But what did they mean, and why was he having them? And why, with every dream, did it turn into a nightmare with that demon always coming for him? Harry had found one answer, only to create a whole new set of questions. 'Dumbledore, where are you?'

And then there were the attacks on him, in Australia, Kolkata, and then in Duma. Who? And Why?Only more questions without answers. Harry clung to the pouch about his neck. Could someone have found out? But who? How? Only McGonagall knew he still had it, and surely she had not let anything slip. She had been the one to insist that he keep it. Had Voldemort said something to one of his Death Eaters? Highly unlikely, Voldemort trusted no one. Ron or Hermione? Not even they knew he had kept it, but even if, he found them as unlikely as McGonagall.

As Harry's mind tried to arrange all the pieces of the puzzle together, the dark began to fade with the coming light. Harry heard a slight crack issue from the dining room of his suite. A few shuffles, another crack, and then the wafting scent of breakfast. Harry ignored this, dressing in his robes before he left his dorm, letting the food once again go untouched.

McGonagall had promised and now she delivered. Harry's presence was to be kept anonymous to all except for she herself, who turned out would instruct him in Advanced Transfigurations, Professor Flitwick, who would help him delve deeper into the art of Charms, Professor Slughorn, who would show him the further sciences of both Potions and Poisons, and a Professor Krieg, the new Defense against the Dark Arts teacher. Harry had been skeptical of returning, of what more Hogwarts could offer him. He was soon to be in for a rude awakening.

He did not have to go far. A large room had been prepared for him on the top most floor near to his dorm. His professors would come to him to avoid any unwanted interruptions or visitors.

As he entered, several torches along the wall lit up, as well as a rustic chandelier over head. Harry was impressed. The room was obviously bewitched, so cavernous that it could not possibly be its true size. It reminded him much of the Room of Requirement, prepared in a sense as that room had for his DA lessons, but here, Harry would be the student. Harry had arrived early, but Professor Flitwick did not leave him waiting for long.

“Good morning, Mr Potter, I am glad to see your eagerness,” Flitwick said in his high pitched voice.

“Morning, Professor,” Harry responded. “Thank you...” he began, but then stopped, short of what exactly he was thankful for. He did not want to be here. He was putting everyone in danger with his presence, but at the same time, he felt that odd sense of old security being back in the classroom with this talented wizard. Never mind his size, appearances were all deceiving. Harry had seen this squat man work his wand just as well as the most brazen of Aurors in that final battle.

“Shall we begin?” Flitwick was abrupt, depositing his satchel of books and parchment on a far desk against the wall.

Harry quirked a smile at this. He had been prepared to undergo all the theatrics of praise and the dodging of unwanted questions, but Flitwick was getting right down to business. Harry liked it.

“Wand out.” Harry allowed his to slide from his sleeve into his palm. With a wave of his own wand, a bright light suddenly erupted at the center of the room, slowly forming into jagged edges and then finally into a solid mass as the light shed away. What was left was a massive boulder, the size of a small car, with a silvery, blue cast that shimmered in the candle light, and with cut, blocked angles across its surface.

“Do you know what this is?” Flitwick asked with a hint of amusement.

“A rock?” Harry answered blandly, shrugging.

“No,” Flitwick cut, and Harry almost expected him to deduct ten points from Gryffindor for his menial answer. “It is metal. Osmium to be exact, in its raw form. The heaviest metal on Earth.”

“Oh,” Harry intoned, unsure where he was going with all this.

“I presume you remember our first lesson together?” Flitwick asked expectantly.

Of course he did, how could he forget? It was the first magic he'd ever performed. “Wingardium Leviosa...” Harry murmured.

“Very good, Mr Potter. Now, if you would please, with a swish and a flick,” Flitwick motioned towards the huge bulk of Osmium.

With the said swish and flick of his wand, Harry repeated the incantation, this time louder, and... nothing. The massive piece of raw metal did not so much as budge a millimeter. From the corner of his eye, Harry saw Flitwick chuckling, rocking on the heels of his feet.

With a surge of resiliency and embarrassment, “Wingardium Leviosa!” Harry cast louder, applying more force, but alas, still, nothing. With Flitwick still watching him with that bemused grin, Harry cast again, this time outright shouting the spell, straining every muscle in his body until the veins in his neck started to throb and his head went light, and still the giant chunk of Osmium did not so much as tilt.

“Dammit!” Harry cursed, letting his magic go. The sudden purge left him tripping forward and panting. “It's impossible!” he complained.

“Not impossible,” Flitwick answered simply, swishing and flicking his own wand towards the hunk of metal. The reaction was not immediate, for this truly was no easy feat, but there was no straining of his face, no bulging veins. Harry could feel the wizard's magic calmly flowing out of him, curling about the boulder, and, ever so slowly, it began to rise. One centimeter, ten, until it was a full meter in the air, Flitwick allowed it to spin in place for a moment before he gently guided it back down.

“Brute force, Mr Potter, is not always the answer. It can cloud your mind, and in the end, make you weaker. I think you will find more success with a more thoughtful, calculated approach,” the professor instructed.

“Again, eyes and mind on the goal before you,” Flitwick walked him through it. “Clear away all else. There is only you and the object before you.” Harry, taking a deep breath and calmly this time, recast the spell. “Now hold it!” Flitwick interceded. “Focus yourself, push your magic onto it, let it wrap itself around it, encompass it to control it.” Harry did, he could feel it. “Very good. Now slowly, but determinedly, push your magic beneath it.”

And he did. It took a lot of restraint not to surge at it, he could feel the weight and the resistance, but Harry was just as resistant, and, once again, ever so slowly, the hunk of Osmium began to rise. One centimeter, ten, until he also had it a full meter in the air.

“Very good,” Flitwick complimented. Elated, Harry lost his focus and control, and the boulder suddenly fell, crashing to the floor. The sheer force of the mighty collision boomed like thunder, and sent out of minor shock-wave of dust. The very floor beneath them cracked with its weight. Harry grumbled with this failure.

“No, no!” Flitwick corrected him. “Magic is not infinite nor capable of all things, Mr Potter. There are very few who could accomplish even that! The lesson, Mr Potter, is that it is not in strength alone. One must be focused, intent, and with control. Now then,” he waved his wand and the block of Osmium was gone, replaced by six golden plates. “I would like you to lift the first.”

Harry repeated the process, this time it being much easier. The first golden plate flew into the air, but teetered unevenly as he held it. “Control, Mr Potter. Grip it tightly.”

Harry's eyes narrowed in on the plate as he focused. “I would like for you to take a moment to practice with it. Get a feel for the control,” Flitwick instructed as he watched Harry spin, rotate and move the plate about the room. After a while of this, they added a second, then a third, until eventually all six were in the air, making a neat circle about Harry.

“The application of control over objects in one's proximity is most important for an accomplished wizard.” Harry nodded, but was careful not to lose his focus or drop any of the plates. “Should you need to clear one out of your path, shield yourself...” Flitwick warned as a bead of red light formed at his out-held wand.

For this first application, Flitwick took it easy on him, firing his tamed stunner at Harry slowly and deliberately. Harry took the hint and jerked one of the plates to intercept this incoming curse. They met, the plate being blasted apart into a sparkle of pieces, but his loss in focus sent the other five crashing to the ground as well.

Success and failure. Harry stood wide-eyed at where the destroyed plate had just been. So much to still to learn. How had he ever survived to this point? And as Flitwick watched Harry for his reaction, Harry grit his teeth, flourished his wand, and brought the five remaining plates back up into the air, circling them about him as he awaited for Flitwick's next attack.

“Very good, Mr Potter. Determination.”

Their session lasted two hours, and did nothing short than put Harry in his place. 'Perhaps I've gotten a little too full of myself...' he chastised himself for falling so as he wiped the sweat from his brow. Though the exercise was not physical per se, the mental challenge was taxing on him all the same, and Harry was nothing short of enthralled at the prospects of the term to come.

Before they ended the session, Flitwick had Harry attempt to charm a suit of armor and have it attack a wooden dummy, but with each first step it took, the pieces of armor would all come apart and clatter onto the stone as useless as a pile of junk. There was much more to controlling the many facets of interconnected, moving parts, than simply hoisting a heavy object or rotating simple plates.

“No worries,” Flitwick reassured him. “T'was a good first day. We'll pick back up here tomorrow,” he said as the door to the room opened, letting in the plump Professor Slughorn. Having been faced with a new challenge, and having failed miserably at it, Harry was not eager to stop, but so it was.

“I believe you have learned how difficult it can be to have various parts work together in unison, to move as one. For your homework, Mr Potter, I want you to review chapter seventeen of our text, Mobilizing the Immobile. Good day.”

Homework... Harry smiled at this. Most students would grumble at such a prospect, but Harry felt a warm soothing run through him. He was back. He was home. Hermione would certainly find this most amusing!

“Harry, my boy!” Slughorn all but hugged him after Flitwick left. “I cannot begin to tell you what an honor it is to be instructing you once again, the Boy-Who-Lived!” he gleamed from ear to ear, but quickly corrected himself as he saw Harry draw away. “Yes, yes...” he had the wherewithal to see his flaw. “McGonagall has bid me to keep our lessons strict to business...” he waited here, perhaps in hopes that Harry might assure him that that would not be necessary, but if that were the case, he was left disappointed and it showed.

With the aid of Snape's books, and his studies and experiments at Grimmauld, Harry did not have high hopes for his Potion sessions, but Slughorn too saw to it that Harry's time would not be wasted.

Quite unexpectedly – and with a few grumblings from Harry - they would begin the first lesson with Harry blindfolded. He was to learn and memorize an assortment of various ingredients laid out on a table for him by touch and smell alone, and if he dared, taste. There was a lot, and it certainly was no easy task.

“Now then,” Slughorn finally removed Harry's blindfold after about an hour of this. “Can you tell me what all these ingredients have in common?”

Harry stared across the table covered by countless ingredients, all of them he knew, but still was short for an answer. There were just so many. His pride at believing himself an accomplished Potionaire was stung. “I... I don't know...” Harry was forced to admit.

Slughorn smiled gleefully at this as he rolled back onto the heels of his feet, poking out his plump belly. “With these ingredients, one can create just about every potion needed to heal or treat a wound, or remedy a serious poisoning. Would you not agree, Harry, that these might be of some importance to you?”

Harry looked back to the table, across all the ingredients. Immediately, as he mentally lumped them together within their proper assortments, it all started coming back to him from his time at Kitsaka's: Golden Apple, Elderberry, Mandarin, and Psylium – for burns. Five-Finger Grass, Cinnamon Twig, Echinacea, Rosemary, and Yellow Gentian – to make a Blood Replisnishing Potion. Betony, Nettle, Salpeter, Bezoar, Bloodroot and Mastick – for most poisonings a bezoar alone could not handle. Castor oil, Dittany, Vera, and Flouride – to close a deep gash. Borage, Fennel, Geranium, and Peppermint – a Pepper-up potion. Chinese Chomping Cabbage, Puffer-Fish, and Scarab Beetle – to brew Skelo-Gro to heal a broken bone. Goosegrass, Kelp, Vitriol, Boomslang, Mint, and Moonseed – for internal hemorrhaging. Olibanum, Croakoa, and Silverweed – for a concussion. Vervain, Moly, Vera and Vinegar – to treat a bad rash. It was a lot, but Harry now recognized them all. He'd used all these before.

“Some take longer than others to prepare, so we will begin our brewing at once. From blood replinishers to Skele-gro. From Alovere for burns, to Temerarius for nasty rashes. There are several useful potions for common poisons that a bezoar alone cannot cure. We'll brew those as well. Let us begin!” Slughorn was most excited.

Harry was in his element and was both surprised and disappointed when Slughorn announced it was time to break for lunch. The two hours had flown by.

“I am not hungry, Professor. Can't we go on?” Harry asked in earnest, almost pleadingly.

“Tee-hehe!” Slughorn shined with glee. “Maybe not you, young man, but I must eat!” he rubbed at his bloated belly. “We've got plenty of time, Harry,” Slughorn said, finding amusement in Harry's frown. He was nearly beside himself Harry was enjoying this so much.

“For your homework, I expect you to commit all these ingredients to memory. There is no telling when you might need them! Also, I want you to think of any possible ailment we might have over looked, with special care around poisonings. These can be most nasty and dreadful, and the worst of them take a very specific remedy. We will delve deeper into this tomorrow.”

Harry nodded.

“Harry,” Slughorn went on, now a bit timidly as he fumbled with the lining of his robe. “I am throwing a welcome back party-”

“No thank you, Professor,” Harry saw immediately where this was going. Old habits died hard for Slughorn.

“Yes, yes, of course! I do understand... but if you change your mind...” Slughorn trailed off at Harry's overt glare. “Very well, excellent first day, Harry. Until tomorrow then,” Slughorn took his leave.

Harry skipped lunch, continuing with the potions until McGonagall arrived for their afternoon Transfiguration session. She too took his studies to a whole new level.

“Well, Mr Potter, I trust your morning lessons have been insightful?” she inquired as she prepared to begin. Harry paused, studying her for a moment.

“Yes,” he answered shortly after she raised a brow at him.

“Very well. We will back track now here a bit to review the four basic elements of Mother Nature. Can you tell me what they are?”

“The basic elements?” Harry asked quizzically. It was a simple thing, but Harry was still a little confused as to what they had to do with transfiguration.

“Yes,” she was just as short with him.

“Earth...” he started hesitantly, feeling a little dumb. This was elementary, but they didn't exactly study muggle sciences here at Hogwarts.

“Go on.”

“Earth... wind, fire and water...” he finished, a little unsure of himself.

“Precisely,” McGonagall said, reciting each as she flourished her wand above the table at the center of the room, leaving a small hill of dirt, a glass of water, a bottle containing what looked like a swirling tornado within, and a simple flame, left burning, hovering over the table.

“A wizard's environment can either be a myriad of obstacles, traps, and dead ends, or a wizard's play ground. All is subject upon the level of wizard,” she went on. “Now then, when attempting to manipulate one's environment, we must remember Gamp's Laws. I trust you have not forgotten these?”

“Gamp's Laws...” Harry was again unsure of himself. “Well... I know you can't heal certain dark curses...” he remembered George's lost ear.

“Correct,” McGonagall said. “And what else?”

“You... you can't create food out of nothing...”

“Nor money,” McGonagall added. “But that is a special and specific case. What I wish us to focus on, are the first three laws of Gamp's. To summarize, as you so eloquently pointed out, a wizard cannot make something out of nothing. So if we are to master transfiguration, we must become masters at manipulating the four basic elements, which will lead us to all else,” she motioned across them. Harry simply nodded. “Wand out, Mr Potter.”

They started off simple enough. Converting the dirt from earth to rock, from rock to wood. They practiced enlarging and shrinking each, multiplying and dividing them. Nothing too fancy, that is until she had Harry try running full speed at the brick wall while attempting to transfigure a section of it into a wooden door he could escape through while she was firing curses at him.

The first thirteen times he simply ran smack dab into it, before falling back over on his arse. The next twelve times he was able to transfigure it into wood, but not so much a door as simple planks he was able to crash through. His shoulder was well bruised and sore by the time he got it right. They moved on.

Harry learned that without the addition of other elements, there was little one could do with water other than freeze and unfreeze it. It wasn't the hardest of tasks to complete, again until she had him levitate it out of its glass. It took all the control he'd learned from Flitwick to simply keep the mass together, much less form it into several different shapes and sizes. It proved damn near impossible when she had him freeze it mid-air, and then struggle to keep it frozen while he hovered it over the open flame.

Wind, as well as fire, were both easy enough to create, but to control with any precision... Well, this was going to take a lot of practice, and a lot more time than they had this first day.

Their final lesson of the day moved beyond the basic elements, as she had him turn glass to sand and then the sand back to glass. This too was not beyond him, until she broke the glass into a thousand small shards and had him practice it while the sharp pieces were flying at his head. It was safe to say he would be needing several of the healing potions he was brewing with Slughorn before this lesson was over.

“Very good, Mr Potter,” McGonagall smirked at him as Harry performed a small piece of mastery. Blasting the glass into sand, he used a pocket of wind to swirl the millions of tiny sediments together, before transfiguring them into two large bricks he sent hurdling at the wooden dummy he'd failed to attack with the suit of armor earlier, utterly destroying it. “Practice makes perfect.”

“At least I did it,” Harry grumbled sourly, tired, bruised, cut and worn. Whatever doubts he had about returning and what he could gain from it were gone. He now hadn't a clue as to how he, Ron and Hermione had survived this last year, much less defeated Voldemort, but he was glad he was back.

“I assume you'll still be here tomorrow then?” she asked as she began gathering her things. Again, Harry could not believe two hours had already passed.

“Yes,” Harry said.

“Good,” she replied. “You did well today, but I would suggest mastery of your control on the elements of wind and fire inparticular for your homework. The two are all too often overlooked by our kind, and can be so very useful,” she glanced back at him with a smile before bidding him farewell.

“Professor...” Harry called to her as she was leaving.

“Yes, Mr Potter?” She turned at the door.

“Thank you...”

McGonagall nodded and closed the door behind her.

Worn from the long day, Harry summoned a chair from against the wall to collapse into at the desk so that he could rest his head over it. 'If everyone only knew what a lousy wizard I am... 'Harry oddly relished the thought. 'The Boy-With-Luck,' he bemused a new nickname for himself, 'and not some bloody savior!'

Harry's self admonishments were suddenly interrupted by a loud crack, like splitting stone. His head popped up, looking around for a house elf, right before the floor abruptly gave out beneath him.

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Studies

The two wizards sat facing one another, not a full meter between them. They were as still and as silent and as unmoving as the furniture of the somber room. The blank features of their faces masked the ensuing battle within. With their backs held rigid and straight, chins raised high, that look of intensity shared in either of their eyes was the only thing to betray the mounting enmity.

One flew forward, slicing through and destroying each and every barrier as fast as the one sweeping backwards in retreat could erect them.

“Focus, Potter!” that voice boomed, not breaking the absolute silence in the room, but in his head, through the connection binding them. “You must clear your mind!”

“Where have I heard that before?!” Harry huffed, seemingly out of breath via the mental pursuit. It was the constant mantra of all those who have tried schooling him in Occlumency. Well never mind that. There was no clearing his mind, not with all that haunted him.

As the invader of his mind skirted across his memories, trailing his fingers through their waters, awaiting for the best one to pluck clean, Harry desperately grasped at each, ripping them in turn from his ever reaching tentacles, all the while flying backwards in escape. He did not wish to share.

Though he may not be able to empty his mind, he was not left entirely defenseless. He'd learned a few tricks through his training. These were his memories, his to remember and interpret... and manipulate. As the invader's grasp lashed out to grab hold of his next memory, Harry flung one forward for him to consume. It was a memory of the one before him, of their first encounter. It was one which Harry would not soon forget, and one he had no trouble in recalling now. As he plunged forward, taking the bait, the invader brought the memory back to life.

The floor suddenly gave out, and he collapsed down in a heap of stone and wood and broken mortar to the level below. “Aghh!” he cried aloud with a sharp pain piercing his leg, and something crushing into the left side of his ribs.

The pain was as real and as vivid now as it had been then, but Harry was counting on this.

The world around him fell to black. “What in the... Bloody hell!” he cursed, frustrated, struggling to free himself from the debris.

Whatever it had been, it came at him again with a blinding light through the black, sweeping like a wave of insurmountable energy. He and all else that had fallen were blown back, separating from each other as they were strewn about like helpless drift to be laid out upon the beach by the in-tameable tide. As he laid prostrate in the darkness, various limbs and other bodily parts throbbing, that deep voice broke the otherwise silence.

“Your first lesson in survival , Mr Potter-” it thrummed.

“Constant vigilance,” Harry heard himself mock within the memory in that strained, injured voice. “Yeah, I know,” he groaned.

“Constant vigilance...” the voice repeated. “Yes, I like that,” it revealed a hint of amusement at his answer. Harry witnessed a shadow move over him, extending out a hand. Harry took it and grunted as the man helped him to his feet.

“Hans Krieg,” he introduced himself with a heavy German accent. “Teacher,” he added bluntly.

Harry felt Krieg realize his error and attempt to pull away, but Harry pushed the memory onto him, dousing him with it, the tide now turning.

“The pleasure is all mine,” Harry winced with sarcasm as he collected himself as best he could. “You know, they say your position is cursed. Lasts only a year...”

“And only the time I intend,” Krieg informed him cynically .

“That wasn't exactly fair...” Harry complained as he dusted himself off and struggled to lift his heavy lidded eyes to study the man before him.

From what he could make out in the dim light, Krieg was a large man, older in years, but still fit and radiated a certain air of strength and nobility. His gray hair and beard were cut short. He was dressed in fine, smokey gray robes with his wand in hand. His face was stern and features sharp, a hint of danger in his crystal clear, blue eyes. They all told of a man of action, a Warlock if he'd ever seen one.

“Battle never is,” Krieg said simply. “Your education, Mr Potter, begins now.”

The pitch black chamber began to spin as Harry was suddenly lifted from his feet and the world began to swirl about him. It lasted only briefly, but having lost his bearings in the whirlwinds, Harry tripped forward when his feet found the ground once again. When he was finally able to get a hold of himself, he found that Krieg had either apparated them, or transformed the room about them into what appeared to be some sort of dark forest.

Raising his arms in a fluid motion, and as if on cue, a clasp of thunder rattled the skies as Krieg's hands met overhead. Not a second later, a torrential downpour followed, immediately soaking Harry to the core.

“The first priority of survival, Mr Potter?” Krieg demanded of him.

“Getting the hell out of this!” Harry turned his face to the heavens, as if to search out the gods beyond the limb and leaf of the canopy above to ask them, 'why?'

“Wrong,” Krieg responded flatly, flourishing his wand he slapped Harry with another spell, sending him spiraling onto his backside. “How can one defend themselves, whether it be through fight or flight, if they are injured as such? Your first lesson is self aid. If one cannot protect themselves or treat a serious wound in the field, nothing else following matters.”

Raising his head, Harry glowered at Krieg. However, not to be out witted, Harry crawled up onto his knees, before pulling out his pouch from beneath his robes. Retrieving two vials, he quickly consumed both, balking at their foul tastes, but following some quick wand work, he was as good as he needed to be.

“Good,” Krieg offered as much of a compliment to Harry as he ever would. “I see you are not completely helpless. Now then, the second priority, as you so gracefully put it, I would consider getting the hell out of this,” Krieg no sooner warned than a hail of red curses rained down upon him from all directions of the shadows of the tree line.

Before, Harry had broke for the cover of a fallen trunk, only to be struck down once again in the process. What had followed had been one of the most grueling lessons he'd ever learned, but that was then. This was now. Krieg was in his mind, his territory, where no matter how strong his nemesis was, here he was master. Harry took hold of the memory and held his ground. He did not so much as flinch as the curses arched about him.

Sensing the change, Krieg pulled even harder to extract himself, but Harry forced his image of Krieg to the forefront.

This Krieg likewise ducked away as Harry remembered the dastardly spells aiming for him. Instead of himself, it would be Krieg who would be cut down by the curses. Without control, Krieg reeled from the stings of curse after curse, spinning him about.

Seizing the opportunity, Harry took the opening and cast off Krieg's grip on his mind, and struck back with his own attack. It would be a futile attempt, he'd tried this many times before. It would hurt like hell, and it did, but Harry did not let it stop him. As he ran smack dab into that wall of Krieg's sealed mind, a thousand spears seemed to pierce down into him at once in defense, but Harry did not relent. The pain was not real. Like that of the Cruciatus, it was all in the head. He distanced himself from the intense pain, separating it and cornering it like a wild animal, he pushed it aside, making it an abstract, and there by containing and bearing it. Harry struck at the wall like sledge hammer, intent on tearing it down. A crack began to form...

“Huughh!” Harry sucked in a desperate breath of air as the feeling of ice water washed over him from the sudden withdrawal. Krieg had managed to pull away.

“You failed,” Krieg chastised him. “You must learn to clear your mind.”

“I got you out, didn't I?” Harry managed a response. “You're just mad I beat you again!”

“You beat nothing,” Krieg said calmly, but a hint of warning underlined his tone. “Tricks will only get you so far,” he said as he abruptly stood, turning his back to Harry to move and collect his things.

“Where are you going?” Harry asked indignantly, put off by Krieg's never ending refusal to recognize anything Harry was able to accomplish. Over the last two months, from that very first meeting, save for his three other lessons with the other professors each, Krieg had become a constant in his life, inevitably forming some sort of bond between the two.

It was a love - hate relationship. Hate in that Krieg's consistent snide remarks forever reminded him of Snape. Hate in how Krieg forever pushed and drilled him, no matter how far he'd come, it was never enough. Hate for what his life had become, ceaseless training and studying, never a break, never a friend, none but his professors and the ever present Krieg, no purpose other than to master his next lessons, to reach that next step... but for what?

