Title: The Splinching of A Soul

Author: Jeshakeoma

Fandom:Harry Potter

Wordcount: 8133

Rating: T

Characters: Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger

Pairing(s): None

Genre: Gen fic

Warning(s): None

Summary: A curse by a wayward Hufflepuff splinches Ron's soul, requiring Harry, Ron and Hermione to return to Hogwarts to repair the damage. Post DH, EWE.

"Well, am I dead or aren't I?" Ron demanded hotly while his soul lingered near by and wrung its hands nervously, a gesture neither Harry nor Hermione had ever seen Ron make in life, or death, or whatever this was.

Harry glanced over at Hermione, whose brow was furrowed as was her wont when faced with a new dilemma. She once worked in the Department of Mysteries and Harry was sure she knew almost everything knowable. It was the 'almost' that concerned him. "Dunno, mate. Looks it to me. I mean your soul's there, isn't it? And you're here, but I don't know how you're still talking and such. Is your heart beating?"

Ron glanced down at his chest. "Hard to say. Can't really hear it from here, can I?" He sat still for a moment—which for Ron was a bit of an accomplishment—and listened intently. "I don't reckon it is." Trust a Hufflepuff with delusions of grandeur to bring down the Assistant Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. That House just couldn't do evil, no matter how hard it tried. Always made a right mess of it.

Hermione sighed. "We need to go to Hogwarts. Ron," she eyed her ex-husband thoughtfully. Ron's knees always turned to jelly when that expression flitted across his face. If he had an Animagus form, he was certain it would be a guinea pig. "Can you bring both parts of yourself along?"

It was a good question. Ron gazed at his non-corporeal self and wondered how he'd manage to coax his soul into the floo. Perhaps Side-Along Apparition, though what in the name of Merlin would he hold onto? It wasn't as though his soul had substance. His soul continued to worry its hands.

"I reckon you really have to want to go to Hogwarts," Harry concluded, figuring Ron's soul would go where Ron most wanted to be. He looked at Ron with bemusement. "Which one of you has heart?" It didn't take a genius to figure out which one had soul. That would be the wispy thing hovering nearby.

"Oh, just come on," Hermione said in a fit of pique, followed by the sharp crack of Apparition. Harry followed moments later, presuming that Hermione had Disapparated to Hogsmeade, since she'd told him a million times if she'd told him once, "You can't Apparate into Hogwarts. Honestly, haven't you ever read Hogwarts, A History all the way through?" Harry never saw the point of reading a book that continually rewrote and amended itself, though he'd rather suffer through another bout of Cruciatus than admit it.

Once Ron arrived, Harry looked around and found himself very near the Shrieking Shack. "You know, Hermione, I think they'll just let us in. We are honoured alumni after all, Orders of Merlin and all that." He grinned and ducked as she tried to smack him upside the head.

"Honestly." Turning on her heel, Hermione set off on the path to the castle, refusing to dignify Harry's comment with an answer. As she walked, she reminded herself to Floo-call Fleur to let her know that it was unlikely she'd make it home that night, and the way things were progressing, she expected to be away for a few days. Though the beautiful part-Veela witch was prone to worry, at least her partner was rational and sane, two words that could never be applied to Ronald Weasley.

Ron lingered a moment, hoping his soul would show up soon because if it didn't, he would have no idea how to go about finding it again. It wouldn't surprise him any to learn that the Department of Mysteries had a section devoted to the retrieval of Lost Souls, but it was unlikely they'd return it, even if the person was still using it at the time. "Why are we going to Hogwarts?" he asked when he caught up to Harry and Hermione. "Not the library, surely."

Hermione shook her head, and somehow both men knew that it wasn't in despair. "No, if we're going to reattach Ron's soul to his body, we need to speak to dead people. Hogwarts is filled with ghosts. It would not surprise me that they'd know a bit more about souls than the living would."

Harry shook his head. "They don't, Hermione. I spoke to Sir Nicholas way back when Sirius fell through the Veil. He knows about being dead and all, but he's not all that well-versed in how the whole process works. The Baron might know more, but he only speaks with Slytherins." There was an infinitesimal chance The Bloody Baron might speak with him since he was nearly Sorted into Slytherin House, but Harry wasn't going to bet his soul on it. Ron's either, come to that.

Hermione came to an abrupt halt, and for a brief moment Ron exalted in the flicker of confusion that appeared in her eyes. "Then we'll speak with Dumbledore," she declared firmly.

Harry and Ron exchanged a look, then Harry spoke. "Uhhh, Hermione? Dumbledore's been dead for a dozen years and he didn't leave a ghost." A familiar pang of loss coupled with a wisp of anger flashed through Harry. For all he'd been used in the wizard's machinations, Dumbledore had been more than a mentor to him and he still felt the absence keenly.

"Honestly, how did the two of you ever manage to get five NEWTS apiece?" This shake of Hermione's head both men recognized. Pure, undiluted exasperation at their thick-headedness. Hermione's wand came out and conjured her Patronus. A heartbeat later, a silvery otter swam through the air on its way to the Headmistress's Office.

