Disclaimer: The usual stuff about things not belonging to me.
Author's Notes: I apologize for the delay. FF.net saw fit to punish me like a bad four-year old when someone out there reported two of my stories for having "indecent" content. Notice the steam still escaping from my ears? Anyways, I'm glad to be able to post again. For further information on my future with FF.net, please see my author bio. I hope you enjoy this chapter. I enjoyed writing it:)
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An Organ of Fire
by Kristen Elizabeth
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"Wait a moment, Potter."
Harry came to a stop in the open-air corridor that ran around the center courtyard. He was not in the mood to talk to anyone; the entire point of storming out of Dumbledore's office had been to get away from everyone. His entire body was taught with anger as he turned around to confront the man who had followed him out. "What do you want?"
Snape folded his arms over his black robes. "Listen. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that something's wrong here. Regardless of how I personally feel about Sirius Black..."
"You mean, regardless of how much you despise him!"
The Potions master ignored the interruption. "Regardless," he continued, "I do not think for a moment that he would ever align himself with..."
"Draco Malfoy. The pride and joy of your House," Harry spat out, his lip curling up.
"Has it not dawned on you, Potter, that there might be a plot at work, of which Sirius Black is the...innocent victim?" It took much effort for Snape to connect the words "innocent victim" with his childhood enemy.
After what seemed like an eternity of staring his old teacher down, Harry let his shoulders relax. "Of course it occurred to me," he said, his words softer than he had intended them to be. "It's just..."
"Just what?" Snape asked after a moment. The hard edge that was forever present in his voice briefly faded.
"His handwriting." The younger boy looked away, desperate to keep any signs of weakness at bay in front of Snape. "It was...Sirius. I know his handwriting." His brow molded into a frown. "Don't you think the first thing I thought of was Polyjuice? But...it's not someone else taking his place."
At an apparent loss for words, Snape rubbed his sallow forehead. "There are other ways that..."
"Malfoy could be exploiting my godfather? Yes, there are. The problem is..." Harry shook his head. "I have no way to stop him." He continued, amazed at how free his speech felt around one of his least favorite people in the world. "I'm eleven years old again...and I can't figure out how to fight back."
Snape stared at Harry for a moment. "That's never stopped you before."
"I had the entire wizarding community behind me when I faced Voldemort. This time...Malfoy has them on his side."
"So, are you just going to give..."
"Harry!"
Both men looked down the corridor; Hermione was heading for them, a worried look on her pale face. Harry frowned. When was the last time he had seen color on Hermione's cheeks? Weeks, at least.
"Harry..." She stopped a few feet away from them, filling the air with the delicate scent of roses. "Is everything all right? What did Dumbledore..." Her question trailed off when Harry and Snape both quickly averted their gazes from her. "What's wrong?"
Snape shot an expectant look towards the younger man. "You should be the one to tell her."
"Tell me what?"
Harry couldn't bring himself to meet her eyes. Perhaps it was cowardice on his part, but he just didn't think he could bear to see shock and hurt on the face of the woman he loved, put there by news from his mouth. Instead, he looked at the stone floor as he began to speak.
"Hermione...it's been decided...the Governors..." He lifted one shoulder to rub the underside of his jaw. "They're calling...for the removal of all...Muggle-born instructors. At Hogwarts."
A long time passed before Hermione responded with a soft, "Oh. I see."
Finally able to lift his eyes, Harry looked at her. Her efforts to mask her wounded expression weren't succeeding. "I'm sorry." He shook his head. "I couldn't stop it."
"Harry." Her soft, cool fingers cupped his chin. "It's not your fault."
Snape cleared his throat. "If you'll both excuse me..." He lifted an eyebrow at Harry. "When you're ready to really discuss this, you know where to find me."
Hermione watched the older man as he swept off towards the center of the castle. "What could you possibly have to discuss with him that's so serious?"
"Nothing."
"Liar," she said quietly. "If you're keeping secrets again to protect me..."
Harry drew her fingers away from his skin. He didn't deserve her touch. "Protect you? When have I ever successfully protected you, Hermione? Did I keep you from getting hurt on Halloween? Was I there to hold your hand when you had our child? No, Hermione. For all the ways I've hurt you in the name of your protection, I certainly haven't given you much. And now, with this...once again, I've failed to..."
"Harry, please stop doing this to your..."
"I have to be honest with myself." He backed away from her. "I'm poison, Hermione."
