It was amazing, mused Hermione, how much emotions cloud up one's judgment. She prided herself on being level-headed, but grief and horror reduced her to a mindless automation that wanted to make the world suffer. Now she could look back at those memories and calmly analyze them. She shouldn't dwell, of course. Just because she eliminated the emotions she'd felt then, doesn't mean she wouldn't fly into a rage now if she spent too much time thinking about it. It was a delicate balance, tiptoeing around her own mind. Remembering facts, but keeping away from the connotations. A part of her wanted to laugh at the absurdity.

Really, she thought absently, a split personality could develop ever so easily when you fuck around with your mind too much. Especially if you have magic at your disposal. And you're working with things you don't really understand. Using techniques impossible to replicate, even if somebody else could use them. Which nobody could. I'm a fucking paragon of mental and physical health, she thought wryly. Fuckign paragon.

Focusing, she sat down more comfortably and settled in for a long planning session.

Meanwhile, Harry and Ron had a very different morning. Ron was roused by hunger, and he took one look at Harry (in the throes of a spectacular nightmare) and Hermione (sleeping like an angel) and made an executive decision to enlist Harry in getting breakfast. One lullaby, some very fast talking, and a long, calming bath later, saw the boys waddling in the sea. They quickly Accio'd some fish and deposited all but one in the much bigger stone tub Harry transfigured and filled with Augmenti. Ron was halfway through gutting and preparing the first fish, when Harry, who was experimenting with transfiguring better eating utensils suddenly exclaimed: "Wait!"

Ron froze, still elbow-deep in fish guts. Heart beating madly, he turned his head slowly to Harry. What now, for Merlin's sake, he thought hysterically.

"The fish!" Harry continued, not having noticed the panicking redhead.

"What." Bit out Ron, frame still tense. "What about the fish?"

Harry turned around and noticed his irate friend. "Ah." He smiled nervously. "They need. Er. Salt?"

Ron stared at him, blank-faced, one hand white-knuckled around the handle of the knife, the other causing considerable structural damage to their breakfast. Harry gulped.

"Y'see, they're sea-water fish. So they need, like. Salt. Which these three," he gesticulated wildly in the direction of the fish, the sea, and the rest of the cosmos, "don't have. I mean, they have it inside of them. But not outside. Because they're in the tub. Filled with freshwater. Which can't be good. I mean, can they even breathe? I assume they can but like. They could be in pain. Or like. Annoyed?" He trailed off weakly, having run out of breath and even passingly cognizant arguments, but on the upside, Ron looked more incredulous than murderous.

"Annoyed. The fish are annoyed. The three fish we haven't yet killed and eaten are annoyed. Because of suboptimal salinity." Ron's tone was flat, but a smile was tugging the edge of his mouth.

Harry grinned back, relieved. "I can wake up Hermione if you want. I'm sure she'd have a lot to say about the ethics of keeping animals in less than optimal conditions."

Ron barked out a laugh, voice still slightly raspy. "I'm sure she would," he muttered fondly.

"So," Harry continued breezily, "we should release them until we can provide them with living conditions they deserve."

Ron spent a moment trying to come up with a token protest, but couldn't for the life of him make himself to care. He looked at his friend. He would have and indeed had done much worse things to see Harry smile. And, ultimately, the thought of one iota of suffering more than what was strictly necessary, made his stomach turn. Especially now.

"Right you are, Hare."

Harry's smile brightened. Catching fish wasn't difficult, but wasn't satisfying either. Releasing them, however, would be immensely satisfying.

Ron went back to preparing the one unlucky fish that didn't get the opportunity to lodge its salinity complaint, and Harry went about releasing the fish. He levitated the tub over the surface of the water, canceled the transfiguration, and watched three fish, some water, and a medium pebble fall in the sea. The fish seemed confused but were taking no chances, and were busily dashing off to safety. He squinted at them, trying to see if their freshwater experience caused them any debilitating problems, but they seemed perfectly healthy, as fish went. "I'd swim far if I were you. Being caught again won't work out as well as it did today," he muttered, a wistful smile on his face, as he was watching the scaley trio disappear.

The boys continued about their tasks, with much lighter hearts. Ron was humming under his breath when the slabs of fish were roasting, and Harry was transfiguring increasingly complex if oddly decorated eating and cooking utensils. Ron squinted at the plates. Fish seemed to be the motif, although there were three and they seemed to be wearing - hats? And have swords? He looked up at his snickering friend, baffled. "I've got nothing," he shrugged helplessly. "What the fuck, Hare?"

"They're the three Musketeers. Only like. Fish. Geddit?"

"Is it a Muggle thing again?"

"Wha- Oh come on! It's the Modred-damned Three Musketeers! You've got to have read it, inbred pureblood or not"

"Hey now", grinned Ron, "me and my webbed feet protest that statement!"

Harry showed him companionably. "Whatever. They actually reminded me of us. Three friends thrust into comically dangerous situations, and surviving out of sheer dumb luck." He sensed the mood becoming melancholy and swerved his thoughts back towards humor. "So does that make us the troll? Voldemort? Say it isn't Umbridge!"