In the same breath, though, Harry could recognize what Krieg was, what he was offering him. As much as Krieg reminded him of Snape – a powerful wizard in his own right – Harry'd never met a more intriguing nor powerful wizard short of Dumbledore himself. In these last two months, Krieg, together with the others, had taught him things he'd yet to fathom. Whether Krieg wished to acknowledge them or not, Harry could see them, and they were drastic, and as much as he hated Krieg for what he was doing to him, he could not help but... had he known all that he did now, had he been this capable before the war... Harry was all too aware of what still awaited him out their beyond Hogwarts' walls.

“I have a meeting with the Headmistress,” Krieg answered, interrupting Harry's thoughts.

“About what?” Harry had no qualms about butting his nose in.

“Should it concern you, Potter, you would be invited,” Krieg likewise snubbed him. Harry paused, appraising his teacher for a moment. He had a sneaking suspicion that these random rendezvous of Krieg's with McGonagall did in fact have everything to do with him. He'd try to shadow Krieg before, use what Krieg himself had taught him on spying and eavesdropping, but not even his best of spellwork could undo the silencing charms about the Headmistress's office. It was always a fruitless endeavor as Krieg was no fool.

“I will see you at midnight within the Pitch,” Krieg left him with that.

. . . .

“Hey, there you are!” Ron dropped his stack of books down on the table with a loud thud before collapsing into the seat next to Hermione. “What are you still doing here, it's already past ten, you know?” Ron needlessly informed her.

“Thanks for your concern, Ron, but I've still to finish my essay for Professor Binn's, and I've yet to start on our Transfiguration assignment, not to mention the Alchemy and Runes' homework. Our project for Slughorn took up most of my evening.”

“Yikes!” Ron bit, not wanting to get her going. “You know, sometimes I think Harry had the right idea.”

Hermione's head shot up for the first time at this, glaring at Ron with warning.

“S-sorry...” Ron rolled his eyes away. Hermione always got like this when someone mentioned Harry around her. “Just don't remember the lessons being so bloody hard is all. I swear, this new Transfigurations professor! Ten sheets of parchment, just on turning a beetle into a bagroot?! Not even McGonagall had been this mental!” Ron complained.

“That's because you're a senior, Ronald. They're supposed to be more difficult.”

Ron gulped when he heard this. Just like his mum, Hermione would use his full name when she was about to give him a proper lecture.

“And a Prefect on top of that, you should be setting an example. Besides, as one of the world's saviors, this should all be but a cinch for you anyways,” she smiled smugly at him.

“Geez, Herms, lighten up will ya?! I was just venting a bit!”

Hermione shook her head at him disapprovingly.

“Anyways...” Ron tried changing the subject. “What are you reading about?” he attempted being clever, baiting Hermione with one of her weaknesses.

Hermione could not suppress a laugh at this. There were no bounds Ron wouldn't stoop to and he knew her too well. “I was hoping you'd ask!” Hermione put on a cheery facade. “We're covering Ancient Magi's of the Seventh Century in history, and I thought it would be fun if we could get together tomorrow after dinner and discuss the differences between Groeger's and Demetri's philosophies on proletariat equalities,” she batted her lashes at him tenderly.

“Er...” Ron's eyes grew wide with fear before Hermione broke and began laughing hard at her own jest. “Not funny!” Ron shook his head at her, letting out a deep sigh of relief.

“Hmm...” Hermione studied him, “and here I thought you were generally interested!”

Ron shivered as he thought about ol' Professor Binn's class. He'd been lucky enough to dodge that one. “About as interested as you are in hearing about my Quidditch.”

“I always listen to you about your Quidditch, Ron,” Hermione turned back to her book.

“Not like you want to...” Ron grumbled.

“Look, if you came to study, fine, but I don't have the time to do this with you right now. I've got a twenty sheet essay due on the Byzantine Wars and I've only got thirty-six pages done so far and I have yet to begin on the Arab conflicts.”

“But... never mind,” Ron decided it best not to argue her logic, this was Hermione after all. Leave it to her to turn a twenty sheet essay into a fifty sheet one.

“So...” Ron contemplated a different approach. “Have I ever told you how charming you look while studying..?” he pulled his mouth into an eek at saying this, hoping it would work.

“I'm not doing your Transfiguration's essay for you, Ronald. Your N.E.W.T.'s will be here before you know it. You should try learning something for a change.”

“Ah, come off it, Hermione. I'm swamped with all our other classes, the Halloween feast is tomorrow, and then we've got that big match against Ravenclaw on Friday, which could very well decide who gets the Cup!” he pleaded.

“Well then, I'd suggest you get started!” she opened his Transfiguration book for him. Ron grumbled while pulling out some parchment and a quill.

. . . .

It being so late and past curfew, the vast and otherwise empty library had grown eerily quite as the two scribbled away at their homework. Ron jumped when the large clock, tucked away in the far corner, first chimed to mark eleven o'clock.

“Merlin!” he gasped. “Getting too...”

“Sshh!” Hermione hissed, spinning her head about to look back behind them.

“Huh?” Ron in turn looked quizzically in the same direction as the chimes tolled on. She did not respond.

Dong! The silence ensued through the sixth chime.

“Did you hear that?” Hermione finally whispered under her breath.

Dong!

“Hear what? It's called a clock, Herms.” Ron looked at her like she had something on her face.

Dong!

“No...” She stood to face the direction at which she was looking.

Dong!

In the silence following the ninth toll, Ron finally heard something too. A thud, like a book hitting the floor, and then the scuffle of feet.

Dong!

“What was that?” Ron looked to Hermione, but she did not answer, staring intently off into the void.

Dong! The final bell tolled, and then... nothing. Absolute silence as the two stared away into the darkness.

They waited. And... nothing.

“Hello?” Hermione called out, piercing the eerie muteness of the empty library. “Someone there?” Of course, there was no response.

“Probably just Filch's cat,” Ron said a bit nervously, his eyes darting back and forth amongst the endless shelves of books. The long aisle cloaked in darkness leading towards the exit suddenly did not look too appealing. “Come on, let's-”

“Homenum Revelio,” Hermione abruptly cast.

“A little paranoid, are we?” Ron chuckled tensely as the tiny bead of light sped away, disappearing finally amidst the shelves. “You don't actually think someone would be-”

“Ron.” She said his name quick and sharp, stopping him short. His eyes followed hers back to the shelves. The little bead of light had not returned. Its faint glow could just barely be seen perhaps some twenty aisles down, now moving slowly, but steadily amongst the rows.

“Shite...” Ron sighed breathlessly, a hint of fear now evident in his voice.

“Luminos,” Hermione cast, raising her wand to give them some more light, but the air in the room seemed to be thick and smothering, restraining her spell within a tight globe.

“Hermione!” Ron gasped, grabbing at her arm as she stepped forward. Her head snapped back at him, eying him wearily. “What are you doing?!” he hissed.

“Someone has been spying on us, and I intend to find out why,” she stated matter-of-factly.

“Bloody hell,” he cursed. “OI!” he shouted now, calling out into the distance. “We know you're there! It's past curfew, you little shite! Show yourself and maybe I won't take fifty points when I find your little smarmy arse!” he tried. His eyes were locked onto the dim glow of Hermione's charm in the distance, just as it was snuffed out. “Shite,” he repeated in a whisper.

“Come on,” Hermione said, pulling him along. “You take this aisle,” she motioned down the center one. “I'll go over this way.”

“Hermione, you can't be-”

“Don't be childish, Ron. It's just another student,” she cut before pulling away from him to take the side aisle. Ron could only stand there, gripped by something he had not felt in a long, long time. Hermione disappeared as he did battle with his feet. He did not want to face it, but he was afraid. Something about this just felt all wrong.

He seemed to forget himself as he stared down that ominous looking aisle. He'd frozen. He'd yet to take a step when he heard the anguished, piercing scream of Hermione.

“Hermione...” he snapped out of it. “HERMIONE!” he finally found his footing, charging forward with his wand held high. “NO!”

A/N: Think I am as tired as the next at how long I've been dragging this along without getting to the heart of the matter, but, I promise, it's soon coming. As my first story on here, I've done a poor job of plotting it all out, and have gotten myself a little too carried away. If you've made it this far, thanks for sticking with me, and especially to those who've left a review. If you haven't would love to hear your remarks, good or bad, advice or whatever else you like to add. This is perhaps one of the longest chapters I've written, two chapters in one, but wanted to get as much out of the way at once as I could. This is the final chapter of Part II, the next kicking off the final Part III, and will, after another chapter or two or three, start revealing just what in the hell is going on. Pardon the “filler” in this chapter, but as my story, it's the sort of action I enjoy!:)

Chapter Thirty: The Recruit


The three sitting, talking leisurely while they awaited, merely glanced to the door to welcome the expected fourth, but at the entrance of a fifth, all jumped to their feet.

“Minister!” echoed quickly around the room.

“Minister, I was not aware you were planning a visit to the castle, and at this hour?” McGonagall stood behind her desk, a degree of alarm evident in her voice. The Minister of Magic did not just drop in, unannounced at ten in the evening.

“I wasn't,” he answered simply. Though he stood tall, he looked all too tired and worn. These last few months had not been kind to him. “And please, it is only Kingsley amongst friends.”

“Of course,” McGonagall responded. “Then to what do we owe this honor?” Shacklebolt's eyes flashed to Krieg at her question.

“Seems I owe Krieg a favor.” In turn, all their gazes now turned towards the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. “He has been assisting me... with a most difficult task,” Shacklebolt seemed weary, hesitant to reveal much more.

“Oh,” McGonagall intoned. “I was not aware one of my professors had been assigned any additional responsibilities,” she said it disparagingly, just as she meant it. “Should not the Headmistress of the school have been informed?”

“Forgive me, Minerva, but between the Wizengamot and the Daily Prophet, well...” he sighed heavily, “I've been trying to keep this on a need to know basis.”

“And now?”

“And now you need to know,” he said simply as he and Krieg stepped forward to join the circle about her desk.

“Well then,” she beckoned for him to continue. “What is the meaning of all this secrecy then?”

“I do not intend to run in the upcoming election,” he announced quite unexpectedly. “Politics,” he slewed with an undisguised loathing, “does not suit me, but,” he emphasized, “before that time comes, I have taken it upon myself to bring this whole, dark chapter to an end, once and for all.”

The three, McGonagall, Slughorn, and Flitwick, all offered a brief nod. No one would argue the success Shacklebolt has had in righting the wrongs, nor in his efforts to bring all those responsible to justice – if only perhaps a little too heavy handedly.

“To right the ship, I've had to make some hard decisions,” he recognized, as if reading their thoughts. “Following the final battle, the people needed some security and stability in their lives, and as such, the burden fell upon me to purge the darkest from amongst us. We created a list, a “most wanted,", if you will, which initially consisted of thirty-eight individuals. With every resource and method I've had available, I've unleashed the Aurors upon them unrelentingly, and we have now been able to dwindle it down to four.” He rested here, the weight of it all seemingly atop his chest.

“But these four, of the highest ranks of His lieutenants, the worst of the worst... they have so far alluded our effort. They have run deep underground. The strength of their dark magic, coupled with that still lingering in the left of their forearm, has presented us with a challenge, hence my request of Krieg's services.”

“But what could he offer that your Aurors-” McGonagall started, but was interrupted.

“We have been using an Invesio,” he said low, his eyes darting up towards the portraits of the previous Headmasters as if daring any to be listening on.

Slughorn humpfed. Flitiwck squeaked. McGonagall herself blinked several times before his last words finally set in. “An Invesio..? But that's... impossible. One hasn't...”

“It seems Dumbledore, in all his cleverness, was able to perform one last miracle before his untimely passing. He deemed to leave it to me in his Final Will,” Shacklebolt revealed.

McGonagall was shaking her head with disbelief. “But even then...”

“I do not mean to overstate. It has taken a great deal of time and risk to perfect, and even then, we have had only limited success. The device has proven itself to be every bit as difficult as legend has told of it. Up until two weeks ago, I had been the only one capable of successfully using it, and here I do not mean to boast, as it was only the weakest on that list that I was able to uncover and trace. The higher on the list I rose, the more arduous the task became, until I was no longer able. I turned to several others, those I believed more powerful than myself, to attempt. All was in vain, until I was pointed in the direction of Professor Krieg here.”

“And he has..?”

“Succeeded where I fell short. He has personally detained...” Shacklebolt faltered here for a moment, “or removed... three of the next highest on the list, until we arrived at the final four.”

Krieg's three co-professors eyed him with something between awe and bewilderment. Krieg, being a German, had remained out of the war for the most part, as all of continental Europe had.

“And now?” McGonagall asked.

“And now we are once again at a dead end,” Shacklebolt said. “I admit, I am not convinced of the idea myself, but I have agreed that if you should be sold of it.... as Krieg was recommended to me, he has in turn recommended another whom might be able to succeed where we have not.”

There was absolute silence as his last words sank in, the meaning of them, and why he was here at Hogwarts finally becoming evident.

“No, absolutely NOT!” McGonagall was so emphatic that she slammed her palm down hard atop her desk. All flinched back a step at her sudden ferocity.

“You!” she turned her ire upon Krieg. “How dare you?!”

“Headmistress,” Krieg kept up with the formalities. “If any are able...”

“Enough of that!” McGonagall did not relent. “You have no right!” she beat her hand against her desk once again. Flitwick and Slughorn both faded into the background, looking to one another worriedly, eying for the door. “I invited you here to help teach the boy to protect himself from those wolves, not throw him amidst a den of them!”

“Minerva, please,” Krieg kept his cool. “You do not understand the full urgency of the matter.”

“I understand I am being asked to send a boy to do a man's job, once again! Hasn't he done enough, faced enough already?! And why on earth would you even begin to assume he would be able where you two have not?!” she was red in the face. “The answer is NO!” she turned back to Shacklebolt.

“Minerva, I...” Shacklebolt tried to interject, he'd hardly been able to properly explain himself earlier before she had turned on him.

“Enough!” she practically spat. Shacklebolt instantly regretted garnering her attention back to himself. “You are the Minister of Magic - you have a whole army of Aurors to command as you please - you will leave him out of it!” she rattled off.

“Minerva,” Krieg stepped forward. “I have known Harry for only a short amount of time, but just the same, he has impressed upon me... I think everyone in this room has Harry's well being as their top priority, but-”

“But nothing. The answer is NO!” she refused to let him go any further. “This is the most absurd thing I have ever heard, and I am the school master of immature children!”

“Minerva, will you listen?!” Shacklebolt raised his booming voice, finally drawing hers and everyone else's undivided attention. “I would have never considered such a prospect...” he went on, “and as I have already said, I am still not sure I support it whole heartedly, but...” he drew a deep breath. “We have uncovered some alarming intelligence, there has been rumors spreading...” he spoke ominously. “There is someone looking for Harry, as you well know, and whomever it is, he is spreading around a lot of gold in his efforts. We have learned that he has enlisted the help of at least two of these last four I have told you of. Considering their renown ruthlessness, coupled with the events that have already transpired in India, I hope you can see the urgency at hand?”

“I see all the more reason to keep Harry hidden and away, here, safe, while YOU do YOUR job and find them!” McGonagall cut at the Minister.

“That is assuming, Minerva, that Harry will remain here,” Krieg stopped her cold. “He has not forgotten why he is here, nor of what awaits him out there. Why not let us help him, while he might still allow?”

“This is ludicrous,” McGonagall still defended, but some of that fire had been robbed from her. There was another long pause before she spoke again, and when she did, it was only in the faintest of whispers. “Allow me... let me try.”

“Minerva...” Krieg voiced his doubt.

“If you are willing, I would not deny you, Minerva, but do you understand that if you were actually able... The Invesio is not apparation. It is too dangerous to attempt to send any with you. You could potentially arrive before who knows what, without any proper support.”

“Ha!” she laughed cynically. “You are afraid for this old woman, but not for the boy you wish to throw to them?!”

“I have not said I support the idea,” Shacklebolt defended, “but is he, or is he not, the one who defeated the Dark Lord to begin with?”

“That was – that was different,” McGonagall protested. “The circumstances were different.”

“You have seen for yourself what Harry is capable of, all of you have,” Krieg turned to the other professors. “We at least owe it to him to let him try.”

“Owe it to him?!” McGonagall bit. “And what if it did work? What if we were to drop him right into all four of their laps at once, he all alone?! After everything else, we owe him that?! Hardly!”

“Well, that is one point we will have to...” Shacklebolt revealed his own misgivings on this particular piece of the plan.

“No,” Krieg stated. “If such a scenario were to occur, it would not be Harry you would have to fear for.”

“Don't be ridiculous, Krieg. There are a thousand different scenarios that could unfold using the Invesio, and all of them equally as dangerous!” McGonagall kept up the fight.

“Eh hem,” a reluctant, squeaky voice coughed, drawing everyone's eyes to him. He squirmed in place for a moment, garnering his courage to go on. “With all do respect, Headmistress,” Flitwick spoke with unease. Everyone appeared as if they had been stunned. “It has been eight years now since I first had the pleasure to meet Harry Potter,” he began, his eyes traveled off to that distant past.

“In that time... well, as Krieg has already stated, I doubt there is one among us who would not acclaim to the young boy's talents, and who, after all he's sacrificed for us, after all the time we have spent with him and taught him, as much as he has taught each of us... I do not need to speak of how dear we all hold him, how much we all wish to shelter and protect him from those the Minister speaks of, but has he not been the one to protect us all along?”

McGonagall looked as if she wanted to argue, but Flitwick went on.

“It was... heartbreaking,” Flitwick shook his head as he looked to the ground. “What you told of Harry in India, and so soon after the war,” the squat wizard seemed to choke on his own words. “Then, I was not so sure of your plans for Harry's return to Hogwarts. At the least, I... well, I am no Gryffindor,” he chuckled abashedly. “Not the sum of all my long years have I faced such trials and tribulations as Harry Potter, but still, he never ceases to amaze me, to inspire me.”

“I was alarmed by the state the poor boy was in upon his return,” Flitwick said in barely more than a whisper. “But as high as he had built that wall to hide himself, only that much more did it reveal of his fear, but not for himself... I believe we all saw that war still raging within him. He had closed himself off to everyone and everything except for his studies. He is here not to hide, but to prepare himself – to prepare to go back out there, alone, to end this madness, to protect those he loves. He's been through so much and still the story refuses to end. The book refuses to close,” Flitwick went on, though it seemed as if he were speaking only to himself.

“If Harry is the only one able, which I have no doubt if any can, then he... if we were to try to shelter him from this, withhold this information and not help him, and something more were to happen... These four Death Eaters, I think they have already proven that there is no low they wouldn't stoop to, to achieve their goals, and if it involves Harry Potter, all the better for them. They know all his connections, all those closest to him, all the ways to goad him out. If we wait and something were to happen to one of them... well, I for one would not want to live with the consequences. He has been left standing on the ledge, and one misstep, I fear he might slip away forever. I think he has earned our honesty, that we at least owe it to him to tell him what is happening, and to let him decide what part he would like to play in this, and if we can in any way help him...”

McGonagall was finally left speechless, just as they all were, but it was she who was left with her head hung, staring at her hands. He deserves your honesty.

“Krieg,” Slughorn was the first to break the silence, speaking up softly. “I likewise have seen Harry's progression, but perhaps not from as good an angle as you. If the worst scenario Minerva has spoken of were to occur, that the Invesio should deliver him to all four at once or something worse, are you absolutely sure Harry would truly be as readied as you say?

Krieg eyed the tall, plump Professor of Potions carefully. “Before I arrived here, Professor, it had been a long time since I had been challenged in a duel. As we all have, for sixty days now I have been working with Harry on many things, amongst them dueling, and in those sixty days, I have dueled with Harry sixty times. At first, though he could put up a good fight, the boy still had much to learn. After the first few weeks he was finally able to get the better of me. I have not been able to claim a victory in our last sixteen. I have not been able to touch him in our last four.”

Though they had all seen Harry's accent, they all nonetheless stared at Krieg with disbelief at this revelation. Krieg was a renowned Warlock to say the least.

“You do not have to take my word for it,” he smiled crookedly. “I have asked the Minister to bring four of his best Aurors with him...”

. . . .

Hermione crept slowly, stepping ever so softly, even though her Luminos would give her position away regardless. The silence of the Library was so deafening, that there simply felt something dangerous about disturbing it.

On that very first row, she spotted her first clue. There was a book laying discarded upon the ground – the book that they had heard fall. She moved to it, carefully looking about herself before bending down to pick it up. “Toad Stools and Tampering Fools,” the title read - insignificant. She moved to replace it within the shelf, but then paused. Just through the gap it left, she had a perfect view of the table she and Ron had been studying at, the latter still standing there, fumbling with his wand. There was no doubt, someone had been spying. After rolling her eyes at Ron, she moved on.

Aisle by aisle, she weaved up and down, stressing to keep the quite, but without any further sign or clue. She was so absorbed in looking and listening for the slightest hint of sound or movement, that she did not notice the orb of her light seemingly restricting more and more with each passing row. The darkness crept in, coupled with an odd chill in the air the further she drew.

She had been on edge, an eery tingling coursing up and down her spine, but as she reached the end of the Library without so much as a footfall being heard, she straightened back up, readied to give up the search. Whoever it was, they had made it out. She turned to head back up the center aisle in search for Ron... and then that's when she saw it, a long shadow cast out from her light at the end of the very last aisle.

Hermione startled, but the object did not move. “Hello?” Hermione called, raising her wand higher while squinting into the darkness. It was hard to see. She began taking careful steps down the row. Halfway there, she was brought up short.

“Oh!” Hermione stopped in her tracks. Indeed there was someone there. “Hello?” she called again, her eyes piercing into the shadows. From what she could make out, it was a small girl - had to be a first year - standing as still as stone, her head hung with long, black, wiry hair draping down, covering her face.

“Everything okay?” Hermione beckoned. “Are you lost?” she let her guard down, drawing ever closer to the girl, but the closer she drew, the more and more it looked like the girl was anything but okay.

The young girl was not dressed in robes, but in a worn, tattered and dirty muggle dress. Her wiry hair looked to be wet and knotted, decrepit even, and the closer Hermione got, the girl looked to be shivering.

“You do not have to be afraid, everything is going to be fine,” Hermione spoke softly, reassuring the apparently terrified girl. Hermione had gotten near enough that she started to kneel down to be at eye level with the frightened girl. She had been so overcome with concern for this terrified little child, that she did not notice her light had been nearly snuffed out, nor of the increasing bitterness of the air about them.

Just as her knee hit the ground, the little girl's face shot up. It was hideous. A terrible shrieking, the likes of which there was no equal, suddenly filled Hermione's head. She dropped her wand to clench at her ears as her face twisted with the pain of it, something, anything to deafen the ear shattering wail.

Hermione felt her own mouth fall open to scream at the sight of the small girl's weathered, wrinkled face, at her biting, rotten teeth, at her cold, black beady eyes, but the piercing shriek inside her head was so much, so consuming, that she wasn't sure if she had even made a sound. And then it all happened so quickly, she did not have a chance to defend herself. The little girl was swooping right for her, her fingers with long, yellowish nails reaching out like talons.

She felt herself being grabbed, pinched, consumed, but she had lost all her senses. “WHERE-IS-HE?!” was shrieked so loud inside her head that she was sure it had exploded. Images began blitzing past her mind's eye so fast that they were nothing but a blur.

She was spinning, swirling, being tossed out of control, losing her own mind, and then... just as fast as it had all started, it stopped. She was standing at the top of a stairwell, looking down at a boy she once knew, loved with all her heart, but now hardly recognized.

His black, raven hair was longer than she remembered, but ever much as disheveled. His skin was pale, glowing even in the torches light. And those eyes... no longer hidden behind his moon-ringed spectacles, sparkled that emerald green.

“Harry...” she felt his name on her lips. “Harry,” she called out pleadingly to him. “Harry!” she reached for him, tripping down the stairs, but no matter how fast she ran, they did not seem to end.

“Hermione...” she heard him call back up, his voice strained and distant. “Hermione...” he called as he was being pushed further and further away.

“Hermione!” her eyes finally jerked open. Harry was gone. A redheaded boy was knelt over her. “Merlin!” he sighed heavily. “Nearly gave me a heart attack!”

Hermione tried to sit up, but all her strength was gone. “What in the bloody hell happened?!” Ron helped her.

“I don't..?” she found words hard to come by, her brain jumbled. As Ron got her up to a sitting position, she felt something warm run down either side of her face. She lifted one hand to touch at her ear before bringing it back to her eyes. It was red.

“Your... your ears!” Ron said aghast. “They're bleeding!” he sounded near panic. Hermione shook her head, unable to make sense of anything. “Come on, we need to get you to the infirmary!” he tried lifting her by the arm.

“No!” Hermione stopped him. “Where is she?!” she suddenly remembered, looking frantically about them.

“Who?” Ron asked. “There was no one here. I just heard you scream, came running, found you like this...”

“You didn't hear her?”