She put her hands on her hips. "All right, now you're just being dramatic."
"Don't I wish." After a second, Harry continued. "People who love me get hurt, Hermione. That's just part of being Harry Potter. For you...it's part of being anywhere near Harry Potter."
"And yet, despite this...although your point has little to no validity...I'm still standing here." Hermione walked forward, closing up the space he had put between them. "I think I just lost my job, Harry. I can live with that. What I can't live without is you. Especially now."
Harry closed his eyes when she slipped her arms around his torso and rested her cheek against his chest. "I'm sorry," he repeated. With his eyes still closed, he pried her away from his body and turned around. "We can talk later. I just...need some air." Before he started off, he whispered. "I do love you."
"Harry! Please don't walk away from me!" When he failed to stop or even falter, Hermione pressed one hand to her lower abdomen. "Please...I need...to tell you something."
He didn't hear her. But even if he had, the odds were he wouldn't have stopped.
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Harry was hovering a hundred feet off the ground before he realized how completely selfish he had behaved. He had been sitting on his Firebolt for nearly an hour, just letting the cool afternoon breeze turn into a cold night gale. Flying was one of his favorite things in the world to do. But now, he was taking no pleasure in the freeing sensation of being alone in the sky.
"Bastard," he whispered to himself. "She'd have every right to never speak to you again."
Going overboard into his own guilt had been nothing short of horrifically self-centered. Hermione was the one who had been stripped of her job as though she were unworthy of it. She was the one hurting. Yet he had managed to make it all about himself, not to mention the fact that he had abandoned her when she needed him probably the most.
His fingers tightened around the slick handle of his broomstick. Without even making the conscious choice to do so, Harry guided it towards the dark ground below. When his feet touched back down, he swung one leg off the broom and started to run towards the torch-lit castle entrance.
He didn't stop until he reached Miss Belle's portrait. The nineteenth century beauty opened her mouth to speak, but Harry cut her off with an abrupt, "Water hemlock."
Bypassing his own room, his Firebolt still in his hands, Harry stopped in front of the door to Hermione's apartments. He knocked once, then twice. "Hermione!"
Harry had raised his hand to knock for a third time when the door opened a bit. "Hermione," he began again. "I need to apologize for..." He blinked. Visible in the crack between the oak and stone was not his lover, but the product of their love. Little Harry looked up at him with unblinking green eyes. "Harry..." the older bearer of the name began.
"Mum's asleep, Professor Potter." The boy pushed the door open even further. "You may come in though. If you like."
"Er...thank you." Harry stepped inside and set his broomstick up against the wall. Little Harry was already walking back to the fireplace and the couch set in front of it. Harry followed him. Hermione was sleeping in front of the fire; her cheek rested on one arm and the other was tucked around her stomach. He watched the gentle swell of her breast expand and contract; her lovely face was peaceful now, rosy in the fire's light.
"Did you and Mum have a fight?" Little Harry perched himself on the arm of the couch, his stare still boring into Harry.
"Not exactly," he replied, his voice hoarse.
His son had no visible reaction to this. "She came in crying. She's been crying a lot lately. Like she did when Dad died."
Harry swallowed. "Something happened today." He let out a breath; how did he go about explaining such things as prejudice and cruelty? He had learned the hatred that people were capable of through experience, not theory. "Some people are trying to take your mother's job away from her. They have been for awhile. And today....they might have finally succeeded."
"I know," Little Harry pointed to the fireplace. A corner of newspaper had yet to catch fire; Harry could clearly read the Daily Prophet's header on it. "That arrived before Mum got back from her lessons." He finally blinked. "But that isn't why she cries."
"Then...what is it?" Harry asked, almost afraid to do so. What else could be making Hermione unhappy? Was he doing something more than just being selfish?
The boy slid off the couch's arm and approached Harry. He was barely as tall as the center point of Harry's chest, but he looked up at his biological father as though they were equals. Without any drama or hesitation, little Harry spoke. "Mum is going to have another baby."
Harry reached for the first thing he could, the high back of a chair. He clutched at it for support, his knuckles turning only a shade whiter than his face. "What?" he managed to reply. "How..." Harry shook his head. "I mean...how do you...why do you think that...?"
"Dad told me."
The simple reply was almost enough to knock out what was left of Harry's ability to stand up. His mind reeling, he tried to focus on his son. "Ron told you..."