"Mate, I'll take Umbridge over Lockhart," grinned Ron. "She was at least properly evil. He was just incompetently malicious."

Harry shuffled closer, sat down, and looked at him dubiously. "Sure. Because competence is what we want in villains."

He thought about it for a minute and found it was much easier to think about their pasts. The thought of Voldemort didn't immediately cause agony to stab through his heart. Suddenly he was elated he could think back somewhat rationally and in such a light-hearted fashion.

"But I will concede Umbridge was properly evil. At Voldemort's worst, I never hated him as much as I have Umbridge. I think its mostly because the power Umbridge lorded over us was completely fictional. She wielded the power awarded to her by bureaucracy and red tape. All it would have taken was one bigger group realizing they absolutely didn't have to do anything she said. That's it, she'd be done.

Voldemort though… Voldemort was insanely powerful. Like. Maddeningly powerful. Our only saving grace was that there wasn't a lick of sanity left after he shredded his soul and died a few times."

Ron wisely kept quiet and feigned nonchalance but couldn't keep the astonishment from his face completely. This was brilliant. He couldn't remember last time Harry talked honestly about his thoughts without hiding behind a devil-may-care attitude and dark humor.

Harry continued.

"Fucking hell, was that man clever though. I could feel it, you know, through our link. The sheer, raw power of his mind. Even after his resurrection at the cemetery, by means of a botched ritual performed by Wormtail. He absolutely should've been a drooling madman, incapable of all but the most basic bodily functions. His mind was truly magnificent to have kept him going as long as it had. And his magic. The three of us combined, with the Elder Wand couldn't match his raw power. He couldn't use the vast majority near the end, given how mad he was, but it was always there.

"Fucking Britain. How much damage would've been prevented if a wunderkind of untold proportions wasn't left to rot in an orphanage during World War Two because his teacher thought him evil at eleven? What miracles would he have wrought, if the fucking system provided at least an opportunity to lead a moral life? I would've taken him in a second if I was there now. I would've loved him as my own son, yes. But I would have adored him for his mind. His ambition. His curiosity.

"Tom Marvolo Riddle. Terrorist or a revolutionary. He was evil, there's no doubt about that. He killed, and destroyed, and didn't give much thought to what would be left in the end. He was absolutely evil.

"But so was the system he railed so vehemently against. The system that took one orphan and made him into a villain, and then used another one to kill him. That lied and lied and lied until even their brainwashed child soldiers realized there was something rotten in the state of Denmark. Nobody can tell me that system was one iota less evil than Tom fucking Riddle.

"We should've stayed clear of all that bullshit. We should've sworn a fucking oath, taken our family and run. Dumbledore and Fudge and their ilk made Voldemort, let them finish what they started. "

The more he spoke, the lighter he felt. Years of conditioning and trauma weren't easily overcome, but being blindsided by an act of evil on a scale so much greater than they ever assumed possible, put things into perspective somewhat. Harry's empathy was well and truly overwhelmed, and all was left was jaded acceptance there was unspeakable evil in the world, and an utter lack of scruples when it came to defending what little there was worth defending.

He closed his eyes, tilting his head back.

"We can't let history repeat itself. I can't be lead again. I won't. Not by anyone. Fuck whatever system that allowed tens of thousands of men, women, and children being slaughtered and. Just. Left. Them. There. Fuck that."

Ron threw a hand over his shoulder, tugging him closer until he was basically in his lap.

"Thank you for sharing, Hare. It means a lot. And you're right. What happened to us was unconscionable, and it was done mostly by our side, by people responsible for our welfare. We shouldn't lose track of the pressures of the war, and the values they were brought up under. Sure. Fine. But. Each and every one of the adults was so cavalier about the lives of children they were responsible for, it blows my mind. The other side understood loyalty at least. They understood responsibility. Draco was the youngest Death Eater, and his first mission was in sixth year. You killed a teacher at eleven. And Albus fucking Dumbledore is sitting high up in his ivory tower, eyes twinkling as he sends a child he, personally, is responsible for, to an abusive home. To be beaten and starved. He does this, year after fucking year, never once facing up to the fact that, morally, he didn't much change from his Grindelwald days, only became more Slytherin about it."

Tightening the grip around Harry's shoulders, he rested his head on the messy black locks. "But we got out, Hare," he breathed, viciously satisfied. "I don't know where we are, and I don't know what the fuck is going on. I'm no Hermione, but I'm not completely stupid. This isn't our world. It cant be. The ambient magic, Hare, it completely different. It cannot be accounted for. The magic is different, the stars are different, the fucking atmosphere is different.

"Hare, love, it's a fresh start. Sure, there's war, and evil, and death. But we're free from all the bullshit. It's a clean fucking slate love, and I absolutely can't wrap my head around it."

Burying his head in Ron's shoulder, Harry smiled. "Hope, freedom, evil and death. How exciting."