“No, hear what? I told you, I just heard you scream and then came running.”

“I...” Hermione started, but then, she could not remember exactly what had happened.

“Come on, we need to get you to Madam Pomfrey,” Ron repeated.

“No!” Hermione again refused, pushing him away to struggle to her own two feet. “I just need...” she wobbled, almost fainting, before Ron grabbed hold and steadied her.

“I'm taking you to the infirmary,” he now insisted.

“Ron...” she looked to him, pleadingly. “Nothing happened...” she tried, only soliciting a scoff from Ron. “If word gets around, Harry...” was all she needed to say before Ron finally understood. He didn't like the idea, but, Harry had gone bonkers enough already, they'd still yet to hear from him, and this would only drive him further away. “Just help me to my room, I'll be okay.”

Ron paused, considering their options. “Fine,” he finally relented, slinging one of her arms over his shoulder and placing his own around her back to help guide her. “But you're doing my Transfiguration essay!” he smirked to her.

“Heh,” Hermione laughed weakly.

. . . .

He didn't like it, not one bit. Hermione wouldn't say a thing more of what had happened to her, but right now she needed rest. He'd get it from her tomorrow, whether she liked it or not.

He had left her safely in her room, but not before he'd completed a thorough search of her dorm, and not until she had managed to perform a few healing charms on herself – she had adamantly refused to let him try.

And now here he was, back in the castle's dark and empty corridors, and once again alone. He kept his wand in hand, treading softly as he went, his eyes alert for any movement. He'd had enough surprises for one night. They'd get to the bottom of this tomorrow, he reassured himself.

It was coming around a corner, Ron having momentarily turned around to check his rear when he ran smack dab into the chest of another.

“OMINIWHO!” Ron practically screamed like a girl, his face turning as white as a sheet as he fell to the floor, but not before slashing his wand through the air to blast the arm off a defenseless statue.

“Oi!” two fell back in the opposite direction, shouting, equally alarmed.

“Dean? Seamus?” Ron grumbled, rolling onto his back. “What in the bloody hell are you doing?!”

“Er...” they both stammered, looking to each other for support. “Nothing..?” Dean stepped forward to give him a hand up.

“Riigght...” Ron looked suspiciously between the two. “Just out for a late night stroll, I imagine?”

“Y-yeah... that's it,” they tried latching on to Ron's given excuse.

“Now you two know I've caused too much mischief myself to fall for that. Fess up or I'll hex the both of you to kingdom come!” Ron could only hope they'd buy that last part, but he seemed in such the disgruntled state that his two friends were weary.

“Alright, alright,” Dean said. “Don't get your knickers in a wad!” The two looked to one another uneasily again, a silent argument taking place. “He'll want to see this...” Dean whispered to Seamus.

“See what?!” Ron demanded. The two looked urgently around the empty halls first to ensure no eaves droppers, before Seamus leaned in.

“Dean was up in the bleachers of the Quidditch the other night with...” Seamus ground to a halt with Ron's glower at Dean. “Er... by himself... when he saw two come out onto the grounds below...”

“What were you doing in the bleachers at this hour?!” Ron glared at Dean.

“Ah, never mind that, mate. Come on, you've got to see this, there's not much time!” Before Ron could say anything else, the two left it at that as they took off for a side exit they knew of out the castle.

“What's this about?” Ron, however, did not give in on his questioning. He'd had enough excitement for one night, but still, he followed them all the same. “If you get me into any trouble..!” he swore, thinking more of with Hermione than with Finch.

“You think they'll come?” Seamus asked Dean excitedly as they snuck their way into the Quidditch Pitch.

“Who?” Ron demanded. “Who's coming?” he asked, looking around nervously, but there wasn't a soul in sight.

“They've been here, right on queue now, three nights in a row.” Ron did not understand their excitement, but he did not turn back. He followed them all the way up along the winding stairs into the bleachers, all the while pestering them for answers they would not give.

“I... I can't begin to explain it...” Dean seemed mesmerized by whatever was to come. You'll just have to see it for yourself.”

“Quite now,” Seamus shushed them. “It's three til,” they made it to a covered suite reserved for the professors to keep out of sight.

“Three til midnight,” Dean answered Ron's confused glare.

“Whoa!” Seamus stopped in front of them. “Would you look at that!” he said hushedly, but at the same time, he could not completely contain his excitement.

“What?!” the other two tripped forward

Ron had no idea as to what was going on, but in the pitch below... he didn't know what to make of it. There was a labyrinth of stone pillars, some short, others rising up over twenty, thirty meters high. Winding its way between them was a never ending maze of thick hedge, lining the edges of either deep trenches or mounded hills. Right at the center of it all, in the only clearing available, five wizards in black robes stood huddled together. One was speaking, pointing, but they were too far away to hear it.

“Well... this is new,” Dean muttered.

Apparently finished with his instructions, the other four began to fan out, disappearing into the shadows. The one left at the center flourished his wand above him, sparking a green, opaque web of energy, like that of a force field. It began at the far end of the pitch, rising up to form a dome about it, until it finally closed back in on itself at the opposite end. Completed, the dome shined bright for the briefest of moments, before it just as quickly began to dim. It had no sooner finished than the door at the far end opened and a thick fog began to usher out.

“What's going on?” Ron whispered, his eyes glued to the scene below.

“I don't...” Dean started, “they're kicking it up a notch. Just watch... there,” he pointed to the gathering mist at the far end, just before the now closing door.

A small bead of white light burst out the fog, speeding towards the one at the center. He did not move, standing as still as a statue as it danced around him.

One, two, three-four, more beads shot out, reaching to all four corners of the transformed pitch. Without warning, the hovering mist began to swirl rapidly, pulling into a tight cyclone a rippling white smoke. Then, with a loud crack, it exploded.

“Aghh!” there came a loud cry from the far left corner, followed by a flash of red. The three hiding in the bleachers instantaneously heard three distinct pops echo from about the arena, as what was left of the posse of four rushed to their comrades aid in that same white smoke.

They materialized in an arc about the corner, cutting off all chances of escape. Another crack, but this time of splitting stone, and the tall pillar which stood in that corner began to tilt and fall in on them.

“Watch out!” they all three fell away. With their backs turned in retreat, they all missed it, but not the three in the stands. As the pillar fell, a form dashed its way up it, all the way to the very end, leaping off its tip before it had made it halfway to the ground.

Flipping his legs up, the wizard somersaulted into the air, flourishing his wand. A red stunner struck down one of those retreating. Realizing their error, the last two turned back on him, but just as he hit the ground, he disappeared in another cloud of smoke. Their carefully aimed stunners slashed right through where he had just been, doing nothing more but swirling the last of the mist left.

“Where'd he go?!” one of them shouted frantically.

“I don't know, you see him?!” the other called back. Nothing. The two held their positions, eyes darting back and forth, crouched, wands raised ready to strike, but the pitch was quite and still.

From their perch, the three boys scanned the arena just the same, but saw nothing. The third left, the one at the center, still stood there, unmoving.

“Burns! Help me!” one of them suddenly screamed. Vines from a nearby hedge had crept out around a pillar and had snuck up on him, entwining him rapidly, pulling him back into the stone. As his partner rushed to him, he struggled like mad, but it was useless.

Finally reaching him, Burns started slashing his wand fiercely back and forth, cutting through the vines, but they seemed to grow out just as fast.

“Aye! Behind you!” the one caught in the vines bellowed.

“Stupefy!” Burns spun on a dime, firing his curse. Their attacker was closing fast, dashing at an unnatural speed in a line right for them. Just as Burns' spell was about to strike him – the wizard making no attempt to block it – the three in the stands flinched, but...

Pop! Their assailant seemingly apparated back into that cloud of smoke - the stunner passing right through - only to instantly reappear still in stride. Burns fired off curse after curse, but the wizard apparated likewise with each, right on course. He was moving too fast. He was going to collide with the one named Burns like a speeding steam roller out of control.

“Agghh!” Burns yelled as he shielded his face with his arms as the impending collision came.

And then...

Pop!

And nothing...

Burns slowly let down his arms. There was no one in sight. All was quite and still once again. He turned back to his partner, but... he was not there. A swoosh of rippling wind caught his attention. His ears perked.

Bam! Burns just barely managed to jump away as his partner fell from the sky, landing with a hard crunch, right where he had been standing.

“Madock!” Burns started, meaning to rush to his fallen partner's side, but then froze. “Damn,” he cursed as he felt the wooden tip of a wand press into his back.

“Hello again, Burns,” his attacker whisped, before loosing a strong stunner at point blank range. Burns' unconscious form as sent tumbling forward.

“Insane,” Ron mumbled, wide-eyed at what he had just witnessed.

“Wicked,” Dean seconded him.

“Unreal,” Seamus finished. “He took them apart.”

The entire fight had not lasted a full two minutes. But then, the fight was not yet over. The one at the center, standing amongst the only clearing, had still yet to move.

The assailant stalked towards him, no longer bothering to conceal himself. Reaching the fifth, the other made a slow, wide arc about him until they were standing face to face.

“What's...” Ron tried.

“Sshh!” Dean hushed him. Ron hushed as a nervous lump built in his throat. He followed suit with the other two, leaning in over the railing to watch what would happen next.

The two remaining wizards below just stood there, looking across the twenty meters or so that separated them.

“What are they doing?” Ron asked in a rushed whisper.

“Just shut up and watch,” Dean bit at him.

Dean had no sooner finished his rebuke, than they all jumped as the fifth and last whipped his wand through the air, loosing several curses at once.

Pop-pop-pop! Echoed across the arena as the opposing wizard apparated and disapparated in quick succession, dodging each. In the blink of an eye, the distance between the two had been closed.

The attacking wizard swung his wand down onto the other like a sledge hammer. What sounded like a clasp of thunder rattled the pitch as their two wands met. The three boys had to shield their eyes from the blinding light.

And then it was dark again. Their eyes readjusting, they saw the attacker was back at the fringe of the clearing again. He fired a spell, but the fifth deflected it, sending it into the ground with a burst of soil and grass.

And then the assailant was feinting around the other as he cast spell after spell. The defender was able to block them, but the attacker steadily closed on him.

Pop! The one being attacked suddenly retreated into the cover of hedge, pillar and trenches. The one left at the center abruptly rose into the air, flying – somehow without the use of a broom – only to climax and come hurdling back down.

He wielded his wand like a sledge hammer again, beating a spell into the earth below him as he hit the ground. The very foundation of the pitch rippled like a tidal wave, speeding out in every direction in a perfect circle. Everything it met tumbled and collapsed flat onto the ground. The labyrinth was wrecked.

The three boys found the fifth down below, picking himself up from the unimaginable attack as the other came sprinting at him with the speed of a wild cat. The defender loosed spell after spell at the aggressor but he simply slapped each away as if it were child's play, countering with his own spells.

It was a replay of before. Ron flinched as the two were about to collide in a murderous fury, but just as the calamity was about the occur, the one at the center now disappeared in a cloud of gray smoke.

The attacker matched him, however, evaporating into a pillar of white mist as he continued his pursuit. The three boys watched awestruck at the clouds darted around the arena, only partially materializing to cast a spell or two before they disintegrated again into vapor once again.

The battle persisted at a blinding pace until the white finally cornered the gray at one end. The two clouds collided, first spinning together like a violent storm with clasps of thunder until they suddenly dropped like lead, crashing into the ground.

It was hard to see from their height, but the two each appeared to now have two wands apiece, one in both hands, parrying and striking at each other in close proximity.

Their spells collided and then held as they rotated the joined wands around in a wide arc like two fencers with epees.

“Raaah!” the attacker roared, issuing out a wave raw energy, ripping his wands apart with a mighty, blinding explosion. The three in audience were forced to cover their eyes again as a shock-wave rippled through the ward.

The attacker parried, sending another powerful spell hurdling at the one tripping backwards. The fifth managed to deflect it, but the aggressor was right on him once again, striking and countering all that the defender tried.

At each others throats, the attacker began spinning like an out-of-control ferris wheel, his arms and wands held out, pounding madly at the defenders shield, each blow crashing like a sledge hammer against an anvil. Sparks, like those of one of Ron's brother's fireworks, were bursting out in every direction

The defender was losing. As powerful as he obviously was, he still was no match for the attacker. Ron was just thankful he wasn't the one down there.

With each furious blow, the wizard fell back and back, losing his balance all the more. Then, doing something none of the three would have expected, the attacker dropped, spinning, sweeping one of his legs out to catch the others.

The defender, off kilter as he was, somehow managed to see it coming and was able to jump to avoid the attacker's sweep, but faster than any could follow, the aggressor swept his wand up with an upper cut, striking the defender still in mid air, sending him hurdling backwards.

It was not over. With unimaginable speed, the attacker flourished his wand again and caught the other with a spell about his ankle. Slinging him like a toy, he sent him flying towards the wall.

All three of the boys winced at the gruesome blow. Their attention was drawn back, however, as the attacker charged the fallen wizard with a hair raising battle cry, rapidly closing on him. All three waited with baited breaths.

The one fallen struggled to his feet, but seeing this, the attacker, still in stride swept one of his wands forward with a blood curdling yell. The field exploded, coming apart in a long, wide gash, earth flying every which way.

There was no escaping this. The defender tried to shield himself as the tsunami struck, but he was swept up all the same, sent crashing back into the ward, before falling limp to the ground.

“Alright, alright...” they heard him wheeze from across the pitch, raising an uneasy hand to stop the other. “Enough!”

The attacker relented, slowing his gate to a walk as he put away one of his wands, using the other to renuverate the fallen wizard.

“I - I... that sure sounded a lot like Professor Krieg...” Seamus whispered in awe, still watching the warlocks below.

“Yeah,” his two friends agreed.

“But who's the other one?” Ron asked in disbelief. And just as he said this, the clouds overhead parted just enough to let in a speck of moonlight. It wasn't much, not enough for the other two to recognize him, but Ron knew him all too well to miss it. Harry...

. . . .

Harry passed by his classroom. He spent most his nights here, always training, always studying, but not tonight. He was too exhausted. The duel with Krieg and the Aurors he had matched him up against had taken everything out of him, and he figured one night of sleep wouldn't kill him.

“Good evening, mighty Sir!” the proud knight Cadogan greeted him. “Another rousing battle slaying dragons? Offing dark wizards? Saving damsels?!”

“Padfoot,” Harry said simply, giving the knight the password.

“Oh, very well,” Gregory swung forward, allowing Harry in. Harry limped up the staircase to his dorm, shucking his robes as soon as he entered, eager for a shower. But as Harry passed through, he was brought up short. Something shimmered from atop his unused bed in the firelight.

Approaching it wearily, Harry saw that it was a golden mask. It wore a solemn expression, its lips stern, its features still. It was solid, except for two thin slits at the narrowed eyes. There was a note laid beside it. Harry picked it up.

Even in your solitude,
I hope that you can remember
better days amongst your friends,
even if as a stranger.

Chapter Thirty-One: Halloween Feast


“I call dibs on the pumpkin pie!” Ron declared, staring down Neville, Seamus, and Dean in turn.

“Gawd, Ron, really?! Is food the only thing you think of?!” Ginny rolled her eyes at her older brother.

“Yep” he smirked. “That and Quidditch!”

“You should have gone with a pig's costume!” Ginny nudged him. “I think there will be enough for everyone – or... maybe not?” she patted at his belly teasingly.

“And you should have gone as an old Hag!” Ron snorted back at her, shoving away her hand.

They were all dressed in costume. Ron dressed as a Chudley Cannon Quidditch player, Dean the fearsome Black Beard Pirate, Ginny in a scant outfit fixed up like the lead singer of the Witch Sisters' band – which had just about every boy in the Gryffindor common room eying her lewdly, from seventh years, right on down to first years.

Seamus was painted up like a scary zombie, and Susan Bones matched him as his zombie bride. Neville was wrapped up like a mummy, and Luna... wel,l no one knew exactly what Luna was supposed to be.

At tonight’s much anticipated Halloween Feast, there was to be a special twist with a Costume Ball following, an exceptional prize going to the winning boy and girl. They were only waiting for Hermione before they left for the Great Hall.

Just then the portal to the common room opened, and a brown haired witch dressed in a short, sparkling emerald green dress with wings sweeping out from behind her stepped in.

“Oh...” reverberated around the room as all conversation ground to a halt.

“Hermione!” Ginny and Susan jumped up. “You look amazing!”

“Yeah...” Dean agreed breathlessly, earning himself a slug in his shoulder from Ginny.

“A fairy?” Susan circled around her as the wings fluttered bashfully of their own accord.

Hermione paused at the entry, blushing from all the sudden attention. Her eyes finally fell to Ron, who looked dumbstruck. “Thanks...” she said shyly. Ron just sat their, his mouth bobbing up and down like a fish out of water.

“You... beautiful...” he said foolishly, taking one Hermione's hands. For numerous reasons, they'd long since set aside any sort of relationship, but tonight they were going to the dance together, and many looked into this for more than it was. Ginny especially was eying them with overt interest.

“Was there a match tonight I wasn't aware of?” Hermione teased him.

“Huh? What?” he stumbled, confused, “Oh... yeah!” he said, stepping back and turning, doing a little mock model show for her before striking the Scimsky Pose. “Championship night!” Hermione and the rest just laughed at him.

All the troupe, all the school for that matter, couldn't have been in higher spirits as they gathered around their respective House tables. The roar of excitement was near deafening. The Great Hall was decorated in its utmost splendor, with floating jack-o-lanterns replacing the candles beneath a full moon and star lit sky above in the bewitched ceiling. Cobwebs and skeletons hung from the banisters, a deep fog skimmed across the floor, and all the school's ghosts mulled throughout, placing wagers on the Headless Hunt to come.

“Two months passed...” Everyone's attention was suddenly drawn to the lectern at the center of the staff's table. “ It feels like only yesterday since you've all returned to us,” Mcgonagall spoke steadily, pausing to allow all the voices to quiet down. “Returned... not the same. Tested by hell's fire. Run through the gamut. We have all looked the devil in the eye and cast him off. All Hallows' Eve. A time of remembrance for the Saints before. A time of thankfulness for the truth they have laid bare. I time for remembrance.” McGonagall held all's attention.

“All are veterans here, Saints in my eyes. Hold your head high, students of Hogwarts. Celebrate your victory, your return to truth and knowledge, for there is no greater wealth in all the world. By the victor is history written, and by the true at heart, the truth be known. Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free. The Ghosts of our Past shall forever return, to undo what we have done, to spread lies and darkness, for in the pursuit of power are the ignorant enslaved, blinded, reigned by its lure. Seek the truth, be humbled by its omnipotence, and live free of the dark. All Hallows' Eve.”

Silence.

An awkward clap started at the head table – it was Hagrid. A couple of more joined in from there. The students remained enraptured. It was a heavy speech, not all could recognize, but one by one, the applause eventually spread.

As McGonagall returned to her seat, even some of the professors daried an odd glance or two towards her at her strange speech, but soon the standard uproar returned.

All the students could not remember a finer feast. Stuffed turkey and glazed ham, roast beef and goose. Seventeen different types of potatoes and eighteen different types of beans. There were rolls of every shape and size, cranberries and cinnamon apples. And that was only before desert. Ron got his pumpkin pie – more than he could put a dent in.

Once the meal was complete and their bellies bloated, the tables were cleared and pushed back, squared around a dance floor at the center. None of the older boys who had survived since the last Yule Ball feared to ask their partners to dance, for they had learned the lesson the hard way - never put off for tomorrow.

. . . .

“What are you doing sitting all by yourself?” Ginny plopped down next to Hermione, grabbing a napkin to wipe the sheen of sweat from her brow.

“Oh...” Ginny answered her own question when she spotted her git of a brother amongst a large crowd of fawning younger girls. “Sorry...” Ginny felt a pang for her friend. “He certainly has a way of letting his fame go right to his head. Let's see how many stammer around him while he's puking slugs!” Ginny threatened as she hiked her skirt up a bit to retrieve her wand strapped to her thigh.

“Ha!” Hermione laughed, grabbing Ginny's wrist to pull her back into her seat. “No, it's fine, Ginny, really,” Hermione insisted as the red haired witch gave her a doubtful look. “It's... no longer like that between us. Let him have his fun. He's earned it...” she said, though sighing all the same.

“Huh?” Ginny's eyes narrowed in on the brunette. “He's earned it?! Who are you and what have you done with Hermione?!” she joked, goading out another laugh from Hermione. “Hmm,” she murmured pertly, retaking her seat. “Still think it would be fun to hex him, but if you insist...” she gave Hermione a weak smile.

“Where's Dean?” Hermione asked.

“Getting us some punch,” Ginny looked around to see if she could spot her boyfriend. “Think I am literally dying of thirst. He hasn't let me sit down all night!”

Ginny kicked herself as she saw Hermione frown at this. “They're all just scared, you know?” Ginny implied. “You are Hermione Granger, after all,” she offered another sympathetic smile. And it was the truth. Just about any boy here would have gladly given their left arm to dance with the dazzling witch in the sparkling green dress, but none had the nerve to ask her. She was Hermione Granger, the smartest witch of their age, and one of the Golden Trio.

“Hey, Hermione! Why you sitting all by yourself?” Dean returned with two cups of punch, but then suddenly tripped and spilt them beneath the murderous glare his girlfriend gave him. Hermione only half-giggled, half-sighed, not answering him.

“I know!” Ginny suddenly sat up. “Dean, why don't you and Her-” but the red head was cut short as a mysterious looking wizard in midnight black robes, with a black suit, and black silk lapels and tie worn beneath, and a glimmering golden mask covering his face wove his way out the mob and stepped up before them.

Though the face of the mask was expressionless, stoic even, the gold was of the purest kind, and the moldings so finely crafted, it could only have been made by the hands of a goblin. Whomever this stranger was, he seemed to have a certain aura about him. The two girls both suddenly sat up straight in their chairs, pushing back their shoulders while gulping, as if either were competing for his attention. Dean just stood there, holding his two glasses of punch, dumbstruck.

The stranger in the golden mask did not say a word. He simply held out his left hand to Hermione. Hermione herself just sat there staring at it, almost as if she were having dejavu, and yet, she could not understand it. Ginny, though at first she appeared to be disappointed, recovered and nudged her friend back to life. Hesitantly, Hermione lifted her right hand and placed it in his.

“W-would... would you like to dance?” Hermione asked foolishly, as if she had been the one to approach him. She heard him chuckle beneath the mask, but still he did not speak.

With her hand in his, she suddenly felt the weight of all that had been resting on her lift, as if it were by magic. As he led her to the dance floor, she felt almost giddish, like a silly little girl being asked to dance for the very first time. She dared a glance at him from the corner of her eye, but he was looking forward and the golden mask was all encompassing.

As the sound of the music she had not even realized had been muted to her returned, the song sounded oddly familiar... A song she knew. She could not place it, but it was there, coming back to her from deep within. It was slow and sad, jerking at a nerve writhing within her. “O Children...”

Taking their places within the swell of moving bodies, the mysterious boy turned to face her, taking her other hand now in his. As they started to move, though slow and somewhat awkward at first, Hermione found it hard to breath. There was a certain connection between them she could not place. Dejavu...

They twist and turned, hand in hand, gently warming into it, before the young man suddenly twirled her. Hermione laughed. “Where did you learn to dance?” she teased him. He just shrugged, slowly gaining his own courage as they moved ever quicker together, drawing ever closer.

“So...” Hermione couldn't help but smile, and she did not try to pull away as he stepped in nearer. “Are you going to tell me who you are, or is it to forever remain a mystery?”

The wizard did not respond, nor did he pause as their rhythm heightened either.

“It's a mystery then,” Hermione laughed as he twirled her again. “Thomas..?” she asked. “William..?” she began ticking off the boys' names she knew from the other Houses that could possibly match his height and build. He was tall and strong. There weren't many to choose from.

But as they danced on without him answering her, Hermione glanced around the room, spotting those she was attempting to guess, ruling out each in turn. “You could at least tell me from which House,” she inquired, but he did not give.

And then the song ended. Their feet grew still as the others about the floor began to part. Their hands fell down to their sides, but they did not let go. A new song came on as new couples flooded to the floor.

The bass thumped. Violins strung. The pace was quicker, but with a more romantic twist. The eyes of the mask met the girl's. The boy let go her left hand and timidly placed it on her waist. Without looking away, she placed her hand on his shoulder. It was broad and hard, like a sculpted rock beneath her fingers They began to move once again.

It was poetic, right from the start. Their bodies moved as one, weaving through the mob on the floor. All else seemed to melt away, to be forgotten around them.

Their steps seemed to be cushioned by the clouds as the pace ever quickened. They turned and twisted and spun. His grip grew tighter about her waist, drawing her body flush against his.

They moved like the flow and ebb of the tide, like leaves moving together in a spiraling wind, wild and free and yet impossibly in sync.

