The Painted Past

by Adelaide E

"To be fair, we're all a bunch of teenagers," she added generously when she spied his taken offense. "Hormones and the like. Add post-war trauma to it and you're bound to have mangled soap opera plots worthy of the daftest of heroes." RW-HG-DM

10. People Change

Bit of a disclaimer...I always assumed apparating and disapparating just took a whole lot of concentration and one's body. Like when Peter Pan and believers brought Tinkerbell back to life. I kinda never pictured a wand was included in the whole process. I mean, well, yeah...that's it...

Kou Shun'u: As you've been nice enough to give me nice long reviews for all chapters, I feel privileged enough to give you proper responses...:clears throat...realizes stupidity of that when typing, and then stops clearing throat:

Chapter 1: Okay, I can't accept "lengthy things of greatness." Why, you may wonder. Well, A, because I have a naturally immature mind, and will (and have, I'm sorry to say) think of a lewd joke. I apologize. And then I giggle in my head. And, B, lengthy things of greatness applies to really, really, really great fanfics. Like those fabulous ones that just boggle me into humility! Mine isn't it. It's just mild experimentation that will most likely end in disappointment. You have been warned. I realize that a year is a short time for a war, but this is mostly written out of cowardice. I don't know war, I've never known war, and hopefully I will never know war. I'm not about to half ass a decade long struggle with my juvenile descriptions.

Chapter 2: I didn't know it was possible to write an amnesia fic with strong perception, but I'm pleasantly surprised to know I succeeded. I really don't know what to say when somebody points out the less obvious aspects of the fic (i.e. interactions, conscious-subconscious, pain-hope...) other than to say thanks for paying so much attention! And I was so so so so happy to know that somebody else found that "light coming from the sun" bit funny. Everybody's always talking about how mostly dark the whole thing is, and I was hoping that a little nonsense here and there wouldn't be smothered by the seriousness. And, in this chappie, we will see somebody's reaction to Hermione's apparent attachment...and it's safe to say it won't be pretty...

Chapter 3: I had to walk a fine line between Draco's honesty and his ambition to keep things hidden. To speak the truth of certain things would, obviously, keep Hermione sort of guarded. But to lie just to please her...it also put Draco a little out of character. He'll lie, yes, but not so much to swallow his dignity and feign camaraderie with the fallen hero.

Chapter 4: If there's anything I enjoy writing more than angst (and responses to reviewers) it's Ron Hermione moments. I was hoping to get a strong contrast between the absolute guileless tone of the past to the here and now—sort of a subconscious foreshadowing, if one was to trust one's instincts and totally ignore Draco's charm. As for categorization, I was thinking of angst, but I decided to hold off, as I don't know whether or not excessive happiness is in the future (highly unlikely of me, but one can always hope)

Chapter 5: I know; the pensieve! I've often thought about that in amnesia fics. I've always thought, yeah, amnesia may have repressed those memories but they're still there. They're still available! I just wanted to cover all my bases when I mentioned that, but now we know how useless that might have been. And I'm glad people enjoyed the Ron-Hermione moments without rolling their eyes. Draco-Hermione fics, I've noticed, tend to horribly cast Ron as the villain. Insensitive and emotionally clumsy he might be, but he is, no way, a villain. As for all the outrageously nice things you said about my work...thanks!

Chapter 6: The whole Neville story was another foreshadowing thing, really. I like him, but I wasn't going to include him until later. Then I realized I needed cushioning for the credibility of the spell, (a sorta priest discussing the poison in Romeo and Juliette copy cattish thing) and Neville, for all his timid bravery, was perfect. He is a Gryffindor, after all. Stellar? Now that's definitely a first...

Chapter 7: Was it bad that I laughed with "that's just wrong?" Bad or not, I still laughed. I can't help it. It just tells me I did an adequate job of making the reader identify with Hermione. Hermione believed Draco, so reader believes Draco. Hermione is shocked by Draco, so reader is shocked by Draco. Sorry for making your eyes watery...I'm always surprised when reviewers have that strong a reaction to my stories...

Chapter 8: If the story breaks people's hearts, I will do the most horribly irresponsible thing and blame Draco (who is, please don't notice, possessing a past and personality I gave him). What a total prat. Damn that ambition. Nothing to do with that author-ess and her silly plot twists! But, in all seriousness, I'm also glad that not half the Weasley children aren't dead. True, it would make for a more spacious Burrow, but the loss of company is horrible. I couldn't, with a good conscience, let the twins stay dead. They're too great for death, in my opinion.