Before they'd traveled a hundred paces up the road towards the castle, a sparkling white tabby cat with bespectacled markings appeared in front of Hermione. "Maine Coon," it said, then vanished. Hermione smiled. "Well, gentlemen. Shall we away?"

Hogwarts was just as they remembered and Harry couldn't stop the grin that spread from ear to ear. From the Entrance Corridor to the moving staircases and upwards to the pair of glowering gargoyles, it felt like home. Though he knew the passwords had changed, he couldn't help but murmur "Cockroach Clusters" just in case. As anticipated, it didn't work.

With a determined "Maine Coon" the gargoyles leapt aside and the trio rode the spiraling stairs up to McGonagall's office, a charming place utterly devoid of clutter and so unlike Dumbledore's that Harry felt momentarily displaced. Upon reflection, he noted it wasn't all that much different from how his former Transfiguration Professor's office had appeared when he was a student here and it took him a moment to realise he shouldn't have been surprised by that.

"I rather thought I'd be seeing the pair of you, "McGonagall said with a small smile and a nod of her head towards Harry and Hermione. "Especially when that showed up here." She gestured with her head towards a corner of the room where Ron's soul wandered around looking as lost as a soul could be. "Though I must admit to a bit of surprise to see you with them, Mr Weasley. How are you not dead?"

Gazing with undisguised relief at his soul, Ron shook his head. "Not entirely certain I'm not, actually, though I don't feel dead." His eyes appeared unfocussed for a moment as he worked that out in his head. Was he undead? He wasn't a vampire; of that he was dead certain. Was he unalive? What was he? Could he be killed if his soul had already decided to depart his body? A rush of lightheadedness started him to wobbling and he fell into a chair McGonagall had transfigured out of a plant stand. "Harry, I don't like this," he moaned.

Experiencing by osmosis some of Ron's existential crises, Harry sent a mild Stinging Hex Ron's way, grimacing all the while.

"Ow! Hey!" Ron glowered as he rubbed his arm. "Have you gone barking? What the ruddy hell was that for?" A part of his brain wondered if McGonagall was going to take points for his language. Snape would have, regardless of the fact they'd left school a decade previous. Probably tossed a detention or two on top of it for good measure, just to see if they remembered how to dissect flobberworms.

Harry paled. "If you're already dead, you can't be killed, right? So Sectumsempra and Cruciatus would be torture, but you'd live. Confringo'd blast you into tiny bits, and with your luck…"except it was usually Harry's luck, "you'd live, I reckon, or whatever it is you're doing now, 'cept it'd be in pieces." He was certain he had just turned green at the thought. "We've got to put you back together, mate."

McGonagall was relieved she was already sitting as Harry's conclusion had left her feeling a bit woozy herself. "If you're hoping to reassimilate him, I must tell you Ms Granger, this is far beyond my ken."

"Actually, Headmistress, I was hoping to speak with Professor Dumbledore." Hermione nodded toward the portrait of the former Headmaster that was hanging amidst the dozens of others on the wall behind McGonagall's desk. Even in death, the wizard knew more than the four of them combined.

A genuine smile lit McGonagall's face. "I see you remain one of the cleverest witches of your generation." She turned and faced the portrait. "Albus, can I disturb your rest for a moment? You have visitors."

With a soft snort and a smacking of lips, Albus Dumbledore stirred against the backdrop of the magical painting that was now his home. He yawned and stretched, then looked around. "Ms Granger. What a lovely surprise! And I see that you've brought your Mr Weasley with you." His brow furrowed as Ron flushed scarlet. Well, he had been asleep for a few years. "Harry, my boy!"

Returning the portrait's greeting with a small smile, Harry replied. "Yes, Professor. It's good to see you again. I've…missed you."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled so brightly at the admission that Harry thought there should be fireworks exploding in the background. "You are welcome any time, my boy. As I see a ghost lurking in the background," he assumed it was a ghost, though it looked far wispier than most, "I shall deduce that this is not, to my disappointment, a social call. Minerva, you have offered your guests tea?"

With a soft growl that sounded decidedly feline, McGonagall waved her wand and tea service for four appeared on a low table near Harry's knee. "Do make yourselves at home," she invited, a bit more briskly than she would have if she'd thought to issue the invitation herself.

"Very good," Dumbledore praised. "Now, why have the four of you interrupted an old man's sleep?" His blue eyes twinkling even more manically than they had before and he grinned and popped a lemon drop in his mouth as Ron poured out.

"Well, it's like this," Ron said, then he and Harry interrupted each other repeatedly whilst they explained the raid, with Hermione interjecting at various points her hypotheses and conclusions, as well as elucidating the former Headmaster as to the parts she didn't comprehend and the facts that were missing, thus preventing her from reaching a more concise conclusion.

As he listened, Dumbledore sprang to his feet and peered out as much as his portrait would allow. "A soul splinching! I've not seen one of those since Sir Nicholas Flamel and I were experimenting with the Elixir of Life. Most fascinating! Of course, Professor Flamel did not manage to splinch his soul entirely, so the poor thing was hanging out of the back of his head and flapping about like laundry in a high wind." Even Hermione chuckled, though all Professor McGonagall could manage was an exasperated sigh. Harry wondered what they spoke about during their times alone.