The tune changed, becoming almost violent and angry. He spun her hard and fast, gliding about her as he did, guiding her like she the brush in the artist's stroke. The room seemed to spin to nothingness behind them. She felt like she were floating, lighter than a feather, drifting, soaring, like a swan in the warm summer air.

And then she was against him, folded into his chest as their spin slowed with the rhythm of the music. She could sense him inhaling the scent of her hair, like it was an intense, intoxicating drug, and it intimidated her.

“Oh...” she gasped as the music halted. They were the only ones left on the floor... or above the floor rather. Quite literally. They were hovering above it. Slowly, like two flakes drifting down in the snow, first their toes, then their heels found the solid ground below. There was absolute silence in the Great Hall as all eyes were turned to the two, staring, gawking.

And then, as she timidly lifted her eyes to the slits in the mask, like the firing of a canon, an explosion of cheers and applause rang through the hall.

It was only a glimpse, but as her chest heaved for breath against his, she saw simmering emerald staring out the shadows of the mask into her sweltering brown orbs.

And then he was gone. Hermione tripped forward in the void he left, trying to follow, but she could no longer command her legs. And then there was Ginny and Susan and Luna and a herd of other girls swallowing her in a sea of clapping and congratulations and questions.

All else was drowned out though as a memory hit her. She was carried away by it. She was standing once again at the top of that staircase, looking down upon the raven haired boy that she loved.

“WHERE-IS-HE?!” shrieked that insane voice of the little girl of the library within her head.

“Grimmauld,” she answered herself. Her eyes shot open. “Oh gawd, she knows! Harry!”

Without any explanation, Hermione left many a confounded girl and calling voices behind her as she sped for the door.

. . . .

“I hope you've enjoyed yourself tonight, Mr Potter,” Kreig stepped forward from the shadows as Harry entered the classroom. He'd had many mixed emotions from the night, and wished nothing more than to lose himself in a very strenuous work out.

Harry just stared at him, caught off guard, his mind wandering, the golden mask now in his hand. “It is time for your next lesson,” Kreig handed him a closed folder with leather bindings containing several sheets of parchment within.

“What is this?” Harry opened it. His eyes immediately narrowed in as he saw the name at the top of the first page. A bewitched photo of the wizard sneered and bit at Harry like a rabid dog, his white teeth flashing and snapping from the corner beside the name:

Antonin Dolohov
Death Eater

Killer of Remus Lupin.

“Tonight,” Kreig drew himself up to his full height. “You learn to hunt.”

Chapter Thirty-Two: Hunted


The gears slowly began to click into place within Ron's brain. He had been left mesmerized, befuddled, just like everyone else had at the performance they had all just witnessed. Harry was here. He'd just stepped forward. The one in the golden mask was Harry – had to be. 'Hermione must have just figured it out, he reasoned, because she tore off like a bat out of hell in his wake. Ron wasn't going to miss this. He followed her.

Where she thought she was going, Ron wasn't sure, but she sure was moving with a purpose. Hermione burst through the doors of the Great Hall, only to make a beeline for the doors that led out of the castle. Harry was no where in sight.

“Hermione, wait!” he called after her, but she was already too far ahead, and she did not turn back.

Hermione sprinted, losing her fairy wings of her costume in the process, all the way down to the winged-boar gates. His long legs were gaining on her, but just as he reached the gates himself, he heard the tell-tale pop of apparation, and the brown haired witch disappeared right before his eyes.

“Dammit, Hermione!” Ron skid to a stop in the exact place he had witnessed her vanish, bending his hands down onto his knees as he huffed for air. “Where're you off to? Harry's here...” he panted to himself.

The events of the previous night started catching up to him. He'd meant to settle things with Hermione first thing today, to figure out what in the hell was going on, what had happened last night in the library that had shaken her so, but she'd dubiously avoided him all day long. That wasn't to say that he'd not been distracted by all the excitement of Halloween and the events and such taking place. 'I'm such a git!'

And then there was Harry... or whatever he'd witnessed last night in the Quidditch pitch. He didn't know what to make of it, but one thing he was sure of, was that Harry had indeed come back to Hogwarts, and he was no longer just the same ol' Harry. 'What is going on?!'

“Ron?” a familiar female voice called out to him with surprise. Surprised himself, Ron jumped upright, peering through the darkness for its source. “Ron!” she repeated, more forcefully, drawing his gaze to an upper balcony of Rosmerta's Three Broomsticks.

She was perhaps the last person he'd expect to find here. “Ginger?” he questioned with doubt, blinking several times to clear his eyes.

“Oh Ron, please wait, stay there!” she pleaded with him, quite desperately.

“Er, okay..?” Ron was thoroughly confused. Too much was going on for his brain to keep up. With his assurance, Ginger turned and whisked back away into her suite.

He'd shared something special with Ginger, something he'd not soon forget, if ever, but upon Hermione's return, Ron had felt ashamed of himself. Ginger had been more than willing to see him again, writing to him often, but then with Harry's disappearance... he'd sort of written her off.

Only a few moments later, Ginger came out the front of the pub, hooded within a brown cloak, half-sprinting, half-skipping over to Ron. She crushed herself against him when she finally reached him, wrapping her arms about him tightly.

“Oh Ron, I've missed you so...” she sounded on the verge of tears.

“Er, I've...” he started awkwardly, unsure of himself as he lamely wrapped his own arms back around her, but then it hit him. The scent of her aroma invaded his his nostrils. The glimmering of her red hair in the moon's light beneath her cloak re-lit that fire he'd felt for her from before. Her warm body pressed up against his brought back all too real memories of the intoxicating times he'd spent with her. “Ginger...” Ron murmured more passionately as his hand began to stroke idly across her back.

“Ron,” she suddenly leaned back in his arms, her blue eyes searching up into his own. “Forgive me for coming here, but I... I tried to write... I've...”

Ron's cheeks reddened with embarrassment. He'd received her letters, he'd even drafted two or three responses of his own, but he'd always failed to send them off, being distracted by this or that. Truth be told, he was afraid to re-spark that flame. What he'd felt for her in their short time together...

He and Hermione had yet to have a proper conversation on where their relationship stood, or perhaps now more appropriately, where it didn't stand. Both of them kicked that can down the road, but he'd always felt devious for his behavior, like he'd committed an affair, and he'd likewise ignored things with Ginger – kicking that can just the same.

“What are you doing here?” Ron asked, his tone sounding a little too accusatory.

“I...” Ginger stumbled, a bit ashamed with herself. “I was hoping you would come to Hogsmeade for the holiday, but I didn't see you...” she turned her gaze from him to look off into the distance. “I... I was going to write you again tomorrow, but then... here you are...”

“Here I am,” Ron said with a bit more gusto, tugging her waist close to his, trying to garner her attention back to him once more, longing for it...

“Ron...” her voice was low, nothing more than a breath. “I... I've done something terrible," a tear peeled down her tender cheek. "There is something I need to tell you about...”

. . . .

Hermione arrived on the edge of the front steps of Grimmauld with a loud pop. She spun on a dime, one hand immediately reaching for the knob of the front door, the other clenching at her wand. She had it turned, the door creaking open, but then... she stopped. Slowly, she turned back around.

Her gaze was drawn to the street and wooded park beyond, but there was nothing there to see. Her eyes lifted to the invisible shield of numerous wards encompassing the old mansion with an odd curiosity, as if indeed she could see them.

She couldn't, of course, but there was something... it was more like she could feel it. Long, dark tendrils reaching out from some unknown source, traipsing their way along the wards, fingering them, testing them for some hint of weakness. Growing uneasy, Hermione spared one last glance around, seeing nothing, before she headed inside.

There was nothing. Nothing but books, upon books, upon books, where ever she turned. Books she felt as though she could lose herself in for years, but now was not the time. She went down first, through the kitchen to stand upon those wooden stairs leading to the basement. All was still and quiet.

She wound her way to the top most floor, checking empty room after empty room until she arrived at the attic. It was most unusual, certainly nothing she would have expected. She walked around the makeshift bed, consisting of a thin mattress and quilt, as she examined what appeared to be some kind of training room. Nothing here either. Kreacher was no where to be found, much less the raven haired boy. The house looked to have been deserted for some time now.

She was just about to give up and head back out when something caught her eye. There was movement...

Hermione turned back. It took her a moment to locate the source. It was a photo set upon the ground beside the make-shift bed. Hermione approached it, and bent down to take it up. It was one of her, Ron, and Harry. She knew the memory well. It had been taken just after Harry had defeated the Hungarian Horntail during the Triwizard Tournament, and he and Ron had just made amends. Studying Harry's face as she held up the photo, she could not remember ever have seeing him smile so brightly. It touched a special, deep place in her heart.

Harry, where are you?

. . . .


Harry felt a strong pang of guilt and remembrance as he followed Kreig up into the Astronomy Tower. This had been the place where everything had started to unrave beforel. Dumbledore...

With a flick of his wand, Kreig uncovered a small wooden table with an intricately designed device set atop it. It was not exact, but looked to Harry much like that of a Pensieve.

“Memories?” Harry asked confused as Kreig took out a small, corked vial with a swirling, almost gaseous liquid within.

“Not exactly,” a corner of Kreig's mouth pricked with amusement as he undid the cork and summoned out the substance. “It's a Signum. A magical signature, to be exact.”

“A signature?” Harry was no closer to understanding.

“Yes,” Kreig said solemnly, while carefully guiding the now free and swirling mass towards the Pensieve looking device. “Antonin Dolohov's, taken from him following his arrest during the First War.”

“I've never heard of such a thing...” Harry said with a hint of bewilderment.

“As you are a student,” Kreig's eyes lifted tauntingly towards Harry's, “now you have learned.”

“And the Pensieve?”

“Not a Pensieve,” Kreig corrected him. “An Invesio. It will allow you to recognize Dolohov's signature more clearly.”

“And why would I want to do that?”

“Hmm...” Kreig gave a curt laugh. “To find him of course. Dolohov is one of the most wanted men in all of Britain. It's been six months since the final battle, and still he has been able to avoid the Aurors. That ends tonight.”

Harry studied his Defense Against the Dark Arts professor for a moment. “If we've had his signature this whole time, why haven't the Aurors used it to find him?”

“Because none of them are Harry Potter,” Kreig said this as if it were obvious, but seeing Harry's doubt, he went on. “Dolohov has gone deep, out of Britain in all likelihood. This is no easy feat, Harry. We will see if you are up to the task,” he finished with a challenge.

Harry gave a terse nod, following Kreig over as he lowered the captured mist into the pool of the Invesio.

“Go ahead,” Kreig gestured. “Just as you would otherwise with a Pensieve.”

Harry used his wand to stir the two substances below. As they swirled together, the faint visage of a Death Eater he knew well, and had met on the battle field many times before, appeared below.

Harry's jaw ground together as he peered down into those dark eyes. He'd had the chance to end him almost from the start, in Tottenham Court that very first night on the run, but he was too weak then. How many had Dolohov killed since then? Remus... forgive me. Harry gripped the edges of the bowl with tight, strained knuckles as he pressed his face within. He would not make that same mistake again.

It all hit him at once, like a vacuum sucking it all in. That dark laugh. That pale skin. Those callous, murderous eyes. Hate. Detest. Darkness. Murder. All seemed to swell up into Harry's mind as if he were inside that of the Death Eater's himself. Harry suddenly lurched back, toppling right over onto his arse while gasping for air.

“You get it?” Kreig asked sternly, while offering Harry a hand. Harry's eyes said it all. He had it.

“What now?”

“We meditate.”

. . . .

Harry and Kreig sat across from one another, legs folded beneath them, hands held motionless at their knees, eyes closed. Neither had budged an inch since they had settled into this position almost three hours ago now.

Harry's eyes began to twitch behind closed lids. Kreig's shot open, a broad smile curling across his lips. Without making a sound, he unfurled his cramped legs and moved to kneel behind Harry, placing a gentle hand upon his student's shoulder.

Shacklebolt, no doubt, would consider this far too dangerous, a foolish decision on his part, but Kreig was not concerned. Performed by any other, he would in all likelihood be splinched in half in the process, but this was not any other. He'd yet to meet another like Harry Potter, and he knew he never would again in his life time. He would be accompanying him to where ever it was that the Invesio led.

It started with a gentle rumble. Dust was stirred from between the grout of the brick floor. And then came the suction, strong and absolute, and with an earsplitting POP! the Astronomy Tower was left deserted and empty.

“Hughh!” Harry sucked in a deep, gasping breath as his legs fell below him and he stumbled forward, but Kreig caught him and stood him back up right.

“What... where are we?!” Harry grimaced, clenching at his splitting head.

“We've apparated – or close enough,” Kreig looked around curiously. “By all appearances, it seems to be that we are now in Russia,” he recognized the language upon the signs of a shop down the road, and upon those of the pot-marked streets' intersection.

“Russia?!” Harry glanced to his teacher incredulously. “But... how?”

“You brought us here, Harry.”

“Apparated? Impossible...”

“And yet here we are,” Kreig's eyes shown a touch of admiration, though he would never admit such a thing.

“But... won't they know we're here?” he spoke of the Russians. Kreig merely shrugged.

“We'll be long gone before they're able to pin point the intrusion. Russia is a big country,” Kreig took a couple of steps about, surveying the run-down neighborhood. It looked like a ghetto. “In there, I presume?” Kreig brought them back to the matter at hand, gesturing towards a small, shoddy house before them.

Harry focused on it for another moment. Two stories, the walls and roof looked like they had been put together piecemeal, and reminded him very much of the Burrow back home, of a family he hadn't seen in quite some time... A family who had been left scarred by this very man inside. To add to his list of atrocities, this man had also killed Fabian and Gideon Prewitt, brothers of Molly Weasley, uncles of Ron and Ginny.

“Yes,” Harry's voice came low and menacingly. He took a purposeful step towards that house, but Kreig stopped him, grabbing him by his arm.

“Now is not the time to lose your cool, Harry. Remember your training. It is what will keep you alive, and see justice be done.”

Harry grimaced, eager to go charging in and to bring that whole damn house down. But he knew Kreig was right. Taking a deep, calming breath, Harry closed his eyes and leaned his head back as he focused.

“How many are inside?” Kreig asked.

“Two,” Harry responded without breaking his concentration.

“And where are they precisely?”

There was a short pause. “They are separate. One on the first floor. Dolohov on the second.”

“Good,” Kreig brought him out of it. “Now then, what is next?”

Harry thought for a moment, before aiming his wand at the house. First things first, he cast a wide disapparating jinx about the house, followed by an alarm that would sound should someone attempt to sneak past its barrier. Lastly, he gently sealed each of the shutters about the windows of the house. There would be no easy escape for Dolohov.

“A Disillusionment Charm and we'll be ready,” Krieg said as he cast his own over himself, vanishing with its slow trickle right before Harry's eyes.

Harry paused a moment. “No,” he finally said. “I want him to see me coming. I want to see that look in his eyes,” Harry chewed through clenched jaws. Kreig frowned at this, but of course, Harry could not see it.

“Very well then, I will cover the back,” Kreig said. “The floor is all yours, Mr. Potter.”

Harry stood facing the house fully, his wand gripped tightly in hand. It was time for Dolohov to pay his debts.

. . . .

Hermione stepped back out onto those narrow steps of Grimmauld's entry with a heavy burden worn across her shoulders. Someone was looking for Harry. They'd found him before, in Australia, somehow taking him to India where that unspeakable horror was dealt upon him. They'd followed him all the way back to Great Britain, where they had found her at Hogwarts, and they had pulled from her the last memory she had of his location.

But Harry was no longer here. Had they already gotten him? Or had Harry simply left?

“Where are you Harry?” she breathed, letting the most obvious clue fleet before her face – that of a young man in the golden mask. She was just about to twist, to apparate and return back to Hogsmeade and on to Hogwarts when a terrible yelping erupted just down the street.

It was pathetic, whimpering, blood chilling. Like the shriek of a helpless infant being cruelfully tortured. Its pleas begged for help, begged for mercy, begged for death to come and end the pain.

It was by impulse that she stepped down into the street, unable to ignore whatever it was. Her eyes pierced down the lane, wand in hand. Some small form, making the terrible noise, was flopping violently about on its side. Hermione's feet carried her on, involuntarily towards it. The first few steps were slow and cautious, but as she drew nearer, as its pleas pelting her ears, her pace quickened.

The first thing she noticed was that it was a stray dog. It was practically convulsing upon the pavement, wracked with pain. Hermione started to sprint before she came to screeching stop, only feet away.

The poor dog had countless cuts and lacerations running up and down its body. It was laying in a pool of its own blood. Her eyes followed from a barbed-wire wrapped heinously around its neck, to a nearby tree where it was tied.

“Who could do such a thing?!” Hermione gasped, before slashing her wand through the air to sever the wire. She dropped down on her knees beside the dog. Its breath was labored,clinging to its last bit of life.

“Don't worry, girl, I'm going to help you!” Hermione stroke her palm over the dog's whimpering head, putting it to ease. Its brown eyes stared up into hers, imploringly.

Wielding her wand like a knife, Hermione carefully ran the tip of it below the barbed collar, before pulling it back and cutting it free. Below was a gruesome sight of raw flesh and blood.

“You poor thing!” Hermione's eyes trailed over the dog, accounting for its most serious wounds. She then promptly went to work, healing and closing them as best she could.

She was so engrossed in her efforts, she never saw the spell coming. A quick streak of red, and Hermione was blown right over the dog, collapsing in a heap on its far side. The dog tried to move, to crawl towards the girl that had just saved its life, but another flash of green sent it crumbling back to the ground. The street was now quiet, except for the nearing echo of three sets of footsteps.

“You, get the girl,” a voice, far too deep and raspy for that of a young child, commanded the man on her left. “You,” she spoke to the one on the right. “Remove the beast and wire. Clear any evidence of our being here.”

“Yes, ma'am!” Rookwood moved to take the dog and vanish the wire and blood, as Lestrange retrieved the unconscious form of Hermione Granger.

. . . .

Harry stood with his nose inches from the door. By magic, the lock was unsealed, and the door knob turned. The rusted hinges were denied their creak as Harry pushed the door open, stepping across the threshold.

The house was old and downtrodden. Ancient portraits, strung with cobwebs, decorated the rotting planks of the wall. Worn and dust cloaked furniture sat atop threadbare rugs. All was dark and quiet except for the dim light, and clanking of pots and pans issuing from down a narrow hall leading to the kitchen. A non-verbal Silencio padded his footfalls as he stalked his way there.

Harry came up short at the entrance to the kitchen. Busying herself at the sink was an elderly woman, easily over a hundred years old, her bleach white hair balding atop her head, her back crooked and slumped, her skin wrinkled and drooping from her frail bones.

“Вы пришли на мой дорогой Антонин?” her voice scratched, though she did not look up from her dishes, nor did she make any other sign that she had seen or heard Harry approach. She spoke in Russian, but Harry did not have to understand her words, for he was in her mind and could see their meaning. “You have come for my dear Antonin?”

“I have,” Harry, for some odd reason, felt compelled to answer her.

“Oh,” she sighed deeply, stopping what she was doing, though she did not look up nor turn around. “He was such a good boy in his younger years, so much potential. I told them, his parents, not to take him to England, that our Mother Russia was his home, but alas, they would not listen to me,” the older woman's shoulders managed to slump even further.

“It killed them - to see what their son had become. Put them in an early grave. Then... I warned him not to come back here, that you would come for him. But, that stubborn boy, he told me he would die here on Russian soil. That is good enough for me. You will find him upstairs,” the old woman finished her diatribe, returning to her dishes. Not another word was offered.

Harry found himself stricken for a moment. What was this? He lifted his wand, aiming it at the tired woman's back, intent on neutralizing her... but he couldn't. As silent as a shadow, Harry left her, disappearing from the kitchen's entrance to find the stairs.

. . . .

Antonin Dolohov was out on the second floor balcony, enjoying himself a cigar and the finest glass of vodka he'd managed to get his hands on. He offered only a momentary glance back at the black robed wizard as he stepped through the open double doors.

“So the Boy-Who-Lived has come for me at long last?!” Dolohov spoke to the night's sky. His remark was met with silence. “I'm not going back,” he finally stated.

“That is not up to you, Dolohov,” Harry spoke low, threateningly. Dolohov only laughed, taking one last long drag from his cigar, chasing the smoke with the rest of his vodka. He then cast both the stub of the cigar and the glass aside as he leaned out over the balcony, taking in a deep breath of air.

“You did not harm my grandmama, did you?” Dolohov showed his only hint of fear. “She...”

“No,” Harry said simply, and he witnessed Dolohov visibly relax with the answer.

“You've done well, Potter. Killed the Dark Lord...” he chuckled lightly, with a touch of madness. “But not well enough. You've come for the wrong Death Eater!” Dolohov then whirled around brandishing his wand.

Harry flourished his own, producing a powerful shield, but it was all for naught. There was a green flash, but Dolohov's wand was not aimed for Harry, but directly against his own chest. Dolohov was cast backwards from his own spell, hitting the railing before his lifeless body crumbled to the ground.

Harry was left dumbfounded, his eyes widened at what he had just seen. There was a whisp of smoke, and then Kreig was there, looking frantically from Harry, then down to the fallen Death Eater.

“What happened?!” Kreig demanded, kneeling down to check Dolohov's pulse.

“He...” Harry stumbled. “He killed himself.” Kreig grimaced.

“Come on, lets get out of here,” Kreig produced their Port Key, before taking hold of the dead Dolohov's wrist. Harry placed his own hand on the Port Key, just as it turned blue, sucking them away.

Chapter Thirty-Three: The Conspirator


It was a long haul back. The suction and pull intense. Harry stumbled as they landed on the far side of the Portal, but Krieg quickly righted him.

“Thanks,” Harry fought to refill his lungs, gaining a footing to look about their newest destination. “Mind telling where we're at now?” he seemed disgruntled.

The room was black, solid black – if even it were a room. He could see Krieg and the fallen Dolohov, as if a spot light were shinning down upon them, but there was no source, nothing overhead. Just that pitched blackness, as if staring off into an unending, vast cavern.

Every which way he looked, there was nothing. His feet were definitely standing on something, but even there, when he looked down to them... endless void.

“Take out your cloak,” Krieg spoke hastily. “Get yourself out of sight, quickly now.”

Harry paused, looking to him curiously. “Why, what's the-?”

“Unless you wish to answer many an uneasy question, I would suggest you hurry.”

That was all Krieg need say. Harry promptly had his cloak from his pouch. Whipping it by one end to unfurl it, he draped it over his head, disappearing beneath.

“Astricta!” Harry cast, yet another useful little spell he'd learned from Krieg. His cloak abruptly folded in on him, hugging his body like being sucked by a vacuum, fitting now like a tight suit. He'd learned to perform a Disillusionment Charm as well as any, but nothing could work as absolute as his cloak.

He'd no more than vanished, their own portal still lingering behind them, than the air before them began to stir with the opening of yet another portal. There was a slight swooshing sound, and then one, two, three wizards glided out its swirling gate.

Harry did not recognize two of them, though they were obviously Aurors, evidenced by their black cloaks and the way they carried themselves. The one, however, who stood at the center between the other two, Harry knew well. None other than the Minister of Magic himself, Kingsley Shacklebolt, stepped forward.

There was a long, silent pause between Krieg and Shacklebolt as the two faced off, passing unspoken words. The Minister of Magic turned and nodded to one of his men, jerking his head towards the fallen Dolohov. His man understood the silent command, as he then stepped forward to kneel and scan his wand over the dead Death Eater. The Auror nodded in the affirmative back up to his leader.

“Take him,” Shacklebolt was short. The Auror lifted Dolohov with his wand, and they both vanished within the still open portal from whence the three came. “You may return with them,” he dismissed his second man.

“The plan was for you to locate him, and return here for backup,” Shacklebolt stated his displeasure with haste, once he and Krieg were seemingly alone.

“Plans do have a way of going awry,” Krieg responded shrewdly.

“What happened?” Shacklebolt shot back.

“Dolohov deemed it better to take his own life, than return to Azkaban,” Krieg said without emotion.

“And Harry?”

“I left him at the school,” Krieg lied, but he had no sooner said this, than Shacklebolt's eyes glanced to where the invisible Harry stood. Harry held his breath, willing himself to be unfound.

“You went with him?”

“I did,” Krieg admitted.

“But...” Shacklebolt betrayed a hint of astonishment, before correcting himself. “McGonagall will not like this,” he went on. "Not at all."

“What she does not know...” Krieg implied. Shacklebolt did not seemed pleased himself at this, but he nevertheless nodded at Krieg's suggestion.

“I do not believe she has been entirely honest with us herself...” Shacklebolt added.

“I am aware,” Krieg said rapidly, as if trying to head the Minister off.

“Some interesting things have recently come to light, about Dumbledore and-”

“I believe she intends to tell Harry in due course, but that is all a more personal matter we should leave to her,” Krieg said sharply.

“You seem to be well informed on the matter?”

“You forget that my grandfather was a close confidant of Dumbledore's once.”