Chapter 9 (finally, you're probably thinking): Maybe it's my not so subtle bias-ness, but I'll manage to not be in awe of Draco the Bastard Malfoy, thanks. Still, I'll reluctantly (very reluctantly) that it was very, very, very smart of him to cover his bases like that. From Dumbledore to the penseive, he was terribly clever. I sort of added all that stuff, not because I think highly of his intellect, but because I think highly of his determination. Draco is, in my opinion, the very epitome of Slytherin ambition. He would take all measures to get his way, and being meticulous was what the job called for. I'd like to point out, however, that the job also called for hurting Hermione, and that's why I'm not so eager to praise him.

THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU! Yes, I did leave clues every where. There were ten million clues in the past eight chapters. But, to be fair, I did write it so the reader eventually dismissed them. Only a dedicated Draco-hater would have found the clues and then keep them tenaciously throughout the fic. But I'm glad that somebody noticed them.

I am so glad that you enjoyed this fic enough to leave a detailed review for every chapter. Thanks again for all the comments and observations, and I hope my extremely long winded response didn't bore you.

Moony2187: I'm so glad that you liked it. It seems to be a favorite, though I can't imagine why... I actually feel a little guilty for using all the clichés, but then again, they just had to be called out. I've never heard of that one with the Neville plot! Maybe I haven't read enough fics yet. I'm glad the characterizations please you, but I hope you won't get used to the length of the chapters...I can't promise anything after all. I'm hoping that the characters, like Ron and Draco, would be recognizable but still changed. I don't like those fics where Ron acting like first year Ron or Draco acting like first year Draco. It's perfectly believable that by sixth or seventh year, they'd mature and change. Real life people do it all the time, after all. I'm hoping that you'll still write "great story" by the time the story's done and buried, but even I'm not sure about that. Thanks, though, for all the support!

Word E. Smith: I would kill for my real name to be that. "Hello Word!" that's something I could get used to hearing. Any way, striving for relevance, your review: So incredibly nice, I just may spontaneously combust. But, as that would result in an immediate halt of the fic, I'll stall that reaction.

I was waiting for ages for another Muse fan. They are, without a doubt, one of my absolute favorites! Okay, that's not really relevant either, is it?

But I'm glad I'm portraying Hermione so accurately. It's tricky business, writing a character piece when that character isn't the main one in canon. It's all right to understand Harry motivations, but Hermione motivations are harder to dissect.

I think I got them right because we're both virgos, me and Hermione. Rational enough explanation, if you ask me. And thank god for appreciation of dialogue. I'm pretty sure three quarters of this fic will be mostly conversation, so I'm relying on the quality of that instead of my flimsy plot. And to answer your question...yes. Yes. It is totally odd to love Draco. Hate him, Word E. Smith, hate him with everything you possess...or maybe you can stop listening to the rantings of a deranged lunatic writer and continue being accurate in your analysis.

Yes, he's vile and yes he's spoiled, and you're damn right he's crazy. Still, that was some kind of genius planning there. Sorta swaying towards the mad scientist sort of intelligence, but you can't deny respect where it's due, I suppose. I am so happy with your final few sentences. It's what I set out to do, after all. Prove that he can still be Draco but still be human. Harry and pity: only half right on those calls, and I mean the pity part. She's always been so capable and Draco, the ass, totally ruined that. But about Harry witnessing the exchange...hmmm...maybe I should have mentioned that the Ministry has sound proof jail cells? Totally should have mentioned that. Will berate myself excessively in the future. Also will slap wrists. Bad me. Bad bad me.

But thanks again, for everything you've written. Makes me feel like it hasn't hit the fan quite yet...though, when you're in this deep, how do dig yourself out, I'd like to know...psst, one thing about me... I tend to loosen far too many ends, and then have a helluva time getting them tied up in the final chapters. Hopefully I won't disappoint my readers. Thanks thank thanks!

Ajaliebe: Aw...shucks...must stop blushing... Thanks so so much for all the kind words! Well, pretty sure Draco wouldn't have minded a smooch or two, Hermione, apparently, wouldn't have cooperated. As great are those heat-of-the-moment, middle-of-debate kisses are in movies, they're kind of hard to credibly write. And, while I have come up with an unexpected turn or two, they're off in the distant, distant future. You've probably already foreseen the drivel in the next few chapters, so bear with me:0)

Hells Angel: Yes, pretty sure amazingly is a word, and I'm flattered you used it for my story. Couldn't help but smile at your review. I don't know if it's all entirely true (not that I'm calling you a liar. I'd never call a Hells Angle a liar! Heehee) because, considering the many twists I'm planning to write, pretty sure it won't end up "sweet." In fact, I can only hope the readers won't want to kill me for all the excess drama! Still, I know I haven't exactly made the "asap" deadline, but better late than never, I guess!

Bo-Jay: Wow! I so know somebody else named Bo Jay. He's my age and he goes...somewhere...I think he's my age...well, obviously, I haven't really kept track of him. You're now the only Bo-Jay I know. Congrats. Thanks for all the nice things (if I'm such a great writer, you'd think I'd have better words other than nice, huh?) you wrote, and I'm sorry I couldn't update soon enough!