"So we can, er…" Harry glanced between the soul, now busy examining the portraits nearest the ceiling, and Ron, whose feet were firmly planted on the floor. "We can stick them back together again, right?"

"Excellent question, my boy, though a better one might be, 'Is it Mr Weasley's soul's desire to be reunited with its body?' for if the soul truly does not want to reincorporate, no power on earth can force them to merge together."

Ron gulped. "What if my soul rather likes hanging about, doing whatever it is Lost Souls do?" His eyes flickered upwards and watched as his soul made quiet conversation with someone who appeared to have walked the earth during the time of Merlin himself.

For a moment, the twinkle in Dumbledore's perceptive blue eyes faded to a mere sparkle. "Then, Mr Weasley, you must walk through the Veil whilst your soul joins the cast of characters inhabiting the castle—or wherever else it prefers to haunt. Unless your soul accompanies you on the journey, you would be fated to remain a ghost, albeit one with a most fascinating story."

Despite the gravity of the situation, Harry couldn't help but laugh. "Look at it this way, Ron. At least you'll actually enjoy Sir Nicholas's Deathday bashes."

Ron glowered.

"But there is a way, isn't there Headmaster?" Hermione asked, her voice underscoring her determination to solve yet another unsolvable dilemma.

"In the Restricted Section," Dumbledore ignored Harry's and Ron's moans of resignation, "you will find a book entitled Splinching and the Ephemeral. I believe that should provide you with the information you seek. After you've read the relevant sections, we will speak again." While Hermione smiled and thanked him, he added, "Not everything is found in books, Mr Weasley, despite what you may have been led to believe." It didn't help. Ron still looked confused.

After tea with McGonagall and rescuing Ron's soul from Peeves's clutches, the three made their way to the Restricted Section where Madame Pince found the volume in question and surrendered it to Hermione with a suspicious glare. After all these years, Harry thought Pince believed every volume in the Library to be part of her personal collection, not to be entrusted to students, staff or alumni.

Twenty minutes later, an unwelcome buzz of hushed voices interrupted their work. "Look, its Harry Potter." That and a number of variants being whispered caused Harry to look up with a scowl. Twelve bloody years later and he was still famous, even if some of the students hadn't even been born when Voldemort fell.

"Could be worse, mate. Could be your soul getting eaten by the Monster Book of Monsters," Ron said miserably, wondering what the ramifications of having his soul devoured by a textbook might be. He reached out and tried to tug his soul away from the book and sighed when there was nothing tangible to grasp. Nothing good could possibly come from it. "Lets grab a couple of school brooms and enlist your fans in some Quidditch and let Hermione do the heavy intellectual lifting."

Looking up from the dusty tome, Hermione growled, "Yes, please," then organized parchment, quills and several reference texts she'd selected to assist with her analysis. It would have been a matter of time before she'd ordered them off anyway; the arrival of the students just brought things to a head that much sooner.

Hours later, the three met up in an empty Transfigurations classroom, spelled with wards and charms to keep the curious away. "I've spoken to Dumbledore and he agrees with my assessment," Hermione began with no preamble. She really didn't care how their impromptu Quidditch match had gone. "There's a bonding ritual, somewhat like the marriage ritual, though this time it's to join body and soul. Ron, cast a Lumos."

Shooting a bemused look at Hermione, Ron did as ordered—and blanched in panic when the tip of his wand barely glowed. "Bloody hell."

"Between Apparating and flying your magic is nearly gone," Hermione said softly, eyes softening in sympathy. "We'll need to heal you sooner rather than later. It seems there is a such a thing as too late." She gave herself a firm shake. "As I was saying, there's a ritual that will need to be carried out where Ron's soul is most at peace." She swallowed heavily. This next part would be the worst. "And we're going to need a potion."

"Where's my soul most at peace?" Ron asked

"What potion?" Harry said over Ron, not quite certain whether his best mate's question was one of the dumbest he'd ever heard or that Ron was more Ravenclaw than he'd ever given him credit for being.

"I found the recipe in one of the restricted Potions books," Hermione said slowly. "It's filled with rare ingredients—Moonstone Blood, of all things—and it's terribly complex. I haven't brewed anything close to it in over six years."

"Perhaps a professor can help. Who's teaching Potions?" Harry asked. Whilst Hogwarts hadn't had a Potions Master on staff since Snape died, he reckoned the current professor couldn't be as misanthropic as their old professor had been.

For a moment, Hermione looked almost afraid, and suddenly both Ron and Harry had a very bad feeling.

"Not Slughorn," Harry pleaded, not wanting to try to be collected again. Though Slughorn had been brilliant at potions and an excellent teacher to boot, he was yet another in a long line of people who only saw him as Harry Potter, not simply Harry. For that reason alone, Harry went to great lengths to avoid him.