“You speak of Grindelwald?” Shacklebolt spoke the name almost reverently. Krieg nodded. “Then it's true?”

“I am not able to confirm such things, and would have to revert you back to McGonagall. I trust her judgment.”

“Dumbledore hid the records deep. Has she mentioned-?”

“She has not told me anything more than I need to know, to help Harry with his preparation that is,” Krieg once again interrupted the Minister. “Do you have the next file?” he promptly changed the subject.

“Will you stick to the plan this time? There are some strange things going about, and I have a strong suspicion that this is all somehow intertwined...”

“I will do all that I can, and all that is necessary,” Krieg said, holding out his hand. Shacklebolt reluctantly placed the next file and signature within it.

. . . .

As much as Harry wished to turn on Krieg the moment they arrived back at Hogsmeade, and demand of him answers to that coded conversation he's had with Shacklebolt, he did not. He knew Krieg well enough by now, enough to know that he wouldn't be getting any direct answers out of him. If Harry wanted the truth, he'd have to go about it more cleverly.

It was already morning, as the two walked back to the castle in silence, Harry still under his cloak.

“So, who is it?” Harry asked the question he knew he could get an answer to. They had finally reached the winding staircase nearing his little corner of the castle, where it was safe to talk.

“Augustus Rookwood,” Krieg answered flatly. Harry's fists balled up. Without seeing Rookwood's list of atrocities, he knew one name he would find there, Fred Weasley, and it made his fire burn.

“Shouldn't we be going to the Astronomy Tower?” Harry practically demanded. Krieg crooked one of his rare smiles at this.

“You did well last night, Harry. But I know from personal experience, that transporting one's self through the Invesio, much less two, and all the way to Russia, that it can take a lot out of you. You should try to get some rest, I need you to be at your best when we go after him.”

“I'm not tired,” Harry defended.

“That's all very well,” Krieg said. “You'll get your chance soon enough,” they reached the top corridor. “We'll meet again tonight.”

“What was it that you and Shacklebolt were talking about? About Dumbledore hiding records, and then McGonagall?” He knew it would be a fruitless endeavor, and it was, but it was eating him up inside. Whatever it was, he knew it had everything to do with him.

Harry had not expected an honest response from Krieg, but what he got instead was perhaps even more troubling. Krieg frowned a deep, sorrowful frown. Harry started, about to go on at this, but just then, the two were interrupted by heavy, rapid footfalls coming flying up the staircase at the end of the hall. Harry knew who it was the second he saw the flash of red hair.

. . . .

“Er...” Ron paused in his tracks as he saw only Krieg turned towards him, standing alone. He referenced a worn piece of parchment he had in his hand, before looking back up, more convinced.

“Harry?” he called knowingly, glancing back once more, just to be sure.

Harry did not try to fight it. Releasing the spell on his cloak, he let it run off him like water, crumpling to the floor. “Ron?” he answered, though his words were strained and tugged deep at his heart – more than anything else, he had not expected this.

Ron was left speechless as he stared with bewilderment at his old friend. Harry had already changed a great deal since leaving for Australia, until he'd seen him once again in the basement of Grimmauld, but now... Ron had to rub at his eyes, as if they were deceiving him. Harry had changed. Harry had... grown up?

“I think I'll leave you two alone,” Krieg slyly dismissed himself. The two waited until they could no longer hear Krieg moving down the staircase before either began again.

“Harry, I... s-sorry...” Ron managed a curt smile, though ruefuly, holding up the parchment by one hand. Harry recognized it at once. He'd last seen it in his trunk in his room. “I – I knew you were here somewhere, just didn't know how to find you, and... and then I found myself wishing I had the Maurader's Map so I tried Accio'ing it, and... what do you know?!” he chuckled impishly, looking half-afraid Harry might send him tumbling back down the stairs once again. But Harry didn't.

“That was pretty clever,” Harry complimented him, letting the faintest of smiles show across his face.

“Ha, yeah! Surprise even myself sometimes!” Ron grinned uneasily. Something was obviously bothering him. “Here, I...” Ron took a step forward, holding out the map to return it.

“No,” Harry stopped him. “You keep it.”

“Er... yeah, okay...” Ron said, glancing it over once more before dropping his hand back to his side. "I'll keep it safe," he felt the need to add.

“I know you will. Ron... It's really good to see you again,” Harry said suddenly. “I... it feels like it's been so long.

Ron looked back up at his old friend with surprise. “Yeah, you too, Harry. Too long. How've you been?” Ron asked with genuine concern, studying Harry carefully.

“Never mind me,” Harry ignored his question. “How about you? - Hermione?” he barely managed her name.

“Oh?!” Ron startled at this. “Yes, well, er...” Ron started awkwardly, fidgeting in place. It was an ominous sign.

“Ron?” Harry took a cautious step forward, not noticing as his hand started to tremble unwittingly.

“Some weird things have been going on around here recently, Harry, and, yeah... just last night as a matter of fact...” Ron trailed off, suddenly having second thoughts about all this now that he was actually in Harry's intimidating presence. He glanced back over his shoulder, as if looking for a route to escape.

“Ron?” Harry implored once again, almost urgently.

“Hermione... she's, er... I can't seem to find her,” Ron shrunk back a step, trying to pass it off as coincidence, but it did not hold. “I think... well, the other night in the Library..." Ron was choking on his own words. "And then last night.... Harry, she's gone missing...” he admitted gravely.

Ron had no sooner finished speaking than there was a violent crack that reverberated around the hall, like the shattering stone, the booming of canon. “Agh!” Ron's very head seemed to split with the force and emotion of it all.

Ron clenched at his pinging ears, ducking as a billow of dust rippled through the hall, half expecting the ceiling to be collapsing down atop him. Harry stood simmering, soon to reach a boiling point.

“What do you mean, can't find her?” Harry's demanded through clenched teeth, though pronouncing each word and each syllable most distinctly. “Missing?!” the word seemed to hiss through his lips in Parsel.

“She - she went running off last night... after the dance that is. Apparated - right out of Hogsmeade. I... I tried to follow her,” Ron told, but before he could finish, he was hit by an intense spell, falling back a step, the grip of the hex all that was keeping him standing, as his mind was overcome by Harry's Legilimens.

His memories began speeding through his mind at a blinding pace, until he was back in that Library. They slowed as he and Hermione heard the book fall behind them, as Hermione went off in search of the source, as Ron just stood there. They scanned forward until he heard Hermione's scream. They trailed, almost painfully, as he found her passed out on the floor. They stayed carefully, almost tenderly upon her, as he walked her back to her room.

Then they were rushing forward again, past Dean and Seamus in the corridors, past Harry's fight in the Pitch, past the Halloween Ball, to Hermione running out the castle and Ron giving chase. And then there was Ginger. “Ron...” her voice was low, nothing more than a breath. “I... there is something I need to tell you about.”

“Take me to her!” Harry's voice was pitched, bordering on insanity.

. . . .

She was still in her room at Rosemerta's, awaiting them. She threw her brush down on the vanity, unable to focus, and unable to withstand the surmounting anxiety.

The brush bounced off the small table and landed on the floor. She swept her hand to catch it by reflex, but of course she missed it, and instead knocked her perfume and a several other trinkets off onto the floor as well in the process.

She was a nervous wreck. Even though it was still early morning, she was tempted to order a drink. She had not gotten a wink of sleep last night.

Working at the Dueling Damsels, she caught wind of a lot of stories and rumors. There were not many who could resist her charms. Some called her the Keeper of Secrets. Others, the Teller. She was renown in certain circles, but that all depended whether the price was right.

When the one of Harry Potter passed through, of him being taken captive in India... she knew at once that she was responsible for it. She had sold his secret.

She couldn't stand it. She had never felt like this before. The words Whoreand Traitor and Scarlet kept assaulting her by day and night. She had sold them both. The Savior of Great Britain, and... and her love.

Her love... Did she know of such a thing? And she and Ron had only known each other such a short amount of time, but... she loved him. She loved George too, just like a brother, and Lee Jordan, and even Ron's Mum and Dad had been so kind to her, that one and only time she had met them by accident at George's shop. And she had sold them all out.

She knew Harry was in trouble, that there were bad wizards about, up to no good. The rumors grew darker and darker as as the tale spread, all delivered by the foulest and cruelest of mouths. And she knew by her Ron's proximity to the Boy-Who-Lived, that he would be swept up in it too. She just had to do something – anything. But Ron wasn't responding to her letters... so she came here in search of him.

After she told him all she knew last night, Ron had only proven himself ever more to her. By those she was accustom to, she had expected him to strike her. To at least curse her. But there was a reason he was one of Harry Potter's best friends, a reason he was one of the Golden Trio, and it shined ever brighter in him when he had not so much as cast her out, nor refused her, but he had actually asked her to stay.

He had to find Harry - someway, somehow he would find Harry... and he would bring him back here. It was this thought that wrecked her so. She did not know how he intended to find the Boy who had not been seen nor heard of in months, who had a motley crew of dark bounty hunters searching around every corner, under every stone for him, but if any could, she knew her Ron would, and that would mean she would come face to face with the vanquisher of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and she would have to admit her treachery, all over again, to that wizard. She could not picture him being so kind to her.

She nearly fell out her chair when the knock came on the door. So soon? Her Ron stepped through first, followed by none other...

“Oh!” she gasped, lifting a delicate hand to her gaped mouth. This was not the boy she had seen in all the papers. He... Those black robes. That rigid frame. That threatening, urgent look in his simmering, green, emerald eyes. He frightened her.

“Mundungus Fletcher!” she just blurted out.

Chapter Thirty-Four: Help


Men. They were supposed to be her specialty, her confidence. During her time at Hogwarts, she had never stood out as a particularly skilled or powerful witch, but she learned early on that she had other talents. As a former Slytherin, she was quite clever and cunning, and used her good looks and charm to get what she wanted. Pluck a man the right way, and a girl could play him like a Cecilio violin.

But that confidence with the opposite sex abated her now. She had questioned herself for the first time in years when Ron seemed to shrug her off. She did not know how to handle it, and perhaps that chase was what attracted her to him so very much now?

But that was another matter altogether. At the moment, she was afraid. Ron was away, and that left her alone with none other than Harry. Harry. James. Potter. The Boy-Who-Lived.

He was not what she had expected, not even close. The Daily Prophet, apart from exhalting him as the world's savior, had all too often portrayed him as some cocky braggart, a renegade, a loose cannon aloof with Albus Dumbledore's fanciful ploys. But what Ginger was staring at now...

It only compounded her nerves to stare at him so blatantly, but she could not pull her eyes away. He was an anomaly, one that demanded her undivided attention. He was both terrifying and awe inspiring at once. He was sitting, unmoving within a chair of her little room. His focus was drawn towards a blank wall, with that same blank look worn upon his face. Stoic. Empty. Yet full of a raw power that should any invite it, they would know no greater ire.

There was a certain intensity radiating out from his calm facade. His magic was wafting off of him in simmering waves. The slightest break of his concentration, Ginger felt, he'd lose it all and kill them both. There was something deep and profound roiling just beneath his surface, and from the stories she'd heard thus far, she had a sneaking suspicion that she had a front row seat to something big playing out.

“So... you and Ron?” Ginger could not take the silence any longer, the words coming out involuntarily. “He – he tells me you have been friends for...” The look in Harry's eyes as they turned to her, as if she'd asked the stupidest question in the world, shut her right up. Full of angst, Ginger abruptly stood and began to pace.

“So, you and Ron?” Harry unexpectedly turned the same question upon her.

“Huh?” he caught her off guard, her mind currently scattered and wandering in a hundred different directions.

“You two, you're... you like each other then?” it was not hostile or accusatory, coming off as simply curious – the words near juvenile.

“Oh,” Ginger felt her heart pound in her chest. Harry... Harry – Bloody – Potter was having a casual conversation with her? Madness.

“Yes... No! I mean... we've...” Ginger stammered along, not sure what the answer to that was. 'What, we've had sex together?!' she kicked herself. What was she even doing here? She never felt more out of place – out of her league, and these were supposed to be just teenagers.

She was as nervous and jittery as a scared child about to get on their first roller coaster. “I – he's... different,” she answered foolishly. But it was the truth. “He has that silly, boyish charm about him...” she seemed surprised to find herself saying this out loud, and to Harry Potter no less!

She felt lighter with the admission though, almost giggling as she spoke. “Yeah,” she finished with a light hearted laugh. “You could say I like that goofy red head,” she offered Harry a coy smile.

“Ron's a good guy, one of the best,” Harry implied, “and my best mate.” Ginger got the idea.

“H-Harry...” his name felt strange on her tongue. It was odd enough to be alone in his presence, but then talking with him like this...

“It's alright,” Harry quirked a little smile at her, feeling the need to ease the tension. He had seen how Ron had felt about her when he was in his head, and Ron was still...

“Says a lot that you came here, told us what had happened. Besides, if you were to hurt Ron... I'm not sure if you've had the pleasure of meeting Ginny yet?” Harry raised his brows comically at her. He felt odd himself. This was the first casual conversation he'd had in months... ever since Hermione. But with the weight of everything, it felt... good?

“I have,” Ginger smiled ignominiously. “She's...”

“A handful!” Harry finished for her, carrying on as he was. “She's got a box full of nasty hexes, so I'd try staying on her good side if I were you,” Harry joked with her. Ginger reddened and laughed at this, easing up a bit. Harry Potter was... teasing her?

“Enough about my love life, or lack thereof,” Ginger found herself relaxing some. “So what about the great Harry Potter? This Hermione...” she stopped at Harry's reaction to this. His faint smile evaporated before she had finished the girl's name, his strained intensity coming back to the forefront. Awkward silence ensued.

“So, this signature... what is it?” she tried changing the subject. Harry offered her nothing, sealing himself back in his shell. She fidgeted from the sudden about face. “Well, whatever it is, Ron will get it,” she felt the need to reassure him.

“Have you met Percy?” Harry spouted sardonically.

“Ron said he owed you two...”

Harry simply shrugged at this. “It's not exactly Percy's thing... breaking the rules.”

“Well... he is the Assistant Undersecretary. If Ron says-” Ginger abruptly stopped as Harry stood.

“What is it?!” Ginger asked with alarm. Harry no sooner turned to face the door, than the red head in question came charging in.

Ron pulled up short, readjusting himself to Harry's overwhelming presence. It was taking some getting used to.

“Well?” Harry asked with urgency.

“He wasn't happy about it,” Ron admitted. “But I persuaded him,” Ron held his wand up, gripping it tight in his fist. “Said he'd need some time. We're supposed to meet him here at nightfall.”

. . . .

To kill the nerve wrecking wait, Harry kept himself busy. He headed back into Hogwarts, and though the other two weren't exactly invited, he did not forbid them from accompanying him either. They started in the Library, inspecting the area in which Hermione had first been attacked, though there were no clues to be found.

They paid a visit to Argus Filch. The old grouch was quite put off by the encounter, as to be expected, but his fould anger soon turned to shock at being confronted by none other than the missing Harry Potter himself.

He did not give anything willingly, but as Harry delved into his mind, the caretaker knew nothing of any disturbances within the castle two nights ago, nor of any other since the conclusion of the war, and his meticulous records confirmed as much. Harry was forced to Obliviate their worthless little meeting from Filch's memory, having gained nothing.

It was a long, long wait. Drawing ever closer to that final hour, they still had time for one last trail to follow up. The three made their way to Hermione's dorm. Ron knew the password.

“I've got nothing,” Ginger came back in from Hermione's bedroom. The boys had left it to her to inspect her more personal space and items. Harry found himself standing at the window, eyes closed, taking deep, calming breaths. He felt himself coming apart at the seams.

This was not like Hermione. Something happened – something bad – and it was all his fault. He'd done everything he could think of to spare her this fate, cutting himself off from her, from everyone – he'd done everything but be there when she needed him most...

“Ron?” Ginger went on. “Have you found something?” This got Harry's attention.

“No, it's just...” he did not finish as he stood over an open book at her desk. Harry came up behind him and turned the cover.

Ghosts, Ghouls, and the Haunt, by Matilda Shortham. Appropriate reading material considering the season, perhaps.

“Come on,” Harry said. “Bring the book. It's almost time.”

. . . .

He was already waiting for them in Ginger's room upon their arrival, but... it was not Percy Weasley awaiting.

“Good evening,” Hans Krieg greeted the three pleasantly enough. “Please, shut the door,” he gestured. Ginger looked half-a-mind to bolt, but upon Ron's nod, she closed them in with this stranger she did not know.

“What are you doing here?” Harry accused.

“I should ask you the same thing,” Krieg fired right back. “Mundungus Fletcher...” he spared any coy games, revealing his knowledge on the matter, “is not on our list.”

“What list?” Ron felt the need to butt in, looking between the two.

“This is a personal matter!” Harry seethed, taking a threatening step towards Krieg. The Professor did not miss it.

“Harry...” Krieg implored, speaking calmly. “I am your friend. I am here to help you.”

“Where's Percy!” Harry did not relax.

“I do not believe it is Percy whom you're looking for.”

Harry paused, considering his next move. Ron and Ginger glanced nervously between the two wizards, but before anything more was said, Krieg reached into his heavy cloak and produced a small vial, containing a swirling, glowing gaseous liquid within.

“Give it to me!” Harry demanded at once. It was not a question.

“I don't suppose you will tell me what it is you want with Mr. Fletcher?”

“No,” Harry said bluntly.

“Do you intend to kill him?” The harsh and blunt question struck a blow at Ron and Ginger, causing each to flinch, but Harry was unmoved.

“He has information I need,” Harry rasped.

“You did not answer my question,” Krieg pushed him. There was a long, pained silence.

“Mundungus's fate lies in his own hands,” Harry gave the only answer that he was willing to give. He did not intend any such insanity, but at this point, there would be nothing left standing in his way.

“You are treading dangerously, Harry. What is this? Attempting to involve others, especially the junior Weasley at the Ministry, could have had dire consequences. There are very few who have any understanding of your current situation, or of what is at stake,” Krieg warned.

“This, 'Go at it alone' attitude will only play into your enemies' hands. You can trust me, Harry. And if I am to assist you in this, I must be able to trust you.”

Harry grimaced, balling his hands into fists, but he was only wasting time he did not have. He nodded.

“Can I trust you, Harry?”

Harry felt himself slump. The weight of it all was immense. “They... they have her,” it came out faint, as if he were sick to admit it.

The “they,” was still for the most part, an unknown, but Krieg did not have to ask who “she” was.

“Well then,” Krieg tossed him the vial. “You'd better go and get her.”

. . . .

They were monsters. Cruel and sadistic in every meanings of the words. Hermione lay prostrate at the center of the broad floor. Stands for an absent audience rose around her in a circle in every direction. She could not move. She would have thought she were paralyzed, were in not for the pain shooting through every inch of her body, from her toes to her finger tips. Each breath felt like sharp daggers gouging into her lungs. All she could smell or taste was the copper tone of blood.

The two's laughs reverberated about the hard room like a pack of wild hyenas, splitting her head open even wider. They were insane, and their barbarity knew no bounds. How had she let this happen?She was too smart for this. It was supposed to be over... but here she was, delivered into the hands of the worst of the worst. As she had been tortured by the misses beforse, so now she was tortured by the mister.

Lestrange delighted in unleashing every foul spell he knew upon her. Rookwood kept her conscious and awake so that it may live on.

She heard a door high above open. At once, the sounds of hideous moaning and groaning filled the room, and she was positive it was not her own, but she could not garner the strength to lift her head to be sure.

“She is to be kept alive, you fools!” she heard the raspy, high pitched voice of the girl cut down upon them. Further moaning and the shuffling of many footsteps falling down the steps. Lestrange and Rookwood fell back in fear, horror struck across their faces. To frighten these two so, whatever was coming for her now had to be bad.

“You'll have your vengeance soon enough, but not before the boy arrives!” she screeched at them. There was no argument. She saw tripping, rotten legs of men circling around her, coming for the two Death Eaters. Her brain was not functioning properly to understand it.

She saw the flash of several spells, only further confusing her.A double-cross?It wasn't until the bodies hit the floor, and the girl began her squawking laugh once again did she comprehend. What was left of her senses panicked. She felt that rush of adrenaline, but there wasn't enough left to aid her. The faces of those dropping... Inferi! The dead encircled her.

Lestrange and Rookwood retreated, casting curses of magic and damnation alike as they went. Soon, Hermione was left at the center of the deathly mob, they restrained from tearing her limb from limb only by their mistress.

“Tssk, tssk,” the girl approached her, lifting Hermione by her magic. Hermione cried aloud from the pain of it. There was no telling how many broken bones she had. “There now,” the girl stroked her hand across Hermione's face, clearing the blood from her eyes. “I'm not going to hurt you, not yet anyways!” she laughed that terrible laugh once again, as if she were the most clever person on Earth.

“What...” it was agony to speak, but Hermione forced it. “What do you w-want with H-Harry?”

“Haha! Stupid girl!” the girl's amused look turned to that of spite. “I think you should be worrying about yourself right now,” she warned with malice. Hermione found it too difficult to speak on. No matter, just then, the door above opened once again and another came rushing down.

“Carmilla!” she heard another deep and rough voice call aloud. “My dearest Carmilla!” a man rushed into view. He was... not unlike the girl. His hair deadened and wiry, his skin creased and hanging from his skeletal frame. His eyes sullen and dark. He looked an inch from death.

“No, no!” he wailed. “This body does not suit you!” he embraced her. “Servant!” he shouted angrily, his bellicose causing Hermione to flinch. With a loud crack, an old and bent house elf appeared. “Bring us one of the slaves, one fitting of my dear Carmilla!” he ordered without ever looking to the elf.

“Yes, Master,” the tired elf bowed low to the floor, and just like that, he was gone again.

“Oh, Carmilla!” he despaired over her small form, pulling her to his chest. “He should have never sent you alone after him, I have been so very troubled in your absence! After the Orient, to think you may have had to face him alone!”

“I am fine my love,” she hugged him back. “He cannot hurt me.” The two clung to one another in an unseemly embrace, for one so old, and the other so apparently young.

“You have brought this one here..?” he seemed to realize Hermione's presence for the first time. “But why?!”

“If we cannot find him, we must have him find us,” she hissed while glaring down upon the bent Hermione.

“Antioch will not be pleased. When they notice her absence, if any were to come, to discover us...” he now spoke with a certain apprehension.

“You need not worry, my love. I have seen to everything. The boy does not take solace in any other. He will come alone.”

“Master,” the two were distracted as the elf returned. Hermione was just barely able to lift her swollen lids enough to see what was happening.

“Excellent, servant!” the wizard was pleased as the elf brought forth a terrified and shivering, yet beautiful woman. The young, wrinkled girl started cackling once more as she approached her. What happened next... It was like some unbelievable nightmare. She needed to wake up.

The girl's jaws stretched open wide, unnaturally so, like a yawning beast's intent upon swallowing her prey whole, and with the loud sucking and swirling of air, a pillar of dark mist erupted from the girl's spread jowls, and attacked the poor woman like a horde of angry locust.

The woman's mouth was forced open and like the transfer of an evil soul, the blackness consumed her. Her pale, soft skin began to harden and wrinkle right before Hermione's eyes. Her flowing blonde hair turned to brown, and then a wiry black and gray. And her sparkling blue eyes... they lost all sign of life, falling into a deep, pitted, glossy black. The young girl's body fell limp to the floor, dead. The woman began to laugh that hideous laugh of the girl's with utter delight as she held out and examined her new hands and feet.

“My Carmilla,” the man embraced this new woman.

“My Cadmus!” she pulled him to her.

. . . .



A/N: Sorry for the delay. Can't say I am very pleased with this chapter, and took some time to mull it over. As I grow closer to the end, it seems to be getting harder and harder. I've seemed to have lost most of the followers, so any feedback on where I have gone awry would be appreciated. For those still hear, thank you, and just the same, would love to hear what you think.

Chapter Thirty-Five: The Rat

“Professor Krieg,” McGonagall gently pushed open the cracked door to his office. He was working busily at his desk.

“Evening, Headmistress,” Krieg answered without looking to her. McGonagall took a few cautious steps in and stopped, watching him carefully. She closed the door.

“Pardon the interruption,” she eventually went on as Krieg showed no further sign of acknowledgment. She was not herself this night, tired and worn, she looked her age. “I was expecting a report... I've spoken with Kingsley, but I've yet to see Harry.”

“I'm sure the Minister filled you on the important details,” Krieg responded shortly.

“Hans!” she was a taken aback by his brevity and shrewdness, but still, he offered her nothing more. Instead, he finished the letter he was penning, folded it, and slid it into a crisp envelope. Melting the tip of a stick of crimson wax in the candle on his desk, he sealed it with his stamp.

“This little operation of yours is beyond protocol, and against my better judgment, I allowed you to proceed. I would at the least, expect you to-” but McGonagall's short speech was ground to a halt as Krieg abruptly stood, walking about his desk, and handed his letter to her.

“What is this?” she barked at him, turning it over in her hands.