"I had a dream," little Harry calmly interjected.
"...that Hermione is...pregnant?"
The boy nodded. "Dad told me to take care of her. He said you'd need my help."
Harry stared at him. "Your mother...hasn't told me anything about...a baby." Nowhere near recovered, but with the initial shock passing, Harry let go of the chair. His eyes locked with his son's. "It could have just been a dream, Harry."
"Yes," he replied. "It could have been."
"It's only natural. I've seen him in my dreams, too." Harry inhaled. "We still want him to be with us."
"No. It was real."
Hermione shifted on the couch just then, breaking the silence that followed. Little Harry looked back at his mother; her arm never moved from its protective curve around her belly. "Dad says you and Mum belong together. And that I'm going to have a sister."
The conversation had his skin crawling. Not only was he still reeling from the shock, but now his own son was talking like Professor Trelawney and it was really, to put it like a Muggle would, wigging him out. "Harry..." He bent over until he was at his son's level. "I'll believe you if you tell me that *you* really believe it wasn't just an ordinary dream."
"Do you want it to just be a dream?"
Harry's gaze darted to Hermione. Something akin to panic clutched his throat. Having another baby with Hermione...there were few concepts that sounded sweeter. But the timing couldn't have been worse. If it was true and Malfoy found out...
"That's a hard question to answer," he replied, truthfully.
The boy nodded slowly. "Don't worry, Professor. I won't tell Mum anything about this."
Harry straightened up. He tried to lick his lips, but his mouth had gone completely dry in the endless minutes of their conversation. "I won't say anything to her either."
"Dad was never good at secrets," the boy said. "I hope you're better." There was a long pause. "Professor...I want to invite you to my birthday party. It's next weekend at my Grandfather Arthur and Grandma Molly's house."
"The Burrow." Harry smiled softly. "You've talked to your mother about it? About me coming?"
His son shook his rusty head. "But she won't say no. It's my birthday, after all."
Harry's own head throbbed from the day's events, especially those since he had stepped into Hermione's apartment. Still, he managed to nod his acceptance. "I'm looking forward to it."
The boy smiled for the first time. "Dad was right. It's a lot of work to try and hate you. Too much work." Before Harry could reply, his son ran for the stairs. "Goodnight, Professor."
Left alone with the unpleasant feeling of imagining Ron hating him, Harry walked over to the couch and knelt next to Hermione. "Are you really, Hermione?" he whispered. "Do you even know yet...if you are?"
Hermione's forehead crinkled; whatever she was seeing in her dreams was perplexing her. Harry extracted one hand from his robes and ran his thumb over her brow, soothing away the frustration. "Either way...I'll be here with you. I swear."
He could hear running water upstairs as their son presumably washed up before bed. Harry looked at the stairs for a long moment. "Of all the things I've imagined passing on to my children, my dreams were never one of them." He scratched the top of his head. "Do you know if he has Sight? Real Sight? And would you tell me even if you did?"
A long minute passed; at the end of it, Harry leaned forward and pressed a kiss against Hermione's warm cheek before standing up. He left her sleeping what he hoped was a peaceful slumber in front of the crackling fire. It would be hours before his own dreams crept upon him. But when he woke the next day, he could remember nothing of them.
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After Hogwarts, the Burrow was Harry's second home. In fact, besides the castle itself, there was no place on Earth where Harry had ever felt more comfortable or more loved than in Arthur and Molly Weasley's haphazard house. It was up to this magically intact place that Harry, Hermione and their son now walked, having traveled by Floo Network to London, stopping in Diagon Alley only long enough to pick up a few things, and then by Muggle car to Ottery St. Catchpole.
Harry looked up at the house, clutching the bottle of French wine he had purchased for Ron's father a little bit tighter than necessary. He hadn't been inside the Weasley home since the summer before his final year at Hogwarts. He and Ron and Hermione had spent the last few weeks of their vacation at the Burrow, as they often had throughout their schooling. Happy days, he thought to himself. The threat of Voldemort had been a constant thought in the back of everyone's minds, but they had still managed to have a wonderful time together.
He was shaken out of his memories by the sound of the front door opening. They were still many yards away from the house; Harry had parked the car off the side of the lane that led up to it as not to draw too much attention to their arrival. He squinted a bit in the bright mid-morning sunlight, only to see Ron's mother standing on the stoop, waving at them with one plump, flour-dusted arm.