Hermione shook her head and whispered a single word. "Malfoy." As she predicted, the two exploded.

"No."

"Absolutely not."

"He's a—"

"Death Eater."

"Prat."

"He tried to kill—"

"Dumbledore."

"Katie Bell."

"Buckbeak."

"Me."

"Me." Harry and Ron exchanged a significant look, though even as they recited the familiar arguments against all things Malfoy, Harry couldn't help but wonder if he was speaking through habit. He was no longer sixteen.

Hermione glared at the two of them. "Would you rather be an immortal squib or ask Malfoy for help?" she demanded, spearing them both with her 'can you be any more idiotic than you are right now?' look.

Harry, at least, managed to look abashed. Ron still looked murderous. "I'll do it myself," he gritted out. "Just get me a lab and the ingredients."

"And you think Malfoy is going to let you take over one of his labs, raid his stores and do whatever the hell you want without so much as a squeak, do you?" Hermione asked hotly.

"Yes," Ron said flatly.

"No, Mr. Weasley, and that's my final word on the matter," McGonagall barked an hour later. "You are welcome to request Professor Malfoy's assistance or use the Potions laboratory at the Ministry of Magic, or at your own house if you choose, but you will not use Hogwarts' facilities without the express leave of the Potions Professor."

Down in his quarters and blissfully unaware of the events that had transpired in the Headmistress's Tower earlier in the day, Draco Malfoy slipped off his robes and spelled the protective oils out of his platinum blond hair as he allowed himself a soft sigh of relief at the end of yet another day. He fixed himself a gin and tonic—a most underappreciated drink—and sat down in his favourite chair to review his research notes.

After four years of intensive study, the end of his Potions Mastery was in sight. All that was left was to brew one potion on the approved list and write a monograph on its properties at each step, possible brewing errors for each separate stage, the nature and purpose of each ingredient, its history in potions making and five modifications a Master Brewer could make that would result in an equally efficacious potion. The recipes were among the most demanding he had ever seen and in each there was at least one ingredient he had never used.

Well engrossed in the properties and uses of cipactli skin, Draco was slow to respond to the insistent knock that sounded on his door. Rubbing his eyes, he stared at the clock for a moment, then at the door, uncertain whether the sound he had heard was real or imagined.

The knock sounded again, along with a quiet "Draco?" Blinking and wondering if he'd studied himself into a hallucinatory state, he came to his feet. "Draco?" It wasn't a student and it couldn't be a friend; he didn't have any of those. But someone had called him by name, and that more than anything else demanded that he satisfy his curiosity and answer the door.

"I've gone insane," he said hoarsely, grey eyes filled with not a small amount of fear. In truth, the only thing more frightening than finding the Golden Trio standing at his door would be to discover his father instead. There was no love lost between the head of the House of Malfoy and its scion.

"Like that's any surprise," Ron muttered, wincing as Hermione stamped hard on his foot.

"Shut it, Ron," Harry hissed. Assessing green eyes met the familiar cool expression Harry always expected to see on Draco's face. "We need to—" That's as far as he got before being cut off.

For as long as she lived, Hermione would always despair at Harry's lack of tact when the situation clearly demanded it. "We are sorry to intrude, especially at this hour," Hermione asked politely. "May we come in, please, Draco?"

It was the 'please' and 'Draco' that decided the matter. "Can't very well stop you seeing as I haven't my wand at present," Malfoy said stiffly, then stepped back to allow them to enter his quarters, praying it wouldn't be the last mistake of his life. He and Harry had always been a volatile mix; throw Ron Weasley in as a catalyst, and the resulting explosion was measurable in minutes. Hermione was the unknown factor. Her presence either accelerated the outcome or neutralised it completely.

As the three glanced around the room, Hermione stepped up and took charge. "You and you. Sit there and do not say a single word," she ordered, pointing at a small couch and narrowing her eyes at her two friends. She turned to Draco with a tight smile. "I'll stun them if you'd like so we can speak without being interrupted."

"I've definitely gone 'round the twist," Draco muttered under his breath as his eyes widened a bit. Remembering the manners drilled into him from birth by his mother, he looked warily at the pair seated stiffly on his sofa. "Would you care for some tea? Butterbeer? Firewhisky?" Calming Draught? He had plenty of phials of that potion on hand.

All tea'd out, Ron and Harry declined that offer, but accepted a couple of bottles of butterbeer. "What are you having, Draco?" Hermione asked, then accepted his offer of a gin and tonic for herself. "Remember, not one word," she reminded Harry and Ron as she sat with Draco at a small table nearby, setting her wand within quick and easy reach.

Ten minutes later, Draco was scrawling notes onto parchment, consulting two or three different Potions texts and double-checking the list of potions needed for his Mastery. There is was, fourth on the list: The Draught of Deathly Peace. "Merlin's balls," he breathed. They spent the next twenty minutes comparing Hermione's copious notes with the recipe provided by the Potions Masters' Guild. There were some subtle differences, Draco was pleased to note, that would go into his monograph.