“My resignation,” Krieg revealed to an alarmed gasp from the Headmistress. “It has been a pleasure, but I am afraid my duties now call me elsewhere.”

“Your resignation?!” McGonagall guffawed. “But... You can't – Harry!” she grew angry. Like it or not, Krieg had performed wonders on preparing Harry for what she knew he still had to face, and the training could not be interrupted now. But as she studied his eyes, she realized this resignation was not so simple. “What has happened? Where is Harry?” she rattled off the two questions in quick succession.

“I agreed to come to Hogwarts to help with Harry's instruction. I have achieved my assignment to the best of my abilities, in the time that I was allowed.”

“In the time...” McGonagall felt herself grow weak.

“It has begun. Harry has left Hogwarts,” Krieg dropped the bombshell. McGonagall was left stunned.

“Why did you not stop him?! Or tell me sooner?! Where has he gone?!” she was rambling, pushing at the borders of frantic.

“The girl, Hermione Granger, has gone missing. Harry believes that whoever has been after him, has kidnapped her,” the second shoe fell. McGonagall's blood turned to ice – she froze.

“Harry has a lead. I've helped him follow up on it. Ron Weasley, and another girl by the name of Ginger Laywell are traveling with him. The elder Weasleys, as well as Hermione Granger's parents, have been put under Auror protection while this plays out. This is being kept top secret, should Harry's attackers lift their heads, we'll be ready for them.”

McGonagall could only blink as she let this all process. Things were propelling out of her control. Krieg and Shacklebolt had out maneuvered her. Harry was not yet ready. She still had to...

“The Minister has requested that I help Harry with whatever powers that I still possess, and that is my intention from here on out. A second team has been dispatched to India to see if we can uncover any further clues as to who is behind this. I myself will be departing for London immediately, to look into the rumors spreading there.”

McGonagall had yet to so much as nod her head.

“Harry has reason to believe Mundungus Fletcher has knowledge as to what happened to the Granger girl. He has gone for him.” Still, nothing from McGonagall. “Minerva...” Krieg's tone softened, sounding near pleading. “I have not known the boy for as long as you, but I do care for Harry. I understand he is grave danger, and I will do everything in my ability to assist him in this endeavor, but this is inevitable, I need your help now, as does Harry, and not by trying to shelter him here. We are operating blindly at the moment, whatever knowledge you have been holding on to...”

The fire that suddenly lit in McGonagall's tired eyes stopped Krieg cold. She took a deep breath, swelling out her chest as she drew herself up to her full height. “If it is time, then so be it,” she alluded, without Krieg truly understanding her meaning. “Allow me to inform Professor Flitwick of my absence, and I will accompany you to London. I will tell you what you need to know, and Harry... we must find him. I must speak with him before he is confronted by those monsters once again!”

. . . .

Piner's Pint. It was no more than to be expected. A right, run down little joint, sandwiched between two ghetto muggle apartment buildings. He entered casually, ignoring the growing number of heads turning to watch him as he made his way to the bar. None could recognize him with his hood up and shadow across his face, never mind the heavy cloud of smoke hanging in the air.

“Whatcha be havin'?” the bar keep asked him gruffly as he slid atop an empty stool. The patron next to him was currently bent over the bar, seemingly battling great bout of depression, mumbling drunkenly to himself.

“Never mind him,” the bar tender caught his glance. “He's no trouble, just enjoys his Firewhiskey.”

The drunk next to him looked a mess. He'd obviously been on a several day drinking binge, with sullen, blood shot eyes, a strong body odor radiating off his burgundy suit, and wore what had to be a two week old beard.

“Firewhiskey,” the mysterious wizard ordered the same.

The one he happened to sit next to lifted his slumped head to glimpse at his new neighbor, before dropping it back down. It took a moment for everything to register, but upon a double take, he immediately began trembling atop his stool.

“Heh... Har - Har-” he choked before toppling right over, falling on his arse upon the floor.

“Oi! You alright there, Dung?!” the bar keep startled. A slight commotion stirred about the bar to see what had happened, but the newcomer did not so much as spare him a glance, as he awaited his ordered drink, and took a deep swig upon its arrival.

“That's it, enough for you, you ol' sodden fool!” the bar tender shouted at him as the fallen wizard scooted away nervously, back on his hands and rump in a crab crawl. His eyes were glued fearfully on the one at the bar, as if expecting him to turn and strike at him at any moment. Halfway to the door, the near convulsing wizard scrambled up onto his feet before darting for the door.

“Hey! Where the 'ell yeh think yer gettin' off to, you scoundrel! You're tab!” the bar keep cursed at the retreating wizard. The one at the bar smiled victoriously into his glass, taking one last sip as he heard the retreating wizard whelp on his way out the door. He'd hit the trap.

Tossing down several coin, more than enough to cover his own drink and the tab of the other, he thanked the bar keep as he bid farewell.

“Say, we don' want any trouble around here,” the keep started, reaching for his wand, but the newcomer was already at the door, and he was distracted by all the galleons left at the bar.

The night was cool and overcast. “Evening, Fletcher,” he looked up at the dangling wizard, held magically by one leg up in the air, swaying like a pendulum just outside the door.

“'Arry! Imagine runnin' inta ya here!” Mundungus croaked as tried to sound as cheery as he could muster. Two more came out of the shadows from across the street and hurried their way.

“Imagine...” Harry said solemnly as he reached into Mundungus's cloak, retrieving the hanging wizard's wand. I single tap to the forehead, and all went black for ol' Fletcher.

. . . .

“Wha'... eh... curses!” Fletcher squelched his face up nastily, pulling away from the foul smell of the Sewer Salts being wafted below his nose.

“Hey! Not bad!” Ron looked back over his shoulder at his best mate. “I'll have to let George know they work like a charm!” Harry's face remained un-telling. “Well... I guess they are charmed?” Ron chuckled as he moved out the way.

“Har-Harry?!” Mundungus finally recovered his senses. “And – and Weasley! Blessed, I thought I'd been...” he started, but trailed off as his eyes landed on the gorgeous red headed goddess behind them, leaning against the far wall. “G-Ginger?” he gulped heavily. This was not a cordial visit.

He began to struggle a bit, only to find that his wrists and ankles had been Troll Taped to the chair he was in, but as he failed to question his own arrest, this evidence was just as damning as any words he could have spoken.

“Eh... I think there has been som' kinda mix up, lads...” he struggled in earnest, but unless he suddenly sprouted the strength of a giant, he wasn't going anywhere. He was careful to avoid Ginger's mutinous glare.

“Shut it, you ol' goat!” Ron spat at him. “You've got some explaining to do!” he raised his fist.

“Me?!” Mundungus blanched. “Certainly... no! There's – there's been a mix up I - I'm afraid...” his voice became pitched with fear. “B-but, n-no harm, n-no foul... I can f-forget this w-whole thing...” he twisted in his seat, attempting a failed chuckle at the end.

“I told you to shut it! We haven't forgot the last run in with you!” Ron referenced the run-in they had with him at Grimmauld during the war. It was on Harry, however, that Mundungus's eyes were trained. He'd never seen... eyes quite like that before. He was ready to piss his pants beneath those damning green orbs.

Without having yet uttered a word, Harry stood and turned, walking smoothly to a table Mundungus had yet to notice.

“S-surely... yeh can't still be... I - I can get yeh the g-gold...” Mundungus croaked.

“This is not about the loot you stole from my dead Godfather, Fletcher,” Harry's voice was low, uncommonly steady and monotone considering the circumstances. Mundungus swallowed hard. “But, I have not forgotten your treacherous ways,” Harry reminded him. With his back to them all, Harry reached up to unfold the front of his robes, allowing them to fall from his shoulders and crumple to the floor below.

“Dear god, man!” Mundungus balked with absolute revulsion. Even Ron and Ginger flinched at the ghastly sight of Harry's deeply cut and scarred back. “What in Merlin's name?!”

“A gift from your friend,” Harry's depressed voice could hardly be heard. Ron took a step towards him, reaching out a hand, feeling the need to console Harry in some way. This... his back, it was terrible, he'd had no idea what Harry had gone through, and it scared him just as much as it did Mundungus, but a cutting glance from Ginger stopped him. She shook her head. Now was not the time – he had to stick to the plan.

“Friend?! No, Harry! No friend of mine!” Mundungus began bucking in his seating, scrambling for some chance of escape.

“You sold me out,” Harry's voice was still calm. Too calm for Mundungus's comfort, and the scoundrel froze.

“Me?! No – never Harry! Honest's truth!” Mundungus bemoaned, but choked to silence at the sound of metal scraping across metal o the table. Harry raised a long, ten inch blade into the air, studying it carefully.

“Liar.”

“No – no Harry, you've got to believe me! I helped you! I got those passports for you, remember?!”

“Yes, you did,” Harry turned to him with an unamused, menacing glare in his eye. “And you sent him right after me.”

“Him?!” Mundungus balked. “How – how could I?! I didn't know you were in Australia!”

“Australia indeed,” Harry sneered deviously at the scared wizard as he paced towards him, knife in hand. Mundungus unwittingly glanced towards Ginger. There was no use.

Bare chested, Harry's body was hard, his muscles chiseled by days spent in the quarry at Dakhal, his veins pulsing with vengeance of Duma, his eyes set with a purpose by Hermione, and the scars of his body threatening that he would not feel the slightest remorse for those unable to stomach the touch of pain.

“Huh?!” Mundungus realized his own error. “No... I didn't know! I couldn't have Harry!” he tried desperately to keep up the lie. “I swore he meant no harm!”

“But you did,” Harry reached him, slowly moving the silvery blade before his face. “And harm was done.”

“No...” words abated him, as his eyes locked onto the approaching knife.

“There are ways to get the information I want,” Harry's eyes glanced over his shoulder to the table beyond. Mundungus's followed to an assortment of other menacing looking contraptions. “But...” Harry's cold eyes turned back to the shrunken wizard, “I would prefer to do this without all the theatrics of blood and guts.”

Mundungus forgot how to speak, his mouth bobbing like a fish out of water, as Harry raked the blade of the knife across the stubble on Mundungus's cheek, winding the edge down to his unprotected neck. Ron and Ginger shifted uncomfortably.

“Harry... please...” Mundungus begged, speaking so weakly it came out more like a mouse's squeak. Ginger had to nudge Ron, prodding him into action. He'd forgotten what he was supposed to be doing.

“H-Harry...” Ron stepped forward. “I'm sure this is just some mistake. The rat probably didn't know what he was doing. I'm sure he'll tell us all he knows,” Ron played his part as the good cop.

“Y-yeah!” Mundungus grabbed hold of this. “W-whatever you want to know!” he sang imploringly.

Harry traced the knife along, bringing its sharp point up into the softness below Mundungus's chin. “He's got Hermione, Fletcher...” the admission took every ounce of strength Harry had. “If you don't tell me, I'll kill you,” he threatened without pause.

“Her – Her – Hermione?!” Mundungus squawked. With this revelation, he knew his danger was all too real. He could see it in Harry's cold, pitiless eyes. “W-who Harry?! I'll help you find her! I can help, Harry!” Mundungus now started literally pissing his own pants, the dampness soaking straight through.

“Where has he taken her?” Ron came up beside Harry, staring down at Mundungus.

“H-how would I know?!” Mundungus shrunk back.

“Hmm,” Harry pushed the blade against him harder, soliciting a tiny bead of blood. “Told you there is only one way,” Harry spoke to Ron.

“Don't Harry! We need him alive!” Ron went on playing his part, but it wasn't exactly hard to do. He was scared himself, worried Harry might actually be intent on doing it.

“Honest, Harry! I don't know much!”

“What do you know?!” Ron shouted at him. “And by Merlin, you'd better hurry and be out with it!”

“T-there was this wizard!” Mundungus cried. “He paid me to find out where you were?! He's been paying many a lad! As soon as I caught wind what had happened, I swore him off! Honest I did, Harry! You've got to believe me!” Mundungus started crying like a frightened child. Harry searched his watering eyes for the longest time.

“You've got seconds, Fletcher. You'd better have something for me...” Harry let the threat linger.

“Come on, Fletcher, who's side are you on, anyways?!” Ron prompted him.

Mundungus twisted in his seat, trying to pull his head and neck away from the blade. “I - Rookwood! Lestrange!” Mundungus cried aloud. “I don't know! They're just rumors! I told you, I got myself out as soon as I heard he meant you harm, Harry!”

“That's better,” Harry said calmly amongst the storm, though forcing the blade ever harder against Mundungus's throat. “And who is he? Who is behind all this?”

“I don't know, Harry!” Mundungus wailed, wetting his trousers further. “No one does! He never gives a name! Never got a good look at him!” he went on whelping like a wounded animal, though Harry'd yet to harm him.

“How did he contact you?” the questions continued.

“Owl!” Mundungus belched. “Owl's all!”

“Where did you meet him?” Ron chimed in.

“I don't know?! Different places – pubs mainly! Knockturn Alley! Peddler's Jig! Penniless Pestules! Grim's Keep!” he went on spouting off every place he could think of. “I ain't seen hide nor hair of him in months, Harry, honest to Merlin I ain't!”

“What does he want with Hermione, with Harry?!” Ron questioned him next, hitting him from all sides.

“I – I can't!” he pleaded, but they weren't giving in. Harry dug the blade in further. “It was... it was something to do with – with a wa... a wah...” Mundungus struggled to speak, as if something was holding him back. But just like that, the blade was gone. All three sets of eyes turned to Harry with confusion as he turned his back to them.

“What wand?” Harry spoke the word Mundungus could not finish, the threat was gone from his voice. He sounded defeated.

“I...” Mundungus was bewildered, looking to Ron first, who in turn grimaced at him.

“Answer him!”

“He'll – he'll kill me...” Mundungus protested, though the fight in him had dissipated as well. Ron looked as if he might slug him one.

“In case you hadn't noticed, I don't see anyone around here who's about to kill you, but Harry. If you want our help...”

Mundungus's head fell as he went slack in his seat.

“Girls, power, glory, damn them all... I've always had a fancy for gold,” he chuckled a little under his breath to himself. “He gave me lots of gold...” Mundungus started what sounded like the beginning to a tale, speaking in a whisper, his voice soft yet resolved. Ron had to lean in to hear him. “All the gold I could swim in... not that it did me much use,” he slewed. “I'm no traitor!” his head suddenly sprang back up, looking to Harry as he studied the boy's scars.

“You'll get him, won't you Harry?” Mundungus asked with certain zeal, in an apparent about face. Harry did not turn, but gave a single nod. “He put a curse on me... but – but...” he began to struggle to speak. “Told me he was an ol' – ol' re – ughn -lative... of y-yours...” Mundungus had to choke out the words.

“He wanted you to... the wand...” he tried, but a great convulsion came over him as he started to seizure in the chair. Harry spun around, coming to Mundungus's aide as he worked his wand over him.

“What in the bloody hell is wrong with him?!” Ron cried, but Harry did not answer him as he began to cast a montage of spells over the shaking wizard, slowly calming him back down until he was taking deep, uneven breaths with his eyes closed.

“What does he want with my wand..?” Harry asked desperately, drawing close to the answer he'd sought for so long now.

“You've – you've done well... Harry,” Mundungus just barely managed to utter, through in a rasped, choked voice. “I'm sorry...” he peeled open his eyes long enough to look at Harry. “D - Dumbledore was always g-good to me...” he began coughing hoarsely, spitting up blood. Ron fell back, but Harry held his place at his side, trying desperately to hold Mundungus with them.

“No... not y-your wand... he doesn't want...” he groaned with pain as he spoke. “I n-never understood,” he labored as if he were on his death bed. “But... he w-wants... he wants you to use,” Mundungus began hacking furiously. “Wants... you to use D-Dumble...”

He did not get to finish. He seized up, choking hard one last time, before a long trail of air left his lungs. He did not refill them. He went limp, dead in his seat.

. . . .

A/N: Thanks for all the wonderful reviews. Keeps me going. I've plotted this whole thing a little ass backwards, the idea for my story basically consisting of the first twelve chapters, and then the general theme of who the antagonists are. There will be a bit of a delay for the next two chapters. Without an outline, I have no idea for how long this will go on, but I promise some big revelations in the next two chapters. That said, I've got nothing written beyond this, and being as important as they are, they should be long ones. Stick with me.

Chapter Thirty-Six: The Wharf


“What – what in Merlin's name?!” Ron sputtered out, tripping back several steps as he did, alarmed and careful to give Mundungus a good distance – or what was left of him anyways. It was not a pretty sight, the curse hellish in its effect.

“Harry...” a soft voice beckoned him, followed by a tender hand upon his shoulder, pulling him away. Harry ignored it, shrugging it off as he continued working feverishly over Mundungus, battling the dire curse with all he had. “It – it's too late, Harry. He is gone...”

“Goddamn you, Fletcher!” Harry suddenly erupted, yelling at the dead man. A swell of anger poured out of him as he pound the base his fist hard against the fallen wizard's chest. “Goddamn you...”

Just as fast as Harry's well of emotion rose, it faded away into the abyss. There was no more use. He reached up with one hand, checking Mundungus's pulse, or lack there of. It was over. Another fallen. Another dead. The Reaper stalked him like a ghost in the night, unable to evade him, unable to avoid him. Harry's face once again turned back into that cold stone - expressionless, unreadable.

“I didn't want...” Harry closed Mundungus's lids. “I couldn't stop it...” Harry said as the weight of it visibly pressed down upon his shoulders, forcing them towards the ground, he assuming all the responsibility of this most recent fatal failure. “I – I couldn't save him,” he rambled on, biting at his tongue. The silence that followed was total, his two companions looking worriedly to one another, unsure just of what to do next.

Harry rose to his feet with his back to them, his robes forming, regaining a steady pace of his breath. “Daemon's Wharf...” was at first all he said. The two others cocked their heads at him, thinking he may have just gone insane. “Have either of you heard of it? Daemon's Wharf?”

“H-Harry?” Ron questioned him warily.

“What do you mean, Harry? Why?” Ginger added.

“Mundungus..." Harry was reluctant, but continued on nevertheless. "He was cursed... but that wasn't all. Someone was in his mind... toyed with it. Everything...” he shook his head, looking towards the ground. “Everything was a dead end. Just a voice... repeating over and over again, Daemon's Wharf...”

“Daemon's Wharf?” Ron repeated, confused.

“It's just outside of London...” Ginger answered to the surprise of the two boys. Both Harry and Ron spun on their heels to face her, causing her to shrink back a step.

“Where?” Harry demanded of her with a certain surge of intensity.

“East!” she blurted back, nearly shouting, assaulted by his fierce gaze. “At the mouth of the Thames and bay, not far from Southend...”

Harry began to move, skirting past both of them for the door.

“But Harry...” Ginger's frightened voice stopped him in his tracks. “It's abandoned. Been so for years...”

“Perfect,” Harry retorted, starting on his way again.

“Harry!” Ron called after him, halting him once more. By the look of surprise and angst etched across his face, he apparently did not expect Harry to stop, and then scrambled for some use of words when he did. “What – what are you going on about? Daemon's Wharf?”

“It's all I've got to go on...”

“You... Legilimens?” Ron started piecing things together.

Harry only nodded.

“But you said it yourself, Harry...” Ginger spoke back up. “Someone had messed with his mind. Certainly this is just some kind of trap!”

“Yes,” Harry said simply. “I know.” Turning to Ron, he added “I think it's about time you took Ginger back.” Harry's next move was unsurprising - more death caused by him. Ron and Ginger needed to get away. Far, far away.

“This wasn't your fault, Harry,” Ron took a stand. “We're here to find Hermione. I'm not going anywhere.”

Harry's taut lips twitched into a frown as he looked back across them, past them, to Mundungus's limp form still bound within the chair. Harry paused. “You don't understand, Ron. Do you want to end up like this - like him?!” he finished most angrily, disgusted, gesturing sardonically to the lifeless wizard.

“You don't understand, Harry,” it was a rebuke, but Ron delivered it with a calm empathy. “I'd have been dead a long time ago if it weren't for you. We are the Trio, forever and always, until the end. I'm not leaving you again, and I'm not leaving Hermione. We're going to get her back - together,” Ron was incessant.

Harry visibly deflated, his will to argue sapped. Instead, he used his wand to release Mundungus, transforming the chair in the process into a stretcher of sorts, laying the man down gently upon the ground.

“We need to...”

“I know some people who can tend to him. He'll be in good hands...” Harry and Ron both looked to Ginger as she spoke up once more. “Harry...” Ginger dared, “I – I'm in too. I can help. We can help.”

Harry suddenly turned on her, his emerald eyes flashing that dangerous hunter's green. “Help?!” he hissed. “You'll be dead by tomorrow.”

“I'll be dead if I don't go!” Ginger rose with a sudden coming of courage. “Whoever is behind this, they're tying up their loose ends! You think Fletcher was the first?!”

“Huh?!” Ron guffawed. Harry looked to her quizzically.

“He wasn't! Something's going on, and I am safest here, with you two. Besides, if you're going to Daemon's Wharf, you're going to need me!”

“Need you?” Harry voiced with doubt. “Why? How do you know of Daemon's Wharf?”

“I – I'm from London,” she sounded more defensive. “It's an old haunt of our kind, mostly just squatters and the occasional mischievous kids up to no good. I've been down there a few times...” she answered him.

“Then you can take me there?” It sounded more like a command than a question.

“I can.”

“But Harry!” Ron stepped forward. “You just admitted it yourself! This is a trap!”

“Yes, well,” Harry did not falter. “I am going to take the bait.”

. . . .

It was a simple matter of apparation. The two boys, hand in hand with the red headed Ginger, and then they were gone from that sad room, transported away to a darker, more sinister place. Daemon's Wharf was laid out before them.

Upon arrival, the three remained as they were, though Harry dropping Ginger's hand, Ron clasping onto his tighter. Only the gentle wash of the river and sea beyond could be heard.

“Why...” Ron finally broke the silence. “Why would you come to a place like this?” his meek voice was a bare octave above a whisper.

“Kids..." was her only explanation. "It's said to be haunted,” Ginger went on in a similar manner. “Muggles don't come here. It's been like this for years.”

“H-haunted...” Ron revealed a hint of fear. “Sounds about right,” he managed a weak chuckle.

A sprawling labyrinth of dilapidated warehouses, some boarded up, others missing their windows like an old man sneering without some of his his teeth. Others still had completely collapsed in on themselves. A thick and deep fog rolled through their lanes and narrow allies like a horde of ghosts on the hunt. The only light shed was from the moon and stars above, hindered by the hovering overcast of equally turbid clouds.

“Can't things ever be easy?” Ron complained with a light, exhaling breath.

“Come on,” Harry placed a hand on Ginger's shoulder. “I can't see anything from here.” In the next instance, they were high above, atop one of the empty warehouses, looking out over the entire grounds and the black waters of the bay beyond.

“Would you give me some warning before you do that?!” Ron queased, settling back down his stomach from the sudden apparation. Ginger did not look too easy herself, but she did not voice any protest. Harry parted them once more to lean out over the edge, taking in the massive complex of so much, and yet nothing.

“But...” Ron stepped up beside him, followed by Ginger. “Now what? This place is huge, they could be anywhere.”

It was true. The shells of buildings were countless, strewn out before and around them. Further out and to their right, it opened up to the empty docks, rotting and crumbling wooden piers stretching into the black, foaming waters. Rusted hulls of aged and forgotten ships and boats alike bobbed and pushed up against them with the incoming waves. Out to the left was a solitary jetty, reaching into the fog, a towering, neglected lighthouse rising from the mist at its end. It had been a long while since that lantern had beckoned any towards it.

“No,” Harry answered him in time. “They are there,” he motioned towards the far distance, a large cargo ship, rusted and worn but still whole, bobbing like the rest of its smaller counterparts in the rolling, dark waters.

It was tied off to a lone platform. Neither Ron nor Ginger questioned him on how he knew this, swallowing heavily as their eyes fell upon it. Its mass and sinister feel radiating off it were daunting - and telling. That all too common silence ensued.

“Well...” Ron eventually spoke up. “I – I guess we should check it out?” he sounded as if he'd like to do anything but.

“We need to get closer,” Harry signaled for them to grab hold, before he apparated them to the nearest building leading to these docks. The proximity had Ron and Ginger slouched back away from its haunting form.

“N-now what?” Ron asked as the silence stretched on, Harry studying the massive ship intently. “Do we go down?”

“It's not so simple,” Harry grimaced, his eyes staring long and hard upon the scape before them. “The wards are thick: Dissapparation charms, intruder alarms, motion detectors, spell dampeners, sound barriers, anti-muggle jinxes, the list goes on,” he ticked them off angrily.

“Harry...” Ginger whisped. “How do you know all this?”

“Doesn't matter,” he shook his head.

“Then, how... how do we get in?” Ron mumbled, wishing in part that they couldn't. Ron had barely finished before Harry abruptly grabbed either by the scuff of their necks and yanked them down below the wall that framed about the edge of the roof.