Mia-Fitzpatrick: I hope I didn't sound ungrateful about all the compliments! I just...ah...they're...see what compliments do to me? Maybe it's my childhood that renders me unable to receive them. Yeah, let's blame that. It was, after all, during my childhood that I was...shorter. Hmm. Not much of an explanation there...I could blame the nuns! They were mean...

Do you know what's totally retarded of me? Took me forever and a day to understand what LJ meant. Sad indication of an aging mind...

How does Draco manage to royally screw the judicial system with pinnace? I have absolutely no idea. But, hopefully, my study of him will be helpful if I ever manage to land in criminal trouble. You're right, about the conflicts, I mean. Instead of a plot driven piece, I like to a flexible framework for the plot, and then I just let the character motivation and interactions tell the story. Which is why, I suppose, the next few chapters will be totally boring!

And please interpret this next part in a flattering, non psychotic way...I TOTALLY LOVE YOU!

Perfect example of how, even though one loves Draco, one can realize he may not be the best person for Hermione. Not that my main goal is to make every Draco-lover into a Draco non lover or anything, but I like it when the readers realize that it is Hermione's interest I have at heart (why oh why do I speak of them like real people? Is it healthy? If not, don't tell me!) I admire Draco's ambition and cunning, but if those interfere with Hermione's happiness, I won't like him at all. Which is why, in canon, I don't like him the least little bit. Hermione's my favorite character, and, in my fanfic world, you just don't mess with my favorite character without a little pay back.

I was on pins and needles about the trial scene. There's just no handbook to the wizarding judicial system of the UK. Or, if there is, I haven't found it yet. Thanks for the reassurance. I don't like Ginny. There's isn't enough character there for me to like, I suppose. I took some liberties with her over all personality because, in my opinion, Rowling hasn't given much insight to her inner workings. Except she's a bit of a smart ass and as good as the twins with pranks!

I seem to have an affinity with evil cliffies. I'm reconciled to the fact now. I don't know how it happens when it happens, but it does, and I can't stop it (okay now I'm just being stupid.) But, I'm pretty, pretty, pretty sure that this chapter does not end with a cliffie. 99 percent, as a matter of fact. So there! Thanks for the great review!

windkull: Good lord, now I feel enormous pressure! But the good kind, I hope. I mean, I totally understand the whole reading-reviewing ratio you gave, so I kinda feel like I better give one helluva fanfic since it compelled you to review. :Faintly relives spelling bee...proceeds to faint: Thanks, though, for all the great things you said (I didn't know I wrote a powerful fic! I wasn't even aiming for powerful! I only hoping for somewhat significant!) Oh, windkull, how very, very foreshadowing of you. Harry and that whole new twist...it's what he does best. He is, after all, the Boy Who Lived and the Boy Who Brings Twists, as we all know.Thanks again! NYU...how I envy you...

thepainter: My response to your review...nuh-uh. And then you say, "Uh-huh." To which I wittily reply, "Nuh-uh." And then you, equally wittily, say, "Uh-huh." And then, summoning all my conversational strength, I answer, "Nuh-uh times infinity." And then I win.

Only because I don't know what the hell to do with compliments. Besides say thanks.

So thanks!

Monkeystarz: Were they really that good? Naw, you're just kidding. Okay, maybe not, so thanks for all the nice things you said about my fic. Blame moi? Geography project? Heavens protect my reviewers from such things as geography projects!

On a side note, I thoroughly enjoyed my last one, project, I mean. It was an island of my own creation, named Happy Island with, as all schools require at one point or another, a volcano. Just a suggestion in case that last one didn't work out! Or, you can submit my name to your teacher as the sole reason of failure, and we'll duke it out with pistols or swords at dawn. Teacher v. future teacher. Dun dun dun...

Oh why oh why do I babble like this? Surely it's a physical ailment...any way, thanks for the nice review!

sugar n spice 552: Seeing as there are no hidden negative nuances in "really really good" I'm as pleased as can be. Also very pleased that you will persevere through parental tyranny just to review both chapters! I can totally relate; in the past, I couldn't finish my writing when I wanted to because of a stupid thing called bed time. Yes, hooray for Harry. I like him very much, and, fortunately, Hermione does as well, otherwise we'd only see a paragraph of him getting shipped off to South America or something. Thanks again!