Over on the sofa, Harry was fighting off the urge to close his eyes and fall asleep. One corner of his mind was dumbfounded that he could even consider the notion of slumber while in the presence of Draco Malfoy, the rest of him was too tired to care. Besides, if the spoiled git had wanted to hex him, he could had done it a dozen times over by now. Ron, stubborn as always, hadn't taken his eyes off the blond, even though both Draco and Hermione had relaxed into the easy camaraderie shared by intellectual colleagues.

"Tell me why I should do this." Draco's voice startled Harry out of his stupor.

"Hunh?"

"Eloquent as always, I see."

Snorting a bit of a laugh, Harry shook his head. "Does sarcasm come with the rooms? Or is that a Slytherin trait?" He yawned and stretched, ignoring Ron glowering beside him. "You sound just like Snape."

Dropping into a chair opposite the small couch, Draco smiled, though without any of the arrogance Harry expected to see. "I'll take that as a compliment. Now, tell me why I should do this. I know what's in it for you; I know what's in it for me, and yes, this is definitely to my benefit, but let's say for the sake of argument that I have nothing to gain. Why should I do this?"

"I'm not asking you to," Harry said flatly. "McGonagall said we can't use Hogwarts laboratories without the permission of the Potions Professor. You're it. We need your permission to use your stores and equipment. I'll reimburse the school for anything we use of theirs, you for anything that's yours. You do nothing, you get nothing. Simple as that."

It came as no surprise to Harry that Draco laughed. "You're going to try to brew this? You? With blood of moonstone at a thousand galleons a drop? With Quetzalcoatl feathers so highly controlled that it requires permission from three different ministries just to order them? Do you know any of the fifteen steps required for preparation of Quetzalcoatl feathers? Granger has already admitted that this potion could very well be beyond her abilities and don't forget, I've watched you in classes for six years, and the Half Blood Prince won't be around to save your sorry arse when you screw up and turn yourself to stone. So, for the last time, why should I do this?"

Ron had managed to keep quiet up to now. "Sod off, Malfoy," he snarled, coming to his feet and using his height to its full advantage. "I'd rather become a bloody ghost than—stuff it, Harry. I'll not listen to him insult you—will you let go of my arm?"

Dragging Ron over to the nearest wall, Harry grabbed his wand and with a quick flick of his wrist, silenced the temperamental redhead. "Do anything else stupid tonight and I'll petrify you as well." Still holding Ron firmly against the stone wall, he turned his head and looked at Draco over his shoulder. "Fame and glory, Malfoy. That's what's in it for you. I'll sing praises your name at the entrance of Diagon Alley for a solid month if you brew the potion and the ritual works. The Boy Who Lived will be indebted to you until you choose to call it in. Not a bad bargain, come to that."

Blinking as Harry turned on his friend, it took Draco a moment to catch on to what Harry was saying. While his life was settled and he was seldom spat upon when he ventured into wizarding London, having the Boy Who Lived's endorsement would do his reputation no harm. "Done," he replied, settling into a comfortable chair after Transfiguring one for Hermione. "So, what have you been doing since That Day?"

"I enjoy it quite a bit, much to my surprise, though I've still not learnt the secret to teaching logic to Gryffindors," Draco replied as they chatted into the wee small hours. "Present company excepted, of course," he continued, lifting his glass to Hermione.

"More likely docking points and looking the other way when your precious Slytherins bollocks up our…their work," Ron said, certain he could remember each and every point Snape had ever deducted from Gryffindor. The man had been relentless in his determination to undermine every effort any member of their House ever made.

Draco shook his head. "First, I'm not Head of Slytherin, nor am I likely to be. Sinistra's been Head of House since…" He turned his head and looked away for a moment, not wanting the conversation to head down that road. He took a deep breath and brought his thoughts back to the present. "Second, I take points as a last resort. I find detention much more effective. It's the best way to keep my classes neutral." He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, his fingers loosely interlaced. "It's a hard road, being sorted into Slytherin. You have no idea."

If he had his way, House politics would go the way of Voldemort and die a slow and painful death while the students of Durmstrang, Beauxbatons and the Salem Academy looked on cheering. Even now, a full dozen years after the war ended, students from Slytherin were considered fair game for the more 'fair minded' members of the other houses. They were last to be employed and first to be discharged, usually for the flimsiest of excuses and Harry was heartily sick of it. "If you want lessons in cunning," he said into the sudden silence, "Ron here is the best strategist in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Perfect Slytherin material, except for generations of his family being Sorted into Gryffindor. Hermione would have made a perfect Ravenclaw and if you want a new mascot for Hufflepuff loyalty, one should look to Neville Longbottom."

"As for an example of Gryffindor bravery," he continued, his voice still soft, "I suggest you look to yourself, Malfoy."

Draco reeled back as though struck. "Me? Gryffindor?" What in Merlin's name were they putting in butterbeer these days? "First year, when we served detention in the Forbidden Forest, what did we stumble upon?" he asked, eyes narrowing in suspicion. Potter never treated him with any decency, even going so far as to come close to killing him in Sixth Year, though it would be impolitic of Draco to mention it at the moment.