"Everyone!" she cried out, obviously calling to her family still inside. "They're..." Molly's voice trailed off as she apparently noticed who was beside her daughter-in-law and grandson. She moved her hand up to her mouth.
Hermione glanced over at Harry. His ears were turning pink, a sure sign, even more certain than his hesitation as they walked towards the house, that he was nervous about seeing Ron's family after so many years. Taking pity on him, she reached for his free hand with hers. "They've missed you," she quietly told him.
Harry didn't get a chance to reply; Ron's mother was already out of the house, running towards them as fast as she could. "Harry, dear!" For a moment, he wasn't sure which Harry she was referring to, but she answered the question for him when she pulled him into a maternal embrace.
"Bill Jr. told us you were his teacher, but I only hoped it was true," Molly said between tears. "Welcome home, Harry."
He could feel his own throat closing up. He had no memories of his own mother, save for the images he had seen of her in pictures, his dreams, and the Mirror of Erised. His aunt had been like a prison guard and he hadn't spoken to her in almost eleven years. So Molly Weasley was the first and only real mother figure Harry had ever known. When she pulled back a moment later, Harry could feel his own tears forming, hot and stinging behind his nose. "Thank you," was all he could manage to say.
It seemed to be enough for Ron's mother. Wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron, she turned her attention to her grandson. "Do you ever stop growing, love? You're just like your father was at your age." Her voice faltered at the mention of her lost son as she held out her arms. Little Harry went straight to them for a round of hugs and kisses.
Harry shot a look at Hermione. She looked away, eternally grateful for the sudden appearance of George, Fred and Ginny. "Hello!" she called out to them. "We made it!"
One of the twins, Fred, Harry guessed, lifted a red eyebrow. "And you've brought along a surprise."
"Hello, Harry!" George held out his hand. When Harry hesitated, he laughed. "I swear, I haven't done anything to it."
Ginny rolled her eyes. "Don't believe him, Harry. He and Fred have been working on an invisible gadget that gives you quite a nasty shock. Trust me; I know." She approached Harry and gave him a quick hug. "It's good to see you again."
She had shown signs of becoming a great beauty when he had left. Although she paled beside Hermione as far as he was concerned, he couldn't deny that Ron's little sister was stunning.
It was then that Harry realized the youngest Weasley was also pregnant, probably six or seven months so. He blinked as the glint of a diamond on her left hand reassured him that she had happily settled down with someone. He was sure to hear all about it later. But right then, all he could think about was Hermione and the possibility that she might be in the same condition as Ron's sister.
Harry studied Hermione, even as he shook hands with Fred and politely avoided doing so with George. If she was, she either didn't know or was keeping it from him. He brushed off the second possibility; Hermione believed in telling the truth too much to do so. Either she wasn't aware of it...or little Harry was simply wrong.
Another man joined them from inside the house, Ginny's husband, Harry soon learned. He was a Muggle whom Ginny had met on vacation in Ireland. Harry could only imagine the time the man, whose name was Ryan McGahern, must have endured upon meeting Ginny's family. But he seemed to have adjusted very well to the wizarding world.
"Come on, everyone." Molly had her arm around Hermione as she addressed her family. "Let's get inside for a spot of tea. Arthur and the rest won't arrive until nearly dinner time..." Fred had lifted little Harry into the air and slung him over George's shoulder; the boy laughed and kicked to be let down, even as Ginny walked behind her older brother, trying to deposit a kiss on her nephew's upside-down cheek. "Oh, George, let the poor child down. He's not a baby anymore." She shook her head at her twins, the long-standing source of her headaches.
Harry hung back for a moment as the rest of them walked ahead. Ginny was now sandwiched in between Hermione and Ryan; they each had one of her arms as if she needed help getting up the stairs into the house. She was shaking her head at both of them.
This was Ron's home; these people were Ron's family. He was not a part of it anymore. As he sat down to tea around the long kitchen table a few minutes later, Harry couldn't shake the feeling that he was intruding. Even Hermione's hand discreetly slipping into his underneath the checkered tablecloth wasn't enough to reassure him.
He sipped his tea and ate all the scones Molly placed in front of him. At the other end of the table, little Harry was downing a mug of milk, listening to his uncles talk about their latest inventions with rapt attention. Tea was officially drawing to a close; Harry forced a smile and stood up from the table. "Mrs. Weasley..." he began.
"For heaven's sake, child. Call me Molly." She winked at Harry over her teacup.