“What?!” Ron hissed. “What is it?!” he had his wand out in a flash. Harry lifted his finger to his lips, calling for silence.

“There,” Harry whispered so lightly it barely reached their ears, edging up just enough to point down over the wall. Ron dared a peak, before falling back behind the wall. Ginger mimicked him.

“What?” Ron repeated in the same whisper. “I don't see anything...”

“There's a gate...” Ginger answered him. “Leading down to the docks.” Ron screwed his face at this. He hadn't seen any gate, but Harry nodded, confirming Ginger's observation. Ron peaked again.

“Oh, I see it!” he said a little louder now, staring at the broad gate. It was an archway, quite out of place for a place like this. He didn't miss the Runes etched about its face, but before he could notice anything further, Harry had him again, pulling him roughly back down, hissing at him to shush. “What's the big idea, no one is in sight!” Ron protested in a loud whisper. Harry grimaced, shaking his head, repeating his deman for silence.

“Two,” Harry mouthed, signaling with two of his fingers. “Disillusioned.”

“How do you...?” Ron quirked. “Oh, never mind!” he breathed, exacerbated. “You got a plan?”

Harry sat there, thinking long and hard. “I don't know... we'll have to create a diversion. Without being able to see them... one wrong move and-”

“I've got a plan,” Ginger shocked them both. “Harry... I trust you know how to use that thing?” she nodded towards the wand gripped in his fist.

. . . .

Harry stood before the high wall of the of the building, on its far side, away from the docks, looking up towards the sill of its roof. The two guards hadn't heard them arrive when he apparated before – he imagined he was becoming quite deft at it by now, with minimum noise – but he wouldn't be taking any chances, not now.

The mist began to swirl about his feet. He felt himself grow light, and then brick by brick, he ascended the wall, until he glided forward to stand upon the roof the three of them had not left thirty minutes before.

Crouching as to stay low and out of sight, he moved to retrieve the large sack of sand they had already prepared. He dragged it to the far side, just before the gate, where he carefully maneuvered it up unto the ledge, sure to remain unseen.

Readied, he crept towards the corner of the roof, peaking his head up just enough to see down the lane, awaiting the signal.

As desolate as this place seemed, indeed, Ginger had spoken the truth. There were others milled about it, snakes and mice of witches and wizards, a lowly bunch, squatting amongst the empty buildings. Further down, Harry had performed the magic to disguise Ron and Ginger, to make them look as two who belonged here.

He'd turned Ron's Gryffindor and Ginger's green robes into a soiled and stained brown, looking worn and frayed. He's scuffled their hair, disfigured their faces. Ron had even been guileful enough to pick up an empty bottle, filling it with the water of the sea, before transforming it to give it the look of an amber liquor.

Now... now he waited.

. . . .

He heard them before he saw them. “Knock-a one dun, pass-it-a ruhnd!” they played their parts masterfully, singing merrily as they stumbled out from the shadows, leaning on one another, appearing completely sodden.

“Com'on mi'lady, one little kiss!” Harry could see the distant silouhette of Ron pucker up, his lips reaching for Ginger as she pulled away.

“I dun told ya, fifty sickel or ya not so much as gettin' a hand up my skirt!”

“Ah, don' be that way! I'm-a hurtin' here!” their voices echoed off the buildings.

“What's that?” Harry heard another voice to his left, just below. He couldn't see who it belonged to, but he knew they were there all the same.

“Squatters. Get rid of them,” a second, invisible voice answered.

“Shouldn't we send back an alarm?”

“Damn you, Vissle! You want to send back an alarm with every gull that lands nearby!”

“Jus' followin' orders!” the first protested.

“Shut it!” the second spat. “They're just rats. Get rid of them.”

“Alrigh', alrigh', don't get your knickers in a wad!”

And while he could not see them, Harry could still sense them. He smiled to himself as he felt their auras part, one heading towards Ron and Ginger, the other diligently manning the post. Slinking back towards the sack, he focused his magic upon the roof. It opened for him, and one level after another, he descended back towards the ground floor.

He waited for as long as he dare, allowing the one sent to get rid of the intruders to get as far away as possible before he sent his magic wafting back up the holes he'd left in the levels above, all the way to the large sack of sand. He gave it a slight nudge, tipping it over. A second later, he heard the loud thud of it hitting the ground on the other side of the wall.

Harry's heart beat spiked. This was it. Would the guard take the bait?

At first, nothing... but then, Harry sensed him coming closer to investigate. Slowly. Warily. He was suspicious.

Harry placed his left palm up against the wall, jabbing the tip of his wand with his other right into it. Starting from the center, the wall shivered, waivering like a sail in the breeze as it spread wider and longer. The energy of the other grew closer and closer until he was hovering over the sack.

“What the..?”

“I've got you!”

Harry cast his magic forward, encompassing the wizard, before yanking back hard like hooking a fish. The wizard came flying through the wall, yelping, hurdling into the room as he hit the floor hard, rolling towards the opposite side. Harry hit him with a stunner before the wizard knew what was happening. Quickly binding him, Harry slipped back out the closing portal on the wall, into the lane beyond.

“Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen...” Ron finished his count to twenty aloud from seeing the sack drop.

“PULVIS!” Ron swirled his wand, bursting forth a large cloud of white powder. As the dust was cast, the form of a man aiming a wand was revealed at its center. Ron dove for Ginger, knocking her out of the way as the white about them turned to a flash of green.

“Ow!” Ginger cried, pinned between stone and Ron. A second flash of red, and then a thud and crunch of a limp form skidding across the pavement.

“You alright?!” Ron asked frantically, pulling himself up off her to look her over.

“Yes,” Ginger grimaced as she picked herself up onto her hands, looking around Ron to see the Disillusionment Charm wearing off the fallen guard. Ron then looked on as well as Harry was already atop him, magically binding him, before dragging the body off into the shadows.

Harry soon returning, the three glanced to each other, each nodding in turn. It had worked. So far, so good, but with a certain air of trepidation to come, they all three in unison looked to the now unguarded gate, only able to guess as to wait laid in store for them there.

Chapter 37: Into the Breach

“Well, any idea as to what it says?” Ginger murmured reluctantly. The three of them stood in a row, faces lifted towards the arching, ill-fated gate.

“Yeah,” Ron mused. “Do not enter. Intruders will be shot...”

“Hmmph!” Ginger couldn't help a faint snort, as Ron shifted his weight uncomfortably. Harry had his game face on, and was unmoved by Ron's theatrics. This was serious, much more than life or death. Hermione...

The ancient Runes etched into the smooth stone meant nothing to him. He needed Hermione, but she was not here – she was there, on that other side, and he was going for her. One way, or the other.

Harry moved past them, turning his focus instead to the veiled barrier that separated this side of the wharf from the docks beyond. But there was no understanding this either. It was not like the typical wards he was accustom to. What would happen if they tried to pass? What awaited them on the other side? Important questions he had no answer to. They would have to go in blind, and that was dangerous.

Harry held his breath, chancing it all on fate. There was no other way in, and there was no turning back.

“Harry?” Ron sounded as if he meant to stop him. Harry fed his hand through, and the entire thing disappeared before their eyes.

“It's the only way,” Harry was undaunted. There was only forward.

Stepping through that gate was like moving through a vortex, each part of their bodies being sucked and stretched forward as they passed, to be vaulted and tossed out on the other side.

At first there was relief. There was no tolling of a gong, no alarms ringing, no surprise attack. Everything appeared just as he'd seen it before, everything except...

Harry quickly ducked, whipping his wand through the air, cloaking all three of them with a Disillusionment Charm before Ron or Ginger had time to garner their bearings, nor understand what was happening as they just as quickly vanished once again.

“H-Harry?!” Ron repeated with angst, holding out his hands in marvel as they disappeared.

“Sshh!” Harry silenced him. “There's a crate, three o'clock!” he hissed under his breath. “Move - now!”

Without questioning him further, but by trust and by faith, they moved. But while being invisible served its purposes, it had a way of making things much more difficult when trying to work as a team. Ron and Ginger tripped noisily over one another as they made a mad dash for the container car.

Harry ripped the charm off like a mask, wincing as he pulled the other two up against the crate, padding their heavy footfalls with an additional charm.

“Quiet!” Harry bit sharply over them. There was no room for error - not now.

Released from their invisibility charms, the other two bent with panted breaths from the brisk sprint, Ron rubbing at a stitch in his side. Harry eyed them scoldingly.

“What's going on?!” Ron wheezed.

“Just hold tight,” Harry shook his head, moving cautiously towards the edge of the large, square container. Harry then poked his head around the corner to get a better look at what he'd only temporarily noticed before.

There were guards. A number of them. And each and all of them frozen in place, staring right at the gate the three had passed through only seconds ago.

Harry grimaced, gripping at his wand, readied for... now. For action. There would be no stopping him. His eyes darted about. A dim silhouette atop the bridge of the ship, another three beating circles about its deck, and two, four, five he rapidly ticked off, wandering variously amongst the dockyard itself. It would have to be hard, and it would have to be fast. He plotted a course, his magic rising in waves with his pulse, readied to be unleashed.

Harry was ready. His muscles flexed. He felt that zeal of adrenaline throb in his veins. He inched forward, readied to bolt out and begin the onslaught, to take advantage of what little surprise they had left, but then... he stopped.

They were all just standing there, hunched in place, wobbling like they might topple over at any moment from the rocking of the ship, or an incoming breeze from the bay. And then first one, then another, on down the line, they slowly turned back to their seemingly random wanderings about the ship and yard.

“What the..?” Harry mouthed as he watched with confusion.

They were like drones, following along some haphazard path, never bothering to venture out, never stopping to consult with one another, and never giving a second glance. It just wasn't... right. Something was odd about these wizards.

And what's more, there was some kind of strange aura about them, something eerie, something... dark. And all of it emanating out from the core of that ship. That ship that held his... Hermione.

“Everything alright then, Harry?!” Ron betrayed alarm, sucking in air.

“No,” Harry said morosely, feeling a gray, culminating cloud build over his soul as he gazed upon that ship. There was something deep and dark and foreboding on that boat, something terrible – a pit of loneliness and despair. Hermione... her name was all he had to grasp on to.

“I'm coming,” his lips formed. “Hold on!”

“What do you see?” Ron asked.

“Death.”

Harry, like his two compatriots, winced upon his own words. It certainly wasn't a word of encouragement, but came involuntarily, of its own volition. Ron and Ginger looked to one another, swallowing hard.

Harry took a moment to regather himself. “We've got to make it to the boat.”

To the left was the pier and the waters beyond, the boat further down. There would not be any cover that way. But to the right were the docks, and the guards. Apart from the occasional rusted metal crates and rotting wooden boxes, there was very little else to use to hide behind, and while the guards did not seem very alert, Harry wanted to give them as wide a berth as possible. He did not understand them, and he did not like them. One failed step...

And then onto the ship itself? There was no rampart, only two thick ropes, one at its bow, another at the stern, holding it to port. In spite of the guards' numbers, he was unimpressed. He had no doubts as to handling them, but that wasn't what worried him. Hermione was in there, and if they got off an alarm... there could be no mistakes.

“Do you two know the Bulla-Cereum?” Harry whisped.

“The what?” Ron and Ginger both retorted in unison.

“The Bubble-Head Charm?” Harry put in simple English. “Diggory...” he hated to bring back that particular memory. “He used it in the lake during the Triwizard Tournament.”

Ginger was clueless. Ron just shrugged.

“Never mind,” Harry aired his frustration. “We're going to have to use the water as cover. I'll help you with the spell when we get there, just be careful getting in – no splash!” he warned them.

Ron and Ginger's eyes came together, sharing a moment. Something told them they were about to go off the deep end, both literally and figuratively. Harry had already said it. They were about to face death, and there was no denying it. They turned back to Harry and nodded. No turning back.

“We'll have to move beneath the Disillusionment, single file, to the pier's edge, there,” he pointed to their left. They stepped up to get a better view of what Harry was talking about. “Ron, you first, then Ginger. I'll bring up the rear. We'll do it in order this time.”

“Got it,” Ron said, casting his own Disillusionment Charm. Ginger watched on, a bit impressed.

“Can someone..?” she asked sheepishly. Ron helped her disappear.

“Remember, careful getting in. No noise!”

“I'll get in at the right pole, you in the center Ginger. Harry, to the left, so we're not landing on top of one another,” Ron added his own to Harry's plan.

“Brilliant,” Harry said. “Now, let's move!” And they moved. Ron took off first, making a line for the Thames.

“Go,” Harry said to Ginger after a bit. He counted to five before following after her, setting his path for the left pole standing above the planks of the pier.

Even though he was invisible, he moved in a crouch, watching the guards to his flank. And then as before, one after another, they began to raise their slumped heads towards him. “Dammit!” Harry cursed, quickening his step.

“Get in!” he hissed, pushing urgently at Ginger as he then carefully slipped in his own two feet, quickly followed by the rest of his body. The water was cold and biting, sending a jolting chill through each.

Harry turned in the water, peaking out above the pier. All those closest to them were looking and staring on, but they did not pursue, nor give off any overt alarm. 'What is this?'

Seeing what Harry saw, all three waited on pins and needles within the rolling waves, their jaws shivering. Was the jig up? One minute. Two. Five. It wasn't until what had to have been ten full minutes and they were nearly frozen solid, did the guards go back to their random routes, no longer concerned with what they hadn't seen.

“Alright,” Harry breathed a sigh of relief. “We can lose the charms.”

Harry released his own, just as the other two's heads appeared above the black water. Each was holding onto the pier with one hand, bobbing in the waves.

“That was close...” Ron whispered with obvious discomfort, hugging at his body for warmth with his free hand.

“How did they..?” Ginger rasped, her teeth rattling in the cold.

“Doesn't matter,” Harry put an end to it, moving on. “There's going to be bubbles, so we need to swim fast. Let's come up on the far side of the ship, they shouldn't be as alert there,” Harry instructed them.

“What – what do I do?” Ginger asked hesitantly, feeling like the weak link slowing them down. “The – the charm I mean.”

“I'll cast it,” Harry said. “All you have to do is breathe normally, and swim. Stay below the surface, no matter what.”

Ginger nodded.

“Astricta!” Harry cast first, and both Ron and Ginger glanced down at the water as their robes tightened in around their bodies. “It'll make the swim easier,” Harry explained, before casting the Bulla-Cereum on each. Readied, the three sank below the waves. The tune of the world was snuffed out, replaced instead by a depressing string of the aquatic violin.

They regathered beneath the surface, their hands and legs slowly treading, holding them in place. With their limbs numb, it wasn't easy.

All was murky and clouded by a forbidding brown-greenish hue. Harry allowed them to grow accustom to the air bubble about their faces, and adjust their breathing accordingly. With an assured nod, he set out. They followed in his wake.

It was slow going. Blacker than black, the dim water's haze blocked out what little light they had to begin with, and the tide was strong. It was a battle just to stay on course. It was inevitable, they began to separate, slowly drifting apart.

Harry was focused, his sights set dead ahead. He saw the form of another some five to seven meters to his right, frogging his way forward. The long body had to be Ron.

Ron... was it only months ago that they were daring Voldemort's wrath? Harry himself had been pushed to his breaking point. And yet, here they were, still going at it. He watched this form in a new light that was not shed. Ron too was pushing forward, not breaking, not to be beaten, damn the odds. No matter the danger, Harry was glad he was here. Some how, some way – together – they were going to do it. They hadn't failed yet. Yet...

A muffled, desperate scream, and a swirl of bubbles behind them brought them both up short.

Harry whirled around. It was Ginger. She was tossing madly back and forth within the water, fighting for her life. It was too hard to see. Harry dared casting a dim Luminos forward, and what he saw then...

“Merlin!” the bubbles erupted from his own mouth. He had erred. The guards had not left their flank open. What came into light was the form of a massive creature of the sea. Black within the shadows. Legs. Long tendrils snaking and bending every which direction, wrapping Ginger within their mighty grasp.

It was an octopus like monster that could have rivaled that of the giant squid of the Black Lake. Its many arms were coiling around the struggling, helpless girl, pulling her down into the depths of the bay, intent on crushing and drowning the life out of her.

Harry reacted on instinct, casting a strong spell. The water bled a bright red as the bead shot at the giant octopus's head, but the massive form simply rippled like gelatine, shedding it off as the spell disappeared into the blackness.

Ron suddenly shot past him with the speed of a torpedo, his wand held before him, cutting through the water as he released a barrage of spells upon the creature. Harry dove, kicking his legs furiously as he followed in hot pursuit.

“SECTUMSEMPRA!” Ron bellowed through a muffled battle cry, slicing through one of the octupus's many legs. The arm severed with a furious response from the beast, slowly floating away within a sudden cloud of bloodish ink.

The beast writhed with pain and anger, tossing the poor Ginger about savagely within its grasp. But Ron was upon it in an instant, slashing and cutting madly at anything and everything with his wand, in a desperate attempt to free his Ginger.

The monster had too many legs to contend with though, and Ron soon found himself entangled as well. It was a fierce battle of two wills, but Ron was doing damage. The water began clouding with a deep, opaque purplish hue. Harry went for its head, attempting to grasp at its slick, blubbery flesh with one hand while he stabbed at it with his wand in the other. A beam of red light pierced straight through it, coming out the other side.

The beast loosed a hideous wail, twisting and turning ever harder, ever faster, gripping Ron and Ginger ever tighter within its remaining tentacles, causing them to cry out with pain and anguish and a flood of bubbles rising to the surface.

Again and again, Harry stabbed at its massive head, piercing it over and over again in an insane battle of determination and blood and ink. And then... everything stopped. It was over. Harry was panting. The monster went limp, its legs uncoiling, sinking ever so slowly downward towards the depths from which it came. Harry looked up to find pieces and chunks of severed flesh and limb drifting away in every which direction, and at the heart of all the carnage, Ron and Ginger together, engaged in a tight embrace.

Harry's eyes lingered on the two for a moment. Things were only getting harder. The two had no business here – they could get seriously hurt, or worse. They could have just met a most gruesome fate. Harry grit his jaw, but then something more came to light... as if it were emanating out from their very beings. This was... love. Something worth fighting for. Something worth dying for. Something worth living for.

His eyes trailed along, up to the surface above. The Moon's meager light broke through in wavering beams. His love was there. His love was in mortal danger. A different monster had her, and he knew what that demon was capable of. There would be hell to pay. Harry moved, and Ron and Ginger followed after him.

Harry erupted onto the surface, ready to fly to that deck and cut down any in his path... but no one was there. They had somehow gotten away with it. Ron and Ginger soon arose as well, as Harry studied and contemplated their next move.

There was obvious relief evident upon the other two, glad to have survived that cursed monster, and glad to be beneath the stars once more. But there was no relief with Harry. Only purpose.

“So, any more bright ideas?” Ron managed to find some humor in this dark hour, teasing Harry in his usual self. Harry did not laugh, nor crack a smile. Ron swam up beside him as Harry's eyes remained trained upon the edge of the ship's deck.

“Thanks...” Ron said low, so that Ginger could not hear.

“For what?” Harry was not distracted.

“For saving her...”

Harry sighed a long sigh, his eyes now falling to the water, before looking over to his oldest and best friend as they kicked to stay afloat. “You saved her.”

Ron frowned, looking himself now up at that cursed ship. “Let's go. We're wasting time.”

“Yes.”

. . . .

“I'll go first,” Ron said. Harry nodded, offering him support to climb up. Harry had opted for creating a hole in the side of the hull, a meter or so above the water line for them to climb up and into the ship. He could detect no others close by, nor any other wards to contend with.

“Come on, grab my hand,” Ron reached back down to hoist Ginger up while Harry pushed. He turned to help Harry next, but the One-Who-Lived came gliding through, causing Ron to fall back over onto his arse, before Harry sealed back up the hole.

“You know, you're going to have to teach me how you do that some day!” Ron jested as Harry lit a Luminos to see by.

“Yeah, right after I teach you how to stop a quaffle from the goal,” Harry released their robes. The two siphoned off the water as Harry moved towards the door, putting his palm up against it first to get a feel for what was on the other side. He added an ear for any noise.

“All clear?” Ron asked, not tempting Harry any further on his last comment.

“Think so,” Harry reached for the knob. He slowly turned it, waiting for the slight click, before he pushed it open. All was silent but their faint breaths and padded foot steps. The only light was from the tip of Harry's wand. They stepped out into the hall.

“Geez, you feel that?” Ron commented, lighting his own wand.

“It's terrible,” Ginger answered him, pulling her arms to her chest as she shivered from the cold.

Harry said nothing, looking first to the right. It was long, darkness pressing down upon them. The corridor was narrow, all encompassing, smothering, giving them all a shrill of claustrophobia. Harry squinted his eyes, slowly tracing them along the wall before him until they settled to their left.

“Something's not right about this ship,” Ron went on, shivering just the same as Ginger.

“Feels like Dementors,” she winced as she said it.

“Run,” Harry said so low the other two hardly heard him.

“Huh?”

“What?”

“RUN!” he now shouted at them, pushing them to the right. “This way!”

The entire corridor began to shudder as a sudden eruption of moans and groans echoed from around the corner to their left. A horde of stumbling, scratching bodies turned the bend, stampeding as a wall of death right for them.

“INFERI!” Ginger screamed bloody murder as she tripped over her own two feet in retreat. Ron hauled her back up as they scrambled in the opposite direction, moving with a purpose.

“I KNOW!” Harry shouted back as he flourished his wand, sending a pillar of flame to greet the walking dead. “GO!” he pushed them. They ran.

It was a maze. They ran, and they ran, as fast as their legs could carry them, the deads' groans beating off the metal halls in their ears, Ginger's pitched shrieks cutting over them with each new turn. Left, then right. Right again. Up, down. Through hatches and out of them, Ron guided them aimlessly along the never ending, near pitch black corridors, running for their lives, gripping Ginger's hand in his as he pulled her along. Harry brought up the rear, his eyes dancing wildly along the ceiling and walls, trying for some guidance, occasionally pausing to send another wall of fire slamming back down the passageway behind them.

It was faint, but it was there. She was there. She was here. She was still alive, and he could sense her. He had to get to her, and now!

“Right!” Harry began directing their path. They could still hear the awful groaning reverberating up from behind them, drawing ever closer, as Harry turned to shoot off the random flame. “Left! Up here! This way!” they scrambled their way through the haunted labyrinth.

“Ron, look out!” Ginger shrieked as three red curses came hurdling towards them from ahead.

A white mist swooshed past them. And then Harry was there, in front of them. He cast his wand, shielding them. The spells collided, bowing out the cramped walls with a terrible, percussive thunder.

“RAAH!” Harry roared as he sent his own strong spell doubled back on them. The three wizards were blasted back against the parallel wall of the intersecting hall, falling limp to the ground. The horde of dead still tight on their heels, they each took a step forward to flee, but then stopped as a second mob rounded the corner ahead, the dead, ghastly moaning booming down upon them from each direction.

“RON?!”

“HARRY?!”

Harry slashed his wand, opening a wound in the metal of the wall beside them. He ripped it open, “Through here, HURRY!” They fell through, Harry sealing it up upon jumping through himself. The terrible groans converged across the other side, their talon like nails screeching as they clawed against the rusted metal.

Ron and Ginger bent with their hands on their knees in a frantic pant to catch their breaths. They both looked up in alarm as Harry crashed his shoulder through the door, aiming his wand from side to side, readied for any threat.

“They're coming! This way!” be beckoned them, and they moved again.

“How many can there be?!” Ron spun around a corner at Harry's orders, firing off his own spells at the newest mob sprinting for them from down that hall.

“Come on!” they retreated to the right.

Harry cut walls, crashed through doors. They wound themselves right and left, up stairs and down them, into new hatches out out of them, all in a mad dash, but always there were more dead, hot on their trail.

“She's there!” Harry was going mad as they spun around the last corner. “Just ahead!” they ran with wild abandon, only to find the hall blocked with more inferi.

“Harry?!” Ron yelled. They were trapped once again.

And then Harry was there ahead of them. There was no retreating now. His path was dead ahead, and pity those who stood in his way.

But there would be no pity for these foul creatures. Harry lit the corridor with licking flame and fire as they charged forward. All three loosed a deep battle cry as they lept and jumped over ash, and burning and writhing corpses. The metal of the walls glowed like heated embers. And Harry crashed through those double doors, blowing them right from their hinges as if they were paper machete confronting a tornado.

. . . .

Everything came to a screeching halt on the other side. The room opened up. A narrow platform ringed the round walls. Stone bleachers collapsed down to a flat stage at its center. The room was enormous, but Harry saw naught but what was there in the heart of it all, and it tore his own straight from his chest.

“Aughh!” Harry let out something close to the wail of a wounded animal, a guttural groan issued from his very soul. Ron and Ginger pulled up at his flanks.

“Hello, Boy-Who-Lived!” Lestrange sneered back with loathing. “You're just in time to watch her die!” A green beam of light was already lit at the tip of his wand. He turned to fell his prey.