"Voldemort feasting on unicorn blood," Harry replied. "Though I'm not sure if you got much of a look, given how quickly you turned tail and ran. Be that as it may, you're as Gryffindor as the rest of us. Look at yourself, Draco. After the war ended and you were pardoned, you battled the Ministry and were accepted for advanced study in Potions. You had the qualifications, nearly the highest NEWT scores since Snape himself, but they turned you down because of your name. Everyone knew that. Then you fought the Ministry again as well as the Board of Governors and got an appointment here, once again despite your name. You fought for admission to the Potions Masters' Guild and earned an apprenticeship on your own merits. You are single-handedly reinventing the name 'Malfoy' for future generations, despite the disapprobation of everyone who has ever met a single member of your family and those who have only ever associated your name with unspeakable evil. You've kept your head held high and forced people to see you as Draco and not another version of Lucius." Even now the name tasted foul in his mouth. "You've been reviled, despised, hated, loathed, spat upon and hexed I'll bet, and I've aided and abetted more than my fair share of it, but should there ever be a need for a new Head of Gryffindor House, I'd support you wholeheartedly." Harry smiled a bit crookedly, ashamed of having an moment of epiphany in front of witnesses, but every word he spoke was true. "Still, if I find you're taking house points just because you can, I'll nail your hide to the Quidditch pitch walls because I can."

Alarmed at a fundamental level and needed a lot of time to himself, Draco stood and walked unsteadily to the door whilst Ron and Hermione continued to stare bug-eyed at Harry. "Meet me at the entrance to the Great Hall at ten tomorrow. Just you," he said, his voice a bit shaky.

Harry blinked and came to his feet, recognising a dismissal when he saw one. "Whatever for?"

Weak though it was, a genuine smile lit Draco's face. "We're going shopping." With that, he bid his unexpected visitors—and one odd bit of soul—good night, then took his whirling thoughts to bed.

Grabbing the side of the building, Harry waited a couple of seconds for the whirling in his brain to stop. No matter how often he did it, Apparating always left him disoriented for a moment. Consensus amongst the Auror Corps was that it was nothing short of a miracle he hadn't been killed yet, though he was never in the first group to Apparate into an unknown situation. Seconds later, Draco popped into the spot Harry had just vacated, stepping forward as coolly as he had when they walked down the castle steps. If he was dizzy in the least, it didn't show.

"Right there will be a good spot," Draco informed him, pointing in the direction of Gringott's Bank. "It's the first thing people see when they apparate in."

Harry snorted. Malfoy and money were two words meant to go together. "Figures you'd think of galleons straight off. I was thinking more of hanging about the Leaky Cauldron or maybe Fortescue's." Everyone flooing into Diagon Alley passed through the Leaky Cauldron, and Harry still got free sundaes at Fortescue's. "What do we need to get?"

Harry's mind reeled as Draco recited a lengthy list of potions ingredients. "Platinum cauldron? You're barking!" How could Draco not have one already? "Acromantula spines? What are those?"

"They're the tiny hairs on their legs," Draco replied. "They're supposed to help knit the soul back into the body. We can use shredded spines or unspun silk, but that needs to be harvested whilst the Acromantula is still alive. Needless to say, it's a rather uncommon ingredient."

"Tiny hairs?" Harry exclaimed during Draco's explanation. "Have you ever seen one of those things?"

One pale blond eyebrow arched delicately. "Of course not." Draco paused. "Have you?"

"During second year, when Ron and I ventured into the Forbidden Forest to meet Aragog," Harry replied as he ticked off his encounters. "During the third task of the TriWizard Tournament. During Sixth Year, when Aragog died." He glanced sideways at Draco as they walked down Diagon Alley. "Hagrid held a funeral for him; viewing the body was much too close for comfort. And then at the Battle. The west end of the castle was under siege by them, remember? Surely you saw them in the Great Hall?"

"No," Draco replied, his voice reedy. "I…rather lost it when the Dark Lord carried you in dead."

Harry didn't know how to answer that. As they approached the entrance to Knockturn Alley, he stopped. "When Ron's himself again, I'd like to meet up with you. Maybe have dinner or something. We can meet at Rosmerta's if you'd like. Or the Hog's Head Inn." As he heard the words come out of his mouth, he could scarcely believe them. Maybe he'd been nicked by the curse that got Ron and bits and pieces of his brain went astray. What was he thinking, asking Malfoy to dinner? Madness! "Where are we going?"

Draco looked as discomfited as Harry felt. Tucking the thought of dinner with Harry Potter into the corner of his mind that housed the things he never wanted to think about, he gestured towards the archway that separated the Dark side of town from the Light. "Grinseve Alley. It's a little spur off of Knockturn. There's an apothecary that specialises in hard-to-find ingredients—all properly sanctioned by the Ministry, of course."

"Of course," Harry replied, knowing that at least half of the inventory would be well hidden. "Do you really need a platinum cauldron?" he asked as Draco led him between two old brick buildings that seemed to loom over them.