He nodded. "If you'll excuse me."
Molly watched him head towards the bathroom. "Hermione," she asked when he was out of sight. Her daughter-in-law looked up from the clotted cream she was spreading onto a scone. "Are you keeping an eye on Harry? He's not looking well a'tall."
The hand holding her knife trembled. "I'm trying to. I think he's just...a bit overwhelmed."
George drained his tea. "He didn't know about Ron when he came back, did he?" Hermione shook her head. "Eh...we tried getting him the message, Sis. Just couldn't reach him."
She smiled at Ron's burly brother. "It wasn't just you who couldn't." Hermione set down her knife and stood. "I'll check on him, Mother."
Not even wanting to know what was discussed after she left, Hermione started up the stairs to the first landing. Harry was standing in the crooked hallway that led to the master bedroom. The walls were entirely lined, almost floor to ceiling, with pictures of the Weasley family. It was sometimes disconcerting to walk down the hall if you weren't accustomed to hundreds of red-heads smiling and laughing and watching you.
Harry had stopped in front of one particular picture. Hermione didn't have to wonder which; she had often found herself at the exact same spot, staring at the exact same image. She had considered asking Ron's mother for a copy of the picture, but had never gotten around to it.
She came up just behind Harry. "I remember that day as though it was yesterday."
"Me too." He reached out to touch the framed picture of himself with Ron and Hermione out in the garden of the Weasley home. Taken in the final days of their final vacation together, the sun was actually out and shining on them, turning Ron's hair into burning flames, Hermione's into rich honey and Harry's into black silk. The informidable trio were piled onto a wrought-iron bench that was only meant for two. As a result, Hermione was practically sitting on Harry's lap; her arms were around each of her friend's shoulders for support.
Harry watched himself laughing. "I feel like I'm caught in the same cycle as this picture."
"What do you mean?" Hermione touched his arm. "Harry...what does that mean?"
He blinked. "Like I can't move forward. I can only keep looking back, over and over again."
A few seconds of silence followed, broken only by the sounds of laughter from the kitchen. "You are moving forward, Harry. You've come a long way, even since the beginning of the term. I mean...take us for an example. We've managed to overcome the past and..."
"Are you pregnant?" He cut her off, sharp and quick.
Hermione drew in a breath. "Yes," she replied, scarcely believing the ease with which the response poured forth. "I am."
Harry turned around. "Have you had a reason for keeping it from me?"
"Nothing beyond bad timing." Hermione looked up at him. "I'm sorry, Harry. I didn't...plan very well. I should have...taken a potion or something. I wasn't thinking that night. Or if I was, it was only about how much I needed you." When he remained silent, she continued, "In a way, I'm glad you put it all together for yourself. I wasn't having much luck breaking the news on my own. Not even in this last week. I suppose I've been too busy worrying about my job and Harry's birthday..." She took another breath. "Harry, please say something. I need to know that you're all right with this. Because if you're not...I'll certainly understand, but I..."
Harry cut her off again, but this time he did so by covering her mouth with his for a hot kiss. Hermione's eyes flew open; when he pulled back, she found herself unable to say anything.
"I'm going to do it right this time, Hermione," he swore. "I know I can't ever make up for not being there for Harry, but this baby..." Harry smiled broadly. "I promise you my best."
Hermione bit the inside of her cheek. It was the words she had always wanted to hear from him. Why, then, wasn't she happier? "I know, Harry." She forced a smile. "I believe you."
It was an awkward place to end the conversation, but neither Harry nor Hermione were sure of what else to say. It was unspokenly agreed that it would be best to keep the news to themselves for awhile; for Harry, it was a matter of their enemies finding out. For Hermione, it was a matter of their family, specifically the family downstairs who still truly believed that a piece of their beloved Ron lived on in little Harry, learning that it had all been a lie.
Much later, as he sat in the living room listening to Fred and George fill him in on the sales figures of the year from Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, Harry realized something frightening. Hermione was pregnant. Harry's dream had been accurate.
His son had gotten more than just his green eyes. Harry stared blankly at the page in a thick account book that George was gesturing to with much excitement. Draco Malfoy could never find out how much alike he and little Harry were. His son's life depended upon it.
Because, as Voldemort had come after him, Draco would not hesitate to come after his own child. Harry closed his eyes. His life really was like a picture. Moving, but never changing.
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To Be Continued