Hermione...

Hermione, or what was left of her, was his target. Vicious chains shackled her wrists and ankles, holding her spread eagle, upright within the air. The ends of the chains disappeared into nothing. Her head was slumped, unconscious. Her brown, matted locks covered her sad face. Frayed tethers of blood stained clothe, barely covering anything of her bruised and cut, most delicate flesh were all that remained of her robes. Lestrange loosed the final, lethal blow.

The curse went nowhere. The dark wizard's eyes lit with pain and fear. The splitting of buckling stone beneath their feet masked the breaking of bone within Lestrange's out-held arm. Harry had him by the wrist, a thin, nasty smoke wafting up from his grasp about the searing flesh of Lestrange's wrist.

He cried a thousand cries as he fell to his knees in total and complete agony before the Boy-Who-Won. He wailed until his lungs had nothing left to give, his mouth left agape, begging to cry some more.

“LOOK AT ME!” Harry screamed with a murderous fury, clenching him about his jaw with his other hand to force him to look up. Their eyes met, Harry's filled with a raging inferno, Lestrange's with pure white fear, his whole body trembling beneath Harry.

“YOU DIE!” Harry screamed with insanity, slowly bending the wizard's arm that held his wand, and the still lingering Avada Kedavra at its tip. “DEATH. EATER.” Harry fed the small bead of green light into Lestrange's open mouth, before forcing it closed about it. Leastrange's eyes lit a lucent green, the light shining through his cheek, out his nostrils, piercing all. Lestrange shuddered violently, before he departed this world with a final, ghastly convulsion. And then there was silence once more.

It was not to last. Harry felt a curse swelling behind him. He spun, whipping out his wand. A white bolt of lightening collided and exploded with the killing curse delivered from Rookwood. Harry was blown backwards with the force of it, right of his feet. There was another flash of green, but the curse never came.

Rookwood instead was now the target, and Harry looked just in time to see the Death Eater take it in the chest. He was sent tumbling backwards before coming to a rest some ten meters away, limp and dead.

Ron's eyes were wide with a mixture of fear and rage and surprise. And then as everything seemed to dawn on him, he hardened once more.

“For Fred! You Son-Of-A-Bitch!” Ron hawked, and spit upon the ground, his chest heaving, same as Harry's. Harry stared upon him with wonder. Their eyes met, Harry's slightly stunned, Ron's determined and without remorse. Harry offered his friend a slight nod of recognition. Ron returned it.

Hermione!

Harry forgot all else as he kicked himself back up to his feet. He blasted the chains binding her into nothingness, catching her gently in his arms as she fell, lowering her tenderly to the floor.

“Hermione!” he wretched, brushing the blood soaked locks out of her face. She had been through more than he dared think upon right now. “No! No, no, no!” tears swelled in his eyes as he looked over her wounds, his wand already going to work. “Stay with me!” her breath was labored – but she was breathing.

“HARRY!” Ron and Ginger came backing down the stairs, both of them firing off spell after spell. “We've got company!”

The disturbance was all background noise to him. His entire world was focused in on this most beautiful girl laid before him, hanging on by a thread. As his wand worked frantically, he ripped his pouch off from about his neck, spilling its contents out onto the ground beside him.

Vial upon vial clinked out onto the stone. All at once, he prayed and he thanked his Potion's Professor for these, swearing everything and all that he would attend every party here-after if only they worked.

He slinked along side her, bracing her head in his arm as he uncorked the first. He tenderly brought it to her lips, feeding it to her, one right after the other, until he had depleted them all. He was completely oblivious to the fierce battle raging about them as he rocked her, comforting her, the tears falling, hoping and praying, the spirit of his heart reaching right out and touching her. He could not go on without her. He could not leave her, ever again. He could not live without her, he knew now. “Hermione, I love you. Don't leave me!” he wept.

“HARRY!” Ron's frantic voice pleaded as the terrible battle ensued. “A little help?!” Ron was working his wand like a true warlock, falling one after the other, Ginger right behind him, but there were just too many, and inferi were not done in so easily.

Be that as it may, it was not Ron's pleas that brought Harry back, but a cold, booming laugh from high above. He knew that laugh. He knew the rotting, yellow teeth that accompanied it. The sneering, chapped lips curled about them. The empty, black, beady eyes set above them. That demon in the depths of his dreams, reaching out to cut him with its claws.

Everything happening so rapidly seemed to grind to a halt as Harry's eyes fell closed. The room trembled with the looming volcano. Dust lifted from the cracks of the stone, starting a broad circle about them at the center.

“Rest,” he whispered in her ear. “You are safe now,” he placed a gently kiss on her forehead.

“Ginger!” he then called, louder now.

“Huh?! Harry!” she backed her way to him, shooting off futile curse after futile curse as the dead closed in.

“Hold her for me,” he said calmly – too calm.

“Harry?!” she repeated, looking frantically back and forth. If Harry didn't do something, they were all about to be done for!

“HARRY!” Ron cried, backing towards them as well. The room was now filled with hundreds of inferi, completely encircling the four at its center. “TAKE HER!” Ron shouted at Ginger. Ginger finally lept to action, dropping to her knees to take hold of Hermione's head for him. Harry passed her over oh so carefully. The tension was too much for Ginger to bear, and she sobbed aloud, expecting the dead to grab hold of her at any moment.

Harry arose in such a way... it just wasn't natural. Too smooth. Ron, too close to him, suddenly fell to his knees before him. Ron caught hold of Harry's eyes, and what he saw there... he'd seen before. The memory came forth from the well of his memories. It took him back several years, back to the battle of the Department of Mysteries, back to the arrival of Dumbledore. Fire. It was about to be unleashed. Ron cowed before the awesomeness.

Harry looked past all the dead mobbing about them, up to the top of the room where he would find the eyes he sought. And he found them.

What happened next was too fast for Ron or Ginger to follow. They saw Harry move. He flourished his wand, ripping it about his head in a wide arch. Fire so bright, they had to shield their eyes erupted in a ring about them. Harry drew his wand about again, as a long rope took hold of the flame, and wielding it like a whip, Harry lashed out, cracking it, and the volcano exploded.

Ron fell over Hermione, helping Ginger protect her from the intense heat. They were forced to squeeze their eyes closed, it was just too bright. They could not see, but they felt Harry's presence leave.

Ron couldn't take it. He dared to open his eyes once more to see what was happening, using his hand to shield them.

It was like they had been delivered into hell. Everything was on fire and brimstone. The inferi were a mass of flame. And then he spotted Harry up above with that devil pinned against the wall, green eyes locked into black. The curse of Harry's wand was thrust through its stomach, readied to rip and spill its guts upon the floor. The sneer upon that demon's face was gone.

“HARRY, WATCH OUT!” Ron was not sure the pitch of his voice could carry over the roar of the flame as he watched on with helpless horror. The demon was not alone. There were two others.

Harry caught it. He slashed his left arm through the air, now holding a second, unknown wand. Hary deflected away the out held wand of the charging wizard. These... Ron could not understand what they were facing. These three looked little more alive than the inferi.

With the second wizard's arm cast away, Harry ripped his other out of the belly of the first, stabbing at and piercing the second through the neck, who loosed a pitiful, choked cry of pain.

Just as fast, Harry slashed his wand back at the first, his spell blasting through and splintering the stone of an empty wall. He'd meant to sever the head of the first, but the wizard was already gone. Harry spun out of the way as two terrible spells darted for him, blowing out a good chunk of the wall as they missed their target.

“Haven't you learned by now, boy, that you cannot kill me?!” Ron heard one of them shriek with anger.

But Harry was too busy to pay him any mind. He flicked one wand, pulling out the legs of the stunned wizard he'd just stabbed, before wielding his second like a hammer, dropping a hard spell right down on top of him, slamming him into the stone. The crunch of bone and pavement could be heard even by Ron.

“CADMUS!” the third, a witch screamed insanely as she charged Harry like a woman possessed.

But Harry was ready for her. He sprinted right back at her, deflecting her spells and then her wand itself as they closed on each other. Seemingly passing her by, Harry fired a spell that matched the one coming at him from the first wizard. They collided mid-air, exploding in a blinding light, as he caught the witch about her neck with another spell. Yanking, he sent her crashing, choked to the ground. Ron watched her kick and writhe upon the stone, clenching at her neck as the invisible noose strangled the life out of her.

Ron heard Ginger scream beside him. The devil was there, grasping her by her hair, hoisting her to her feet in agony. Ron did not have the time to react. He watched the wizards arm fall, severed just above the elbow. He looked just to the right. Harry had done it. One final blow, and the wizard was sent spiraling across the room in a heap.

No one could have survived that, but Harry did not leave it be. Sprinting after him, Harry wielded his two wands, cutting and cursing what was left of the wizard until there was nothing recognizable left. He was intent on destroying it utterly.

Ginger collapsed, crying, back to the ground. Ron watched his best friend with utter bewilderment. When had this all happened? When had Harry changed so?

Harry Potter's name had always been famous. He was the first to ever survive the killing curse, and at the hands of Voldemort no less. He'd been the one, as only an infant, to vanquish him first. Harry had always been one level above the rest, but this... It had only been a few months since the end, and he had a hard time of understanding this new Harry.

What he'd faced in India. What he'd been doing since he returned. Harry had ascended. A compulsory thought struck Ron. The Deathly Hallows. All three. Harry was their master now. He'd never really thought upon it before, but now he was witnessing it with his own two eyes. Could it be..? He'd never felt so close, and yet, so very far away from his best friend.

A loud crack! caught their attention. With his back and attention turned, what Ron and Ginger could see, and what Harry could not as he engaged the last wizard, was the arrival of two sad looking house elfs. Each had a terrified human in tow, just over the previously fallen witch and wizard. Ron and Ginger watched in disbelief as the black spirits left their destroyed bodies, and entered that of the newly arrived humans. Their eyes turned black. Their skin shriveled and folded. Their hair deadened.

“HARRY!” Ron cried with fear.

Harry caught it just in time, whipping around to blunt the two, strong spells aimed for his back side. Ron and Ginger ducked out of the way, Ginger rolling over to protect Hermione. The spells held with a crackling line of electricity, locking the three in place. A third elf arrived to the aid of the third fallen wizard. As Harry was distracted, that wizard recouped in a new body.

“A vita ad mortem transitum,

De morte, et revertamur,” it raised his hands in the air, going into a trance like state.

Harry heard him from behind as he struggled to push back the spells of the other two, but there was little he could do about it at the moment.

“Harry!” Ron jumped up, firing his own spells, but to little effect.

“Per sanguinem nostrum semen,

Per Magister mortis.”

Harry felt something grip him, hold him. He tried to push, but it just wasn't enough.

“Vobis mittimus ad inferos,

Ubi eritis aperirent fores,

Et libera nos!”

A ringing filled his ears. Ron finally hit one dead on, sending the wizard tripping backwards. Harry, twisted, holding the witch's spell at bay as he took out her feet with the sweeping of his other wand.

But then... laughter. Mad, cackling laughter. A green aura began spreading about the center of the room, about a circle drawn in green chalk around them, about a set of odd statues he had not noticed before, lining this circle.

“It's a Witching Circle...” he heard Ginger whisper faintly.

“Hold on!” Ron and Ginger felt a strong spell suck them together. Harry aimed his wand at the floor, issuing another spell that smashed against the stone floor, cracking it.

“Et libera nos!” the three demons repeated together. The green haze closed in on them. Ron fell out of no where. Ginger slumped over.

Harry struck the floor again. It gave way. They all fell, but the spell of the three followed them. There was a strong suction, drawing, pulling at his core, and then all was gone, consumed by the darkness.

Chapter Thirty-Eight: King's Cross

The scene slowly came to focus. Dim street lamps overhead broke through that all consuming darkness of the night, shedding light upon a rather unremarkable neighborhood. Each house was the same as the next, just as each house was oddly familiar to him, if only with subtle differences than he remembered them. The trees, peculiarly enough, were what stood out most. They were far too small, saplings of their former selves.

All was quiet and still. It was late in the evening. Two owls swept by overhead. A car door slammed in the distance. A cat sat perched upon a stone wall, as still as a statue. At first, he considered it might actually be a statue. But then... its tail twitched, its eyes narrowing. Something had changed. He looked about for the disturbance.

An old man had silently appeared on the far corner of the drive, quite out of nowhere, as if he'd arisen from the paved street itself. It was immediately obvious that this man did not belong here, an oddity amongst all the conformity.

He stood there watching this man with a wondrous fascination, as did the cat. He knew this elder man, as did he know this street, but their names evaded him. He was standing out in the open, but was untroubled. He did not know why, but all the same, he knew he could not be seen.

The elder man began to rummage about within his purple cloak which was draped to the ground. Then with a passing breeze, something caught his attention. His eyes fell upon the cat. “I should have known,” he chuckled, rather amused.

Having found what he was looking for, the man held up into the air what appeared to be a silver cigarette lighter. He clicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with a slight pop. He clicked it again, twelve times in all, until each and every lamp was doused.

It became near impossible to see, and he edged closer as the older man moved down the lane to the brick wall upon which the cat was perched, claiming his own seat next to it.

“Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall,” the cloaked elder spoke to the animal without looking to it. The name rang a bell. He then turned to face the cat, but it was gone, replaced by an elder woman, dressed similarly as the old man, though in an emerald cloak. Neither was surprised by this sudden transformation.

She sat stiff and erect, her hair pulled back into a severe bun, with rectangular spectacles rested upon the brim of her nose.

“How did you know it was me?” she asked.

“My dear Professor, I have never seen a cat sit so stiffly.”

Banter. Idle banter. Talk of celebrations, muggles and lemon drops. The two's unknown, prying guest shuffled in circles behind them, his eyes flitting by each and every house, trying to make sense of it all, until they finally settled on one before him. A large number four was posted on the frame beside the door.

“The rumors … Lily and James are – are – that they're – dead,” her words, the names... they struck a chord within him, something deep and painful that he'd buried long ago. His head whipped to the witch and wizard sat upon the wall. Witch and wizard? Yes, witch and wizard... how bizarre.

The wizard's head was bowed, the light aura about him now gone. The witch gasped.

“Lily and James... I didn't want to believe it... Oh Albus...” she loosed a strained cry.

“I know... I know...” he reached out and patted her shoulder most affectionately.

Their conversation carried on, heavier now, emotional, but his world had become muted, his head swimming with the names... Lily and James.

“You don't mean – you can't mean the people that live here?!” the witch suddenly yanked him back, jumping to her feet as she cried aloud. There was a boy, an infant, and he was to be delivered to this house, to these people that lived here... to the last family in which he had left. His parents had been killed... Lily and James.

The witch put up the fiercest of protests, but the wizard held his ground, responding calmly and with logical reasoning, albeit a bit morosely. It wasn't until the peak of her fit, visibly shaking with anger, when she suddenly stopped, closing her eyes and taking a deep, shuddering breath, that she garnered his undivided attention.

“Not his only family, Albus...” she drew it out, long and slow. “We could-”

“Minerva!” he cut her off, rising from his seat to face her. “We have been down this road, years ago. We need not-”

“That was your decision, not mine!” it was now her turn to stop him cold.

“It is too dangerous! If they were to find out...”

“Are you not Albus Dumbledore, or are you?!” she got right in his face, spouting loud enough to rouse the entire neighborhood. “Have you not been readying yourself all these years for-”

“I cannot be all places at all times, and I could never live with myself if-” he pleaded with her, but she was not having it.

“And I?!” she practically screamed at him, but just as suddenly, all the fire and wind seemed to leave her at once. “And I... I find it harder and harder to live with myself for...”

“Minerva!” the wizard stepped forward and embraced her. “We did what we had to, what was necessary, what was best for her, to keep her safe,” a single tear peeled from his sparkling blue eyes, rolling down his cheek to disappear into his beard. “And still it was not enough. Do you want the same for-”

“And so now you will banish the child here, in hopes to keep him just as safe?” she muttered into his shoulder. “Oh Albus... Albus – you can't!” she pushed back at him. “I've been watching them all day! You couldn't find two people more unlike us. And they have this son – I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for treats. Harry Potter come live here?! Our own-!”

He couldn't stand it any longer. It was too much, too overwhelming. His head was reeling, it felt like it was about to explode. He clenched at his temples, screaming from the pain. But Death never came for him like it always did... it had already claimed him. The blackness rose like a monster of the depths and swallowed him whole. (1)

. . . .

Blackness. Complete and total. It lingered, pressing down upon him as if it meant to suffocate the life right out of him. He was defenseless against it, in a state of paralysis. He felt neither finger nor toe, he just... was. He was left there, alone, abandoned, wandering about in his own mind – minutes, hours, years in the darkness.

But a voice. Angelic, it came for him, calling for him, rousing him from his exile. He knew that voice, recognized it, needed and yearned for it with all his heart. It sang to him at first, an enchanting rhythm beckoning him forth, but then the tune changed, became more real, more desperate. She needed him, as he needed her. He did not accept that he was helpless. He pushed back against the blackness. He pushed all his might, with every ounce left in him.

Pixel by undulating pixel, the darkness began to give way to the light, the black to the white. Faster and faster it peeled away, until his eyes shot open and he became blinded by its brilliance. His eyes blinked fiercely at the overwhelming intrusion, battling to adjust to the sudden flip.

“Oh Harry!” the voice erupted within his ears with tears of joy. Tender arms cradled his head, pressing it against her bosom.

“He's awake?!” he heard another voice, strong and familiar. His lids whittled away the haze.

“Her – Hermione...” his own voice was weak and raspy. “Is it really you?” he asked doubtfully, reaching up to touch her, to know that it was real. Slowly she came into focus, glowing amidst the bright light – an angel to his prayers.

She bit at her lip to silence her sobs, nodding profusely. “Oh Harry! I was so – I thought...” she tried, but she could not finish the thought, hugging him so tightly once again as if in an effort to infuse them together. She buried her face into his mop of raven hair, the sobs starting all over again.

“Hermione!” Harry now came fully awake, pushing her back to look at her. “But you – you're...”

She was no longer in the horrendous state he'd last found her. The cuts and bruises and blood were all gone. She was wearing her favorite green blouse, jeans and trainers.

“You're okay?” he asked urgently, his darting eyes touching on every part of her. All nods.

“H-how?” he sighed with tremendous relief, running his thumb across her cheek to brush away the falling tears. Hermione just shrugged, not breaking their intense gaze. Harry felt his heart swelling within his chest... it had been so long now that he'd waited for this moment. Ron and Ginger moved around them, coming together, smiling down upon them.

The joyous moment was not to last.

“Hermione?!” the bright white all about them suddenly registered. The small smile decorating his lips disappeared. One moment he had been sitting, the next, he was on his feet.

“Where – where are we?” Harry demanded, forgetting all else.

His three friends could only look upon one another with a state of confusion. Hermione began to pick herself up, and Harry reached for her, lifting her to her feet. She was cowed into silence by what she saw in his eyes. And Harry saw that look of fear he was giving her, and forced his gaze away.

“Ron,” Harry spoke low. “How long have I been out?”

“I...” Ron looked from Harry, to Hermione, to Ginger. “I don't know? Not long, mate,” he shrugged. “We were all knocked out. Ginger came to first, then me. Hermione woke up not ten minutes ago...”

Harry noticed for the first time that Ron was no longer in his robes either, instead dressed in his more frequent muggle attire, as was Ginger.

“How did we get here?” Harry pressed on most urgently.

“Beats me, Harry. One second you had them, then the next... I don't know. The whole floor gave out... and then... and then...”

“Nothing...” Harry finished for him in a mere whisper, his eyes stretching out into the endless void of pure white light.

“It...” Ginger suddenly croaked, her voice weak and afraid, she shrinking back against Ron under Harry's fierce gaze. “It was a Witching Circle...” she revealed.

“A Witching Circle?!” Ron sputtered out, not yet having put two and two together. Harry himself was not versed in such magic, but he understood her well enough. On the stage of that room aboard the ship, amidst the circle in which they had Hermione placed, laid the trap, and he had fallen for it. Damn.

“Harry...” it was now Hermione's turn. Her hand came up once again to touch upon his cheek. He refused to look at her. He couldn't, not now, not after he'd only failed her once again.

“Harry,” she carried on all the same, speaking softly and tenderly towards him. “They have been after you, Harry...”

He wasn't sure if it was a question or a statement.

“They are the one's who stole you from me in Australia? They are the one's who took you to India?” Definitely a question.

“Curse them!” he could no longer hold away, his eyes falling into hers full force. “They stole you from me! I only wanted to protect you! To protect all of you! But I couldn't! I can't! I've failed you Hermione!” the words flowed from his lips in an uncontrollable sob, damning himself ever more with each lash of his tongue.

“No, Harry!” Hermione jerked his face back up to hers, which had fallen to his feet. “When will you ever learn?” she half scolded, half pleaded with him. “You've saved me. In more ways than one. All of us!”

Harry had no response, choking on his own clenched throat. He had not saved them – for they were here. He'd been here before.

“Shite, Harry!” Ron suddenly exclaimed. “You should have seen yourself in there!” his face brightened. “I thought we were all goners for sure, but you – you really showed them what for!” he started waving his wand through the air, mimicking a mock duel.

No, not his wand. The Wand.

“Ron, where did you get that?!” Harry abruptly voiced.

“Oh, er... this?” Ron shrunk, feeling quiet foolish. “S-sorry... seems as if we all lost our wands, and this one...” he scrambled in his explanation. “It was just sitting there beside you. I just picked it up in case... we, you know... I didn't know if we were good and rid of them.”

“That's right, Harry,” Hermione was not fooled. “You did not return it to Dumbledore's tomb?” she asked without any hint of accusation.

“Dumbledore's tomb?!” Ron's brow furrowed quizzically.

“No...” Harry shook his head. “McGonagall... it was her idea – she told me...”

“It doesn't matter,” Hermione eased him.

“Wait a second!” Ron interjected. “Dumbledore's tomb?! You mean to tell me this wand..?!” he was slowly catching up. As Harry's and Hermione's eyes hit his, Ron suddenly jumped, dropping the wand as if it had scalded him, tripping away with fright.

“The Death Stick,” Hermione confirmed the bewildered Ron as Harry held out his hand. It spun, flitting through the air to its rightful master's hand.

“But..?!” Ron was aghast.

“The Death Stick?!” Ginger was even more amazed. “You can't be serious?! This is a joke – has to be?!” she looked to her Ron.

“Harry,” Hermione ignored the other girl. “You know who they are, don't you?”

“Who?” Harry questioned the obvious. There was a long pause as they all awaited for Hermione to go on, but it was to be Ron whom gave the answer.

“Wait a second...” the light bulb came on. “That – that witch! She called him... she called him her Cadmus. And the other...” the light in Ron dimmed. “Antioch...” he finished.

“No! That's not possible!” even Ginger was beginning to understand, even if she didn't believe it.

“Who?” Harry seemed to be the only one left out.

“H-Harry...” Ron looked right ill. “The Death Stick... Cadmus... Antioch...”

“It's not possible!” Ginger protested yet again.

“And why not?” Hermione questioned smugly. “It makes sense. The pieces fit.”

“What pieces?!” Harry shook his head in confusion. “What makes sense?!” The names sounded oddly familiar, but he could not place them.

“You're serious, Harry?” Ron seemed beside himself. “After all of last year?! The Tales of Beedle the Bard?!” The first shoe fell. “The Tale of the Three Brothers...” The second landed with a loud clop.

Harry froze. “Impossible...” he mimicked Ginger. “They're – they're dead... that story was like a thousand years ago!”

“Not a thousand,” Hermione answered. “Only about eight hundred. Nearly Headless Nick died only five hundred years ago.”

“But Nearly Headless Nick is dead!” Harry shot back. “He's a gho...” Harry then stopped in his tracks.

More pieces of the puzzle clicked into place. He'd killed that wizard Bart, he was sure of it, only to face him again in Duma. The black spirit erupting out of those sad, broken bodies... in India, on that ship... and then the dreams, that demon, Dumbledore and the wand... Harry had to grip at his temples his head began to pound so fiercely.

“I saw them, Harry...” Ron muttered. “You – you destroyed them in there, but then... I don't know how... they just, came back?”

“Ghosts...” Ginger answered him.

Cadmus. Antioch. Peverells.

Ghosts of the Past.

“Harry?” Hermione asked softly. “Do you know where we are?”

Harry nodded slowly.

“Where?!” all three asked in unison.

“King's Cross...” Harry muttered.

. . . .

1. J.K. Rowling, 1997, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, P. 8-13, Scholastic Inc.

Author's Note: Well, the first part of this chapter, as I referenced just above, was either directly quoted or paraphrased, with some additional liberties taken by me to make it fit with my plot. Per the reviews, I see that some have already figured out who the three protagonists are, but hopefully this clears some things up, and still keeps you intrigued. There are still more revelations to come, thank you for reading, and as always, leaving a review if you are so kind!