"No," the blond replied with a grin. "Just thought I'd see how far I could go."

"Prat," Harry replied, in the same tone he used with Ron. For the sake of his own mental health, he hoped that Ron would be whole sooner rather than later as no one would believe he could ever be friends with Draco Malfoy. He couldn't believe it himself.

Harry and Draco returned to Hogwarts just as the noon hour was winding down. As they made their way to the dungeons, a parchment airplane flew repeatedly into Harry's head until he reached up and took the missive. He skimmed over the memo, then reached over and yanked out a couple of strands of Draco's hair, transfiguring them into a self-inking quill as the Slytherin complained. Scrawling out a reply, he transfigured the quill back to hair, then Banished it.

"Well, I can't very well put them back now, can I," Harry explained as Draco continued to rub the back of his head. With a tap of his wand, he sent the memo back. "Ron's in the Hospital Wing, though Hermione didn't say why. I wrote to tell her to meet us in the Potions classroom. That is where we're going, right?"

Draco nodded. "It's larger than my lab and we'll be able to work faster that way. If it goes right, we should be finished by moonrise. Lucky for you it's nearly full."

"The lab?" Harry asked, not sure why it would be full, or what it would be full of.

"The moon, you git," Draco replied with a laugh. "Didn't Hermione explain anything?"

Knowing Hermione, she had explained in nauseating detail at least three times, while both he and Ron let the sound of her voice wash over them, as they had done since being First Years. "She said something about a ritual," Harry hedged, "and needing a potion. Once we found out we'd be working with you, though…."

Draco held up a hand. "It's amazing the Headmistress's office is still attached to the castle, I'm sure. The ritual requires the potion to be consumed at the peak of the full moon, in the middle of the ritual. Weasley will need the five people he's closest to, the place that means most to him, a full moon and the potion we're brewing. There's tons of Latin that you'll need to learn so maybe whilst Hermione and I are brewing, you and Ron can find the acolytes and work on pronunciation."

"Full moon and five acolytes," Harry parroted. "Loads of Latin." He groaned. "Next you'll be telling me we'll need to be starkers." To his dismay, he heard the unmistakable sounds of giggling coming from the pack of students trailing a safe distance behind them. Perhaps the distance wasn't as safe as they'd thought. "Can I throw a few Jelly-Legs Jinxes over my shoulder?" he asked Draco, his tone casual. To his relief, there were a few yelps and scattering footsteps that quickly died away before he could turn words into action.

"Were you ever awake in History of Magic?" Draco asked as he opened the door the dungeon classroom, his eyes following the flash of green trim he spotted amongst the horde stampeding away from the Great Harry Potter. "Moonlight rituals are always performed in the nude. Binns covered that every time he lectured on the pre-war rites performed by wizards, goblins, centaurs, giants, vampires and any other magical creature worth waging war about."

Harry considered that, remembering in a vague sort of way that Trelawny had mentioned it a time or two herself. "Think Voldemort would have fared better if he'd pranced around in the nude?" he asked as he followed Draco inside.

Shuddering so hard Harry thought his year-mate might have been hexed, Draco closed his eyes as he grimaced. "Thank you for that revolting image, Potter. It may be months before I sleep again."

Harry was still laughing as the door opened again, spitting out Ron and Hermione. "What?" Ron inquired, his brow furrowed in confusion as he watched Harry and Malfoy laugh together. As Hermione headed for the work bench, Ron glanced over his shoulder to check on his soul, wondering if it was starting to look a little tattered around the edges. He studied the colour, hoping that Malfoy wasn't giving him the pip over its lack of purity. That could send him straight over the edge, and Pomfrey had already told him to conserve his energy, then poured half a dozen disgusting phials of Merlin knew what down his throat. No wonder Harry had always hated the Hospital Wing.

"Malfoy was imaging Voldemort dancing naked in the moonlight," Harry explained, earning the same full-body shiver from Ron he'd witnessed Malfoy exhibit moments ago. "I reckon you don't much care for the thought either."

"I can't imagine I want to know how that came up," Ron muttered while Draco canceled the shrinking charm he'd cast on their purchases.

"Honestly, Ron."

"C'mon. I'll explain while they brew," Harry replied, sorting through Hermione's notes until he found the pages that spelt out the ritual in plain language, as though she knew the two of them would be reading it sooner or later. "We're off to the kitchens. I'm famished even if no one else is."

Draco looked up from organizing the ingredients. "Have the house elves send up food to my office. Hermione and I can grab a bite here and there between steps." Food and brewing simply did not mix, hence the request not to send meals here. He no more wanted to poison himself than ruin the potion.

"Mortar and pestle for the Acromantula spines," Hermione asked, oblivious to thoughts of food, "or silver knife?" Harry shook his head as the door closed behind them, knowing it was unlikely he'd ever meet anyone else as single-minded as Ms Granger.

It was chilly, even for October, as they gathered silently in the middle of the Quidditch pitch and Harry shivered under his black robes, wishing it was July so they would have the possibility of performing this ritual when it was reasonably warm out. The sky was cloudy, but with enough sucker holes to make him believe that there would be mostly clear skies by the time the moon was at his zenith. Even after all the years he'd spent at Hogwarts, a part of him still believed there was such a thing as cloudless skies this close to the Highlands.

Earlier that evening, he and Luna had marked out the lines of a pentagram, making sure that the angle of the topmost point was heading true North. Though there were more magical sites on Hogwarts grounds, Ron loved Quidditch more than anything, and the time he'd spent as Keeper were among the happiest of his life. If it weren't for the fact that he had to lay in the middle of the five-pointed star, Harry was certain they'd be attempting this on broomsticks.

To his right stood Luna, then Neville, then Ginny and next to her, Arthur Weasley. Already mortified that he'd have to stand in the middle of the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch wearing nothing but goosebumps, he could only imagine how much harder it would be for Ginny and Ron, though he couldn't decide if it was worse for them to be naked in front of their father, or for their father to be naked in front of them. Oddly though, it appeared he was the only one bothered by this.

"We're all purebloods, aren't we," Neville had explained patiently. "You should see some of the older families at Samhain, though Beltane can become uninhibited as well. In the Wizarding world, naked is just another state of being."

Harry had his doubts. After living with Ron and Neville for six years, he could honestly state that his roommates were every bit as modest as he was. Shrugging out of his robe and gasping as the cold air hit his skin, he took up his position at the northwest point of the pentagram, then stood as patiently as possible as Luna, Neville, Ginny and Mr Weasley moved into their spots.

At a nod from Mr Weasley, Harry lifted both arms away from his body, his wand gripped lightly in his right hand, the point of Mr Weasley's soft in his left. At the touch of Luna's hand on the tip of his wand, he turned his head slightly and tried not to let his teeth chatter. No matter how much he wanted to, he couldn't look across the circle at Ginny, lest he burst into flames of embarrassment in front of her brother and her father.

"In nomine Merlin, in nomine Mungo…." Mr Weasley began chanting the opening lines of the ritual when a loud CRACK! of Apparition sounded behind them. Neville let out a panicked squeak and flinched, though he didn't move out of the circle.

"Stay still, Ronald," Mr Weasley hissed, whilst Ron moved out of the Vitruvian Man position to cover his private bits. Without moving out of the circle, Mr Weasley turned his head to identify the intruder.

"Bill! For Merlin's sake, son, what are you doing here?"

Despite the fact his lips felt frozen, Harry felt them crack into a smile. The 'cool Weasley', as he had been dubbed by three-quarters of Hogwarts, strode across the broad lawn shaking his head the entire way. Despite being scarred as badly as Mad-Eye Moody had been, Bill was still handsome, the charismatic force of his personality overcoming mere blemishes of the flesh. "What are you lot doing?" he asked slowly, shaking his head and grinning as though he'd caught a bunch of pixies scarpering through a dreamscape.

"He…he…he… got he…hexed," Harry stammered, too cold to answer properly. "We…we're tr…trying to br…br…break the cu…cu…curse."

With a flick of his wand, Bill cast a Warming Charm over the area, rolling his eyes the entire time. "Pathetic. Simply pathetic. Do none of you remember what I do for a living?"

Six pairs of eyes stared at Bill, but it was Ginny who moaned first. "I guess you never thought to call a curse breaker, eh?" she said, staring across the enchanted circle at Harry, whose blush started at mid-chest and enveloped his entire head in blistering heat.

She broke out of the circle and snatched up her robes, luxuriating in the warmth that spread through her flesh as she donned them. "I've said it before and I'll say it again—your lives would be ever so much better if you'd keep Hermione out of the Restricted Section." She glanced at her brothers and chuckled a bit at the picture they made, Bill leaning over Ron, still sprawled naked on the grass, leaning back on his hands as he recounted everything that happened from the moment he and Harry burst into the spelled warehouse to when he was surrounded by a pulsing blue light, then woke to find his soul hovering overhead.

"Hmmm, sounds like a poorly cast Curse of Eternal Damnation to me, more popular in the Mediterranean states than here. Lay back, but for pity's sake, put your robes on first," Bill declared, tossing Ron's robes over him with a cheeky grin.

Three incantations, some fancy wand work that Harry had never seen the likes of, and a gurgling moan of a scream that brought possessed Banshees to mind, Ron and his soul were reunited. Bill sat back on his heels with a sigh. "See you at Mum's," he said wearily, then popped out of existence.

"Your mother will be wanting a word with you," Mr Weasley said to Ron as he clapped his youngest son on the back and located his daughter. "Seeing your hand pointing at Mortal Peril has stretched her last nerve, and I'd rather not be the one who's on it." He gave his son That Look, then Apparated home. Ginny, Neville and Luna popped away moments later.

"I guess that means I get to tell Malfoy his days of fame and glory aren't here yet," Harry said, not certain whether he should be ecstatic or rather glum about the whole thing. "You get back to The Burrow. I'll let the others know how it all worked out." Then he would treat himself to a nice, long visit with Dumbledore. Harry knew the old wizard would like the end of the tale.