cat: Maybe I've got to start adding in my summary, "Draco and Hermione and Ron fic. Warning. Lack of reviews." That way, it'll soften the blow for generous people like you. Well, lack or surplus, I still like my reviews when I get them. As you can see, I was totally influenced by yours, and I've changed the summary (I'm never satisfied with them. I'll probably change it again before the story's done) Your review, other than influencing me, also made me laugh. I guess the one fault of FF Net (besides technical shit) is the lack of screening process. There is a lot of crap on the site, I'll admit that. It's very hard to find a Harry/OC fic with decent grammar and spelling...or even a decent plot line, for that matter. Thanks for the "well written" and "unique" bit. Don't know if those compliments will really apply by the end of the story, whatever that may be. And, I'm holding off posting it on a Ron/Hermione or Draco/Hermione site because I don't know how it will be. The thing is, I have no idea what a yahoo group entails, for all my years on the internet. I don't even know what a fan listing is, exactly. And, while I'm pleased by your confidence, I like the recognition here on crappy Ffnet just fine. I've got reviewers like you and Athena Linborn and onion layers and annie and oli and dozens of other people so it's all good! Thanks so much for all the encouragement! If I have any doubts of anything, I'll just go back and read reviews like yours and smile!

magicalferret: You know, before your review, I only knew of very few other people who said "woot." Now that lengthens the list to a grand total of two. Now this "oh dear God, let them stay together...!" business. I've got to warn you, magicalferret. You can't go around calling me God. It'll give me a messiah complex. It's not healthy for my already bloated ego. :0) All right, all right, in all seriousness, I'll tell you what I've told others. I can't promise you that. All I can promise is Hermione's happiness, because she's the character I care about for this fic. I hope that's enough for now! Thankye much for the review!

Onion Layers: Really? Chapter 9, your favorite chapter? And yet so many people have been Poor-ing this person and that person, and you love it? Ah well, I can't complain. I rather liked it too! And, while I'm not sure that the trial was supposed to be hilarious (in Draco's view point, I'm sure it was) but I guess "hilarious" is better than "ludicrous." Thanks for the review!

Paul is dead: Nooo...he isn't is he? I'm pretty sure that he isn't...though I've totally lost touch on the celebrity pulse back when the new kids left the block... Right, you're probably rolling your eyes and cursing my stupidity right now, so I'll leave the subject. Good and confusing. That seems to summarize the fic in general. As far as my characterization of Mrs. Weasley, I had very little to go on, except Ron's whole my mum always makes a cup of tea whenever anybody's upset thing. I find her more than annoying sometimes. And Draco's side of the argument...I'll tell you something...I had it written totally different. Draco was more of a soldier in the old version, ready to take what was due to him...except I didn't like it. Although Draco's totally accepting of what Hermione deals him, he doesn't take shit from anybody else, so I decided to go with the whole weaseling out of it angle. Whatever the punishment, I'm sure Draco will find a way out of it. And, about the court, I was going a lot on the trial Harry had, in the way that it was totally unfair. I guess I can't assume that ever wizarding trial is totally personal and prying, but then again, it is Draco Malfoy, so they would be a little less than absolutely judicial. I'm babbling now. I'll stop now. No wait, now. Okay. The end...oh and thanks for reviewing!

Delovely: And here I was thinking my last response to your review scared you away. What do you mean how creepy it was she left herself that note? Can't a girl's past self leave a note for her future self, warning her of her immediate danger without being creepy:Thinks a bit: Yeah, yeah, it was a little bit creepy... Almost everybody believed Dumbledore was there. Heeheehee...I love tricking readers...wait, did that confession just cost me a few of them? Just kidding! Totally hate tricking readers!

I would be a total liar if I didn't say I didn't enjoy writing the bitch slapping. Why? Because Draco's a bitch, and he totally need slapping. My only regret is that, during her stay/abduction at the castle, Hermione didn't work on her upper body strength, thus building up her biceps and triceps so that a certain smack of a certain ferret would be ever so painful...heehee, there's that evilness shining through again. I will cease and desist (redundant! Like Neville!) so you can go on to reading!

Spawn32818: Thanks so much for loving the chapter! Chapters, it is commonly known, have low self esteem issues, and regularly need to be told how much they are loved...wait, that's not true. I got them confused with cruppies. Well, considering how long it's taken me to update, and how you've been dying since the last chapter, you're dead. Good bye Spawn32818. You've been such a lovely reviewer. I'll always cherish the times we've spent together.

If you're not dead, bravo survival skills, and I hope you enjoy the following chapter so much you'll review and tell me whether I've screwed the fic up or not!

Lisi: I guess I could interpret that "intense" as a good intense. Thanks so much. I was hoping the fic went dark and fast paced enough without becoming too melodramatic. Your review totally reassured me of the fact. Intense and melodramatic can't coexist, can they? And I totally love multiple wows. Wows are like puppies. You can never have too many...unless you're allergic. Then try to stay away from puppies. Try kittens. They're cute...

I totally digressed, didn't I? Yes, I did. Here I go, undigressing...I can't answer the question of Draco and Hermione getting together because I don't know myself. It's up to the Hermione character I've written. If it seems likely at the end, then yes. If it seems unlikely, and the only reason she'd end up with Draco Malfoy is because he is Draco Malfoy, than no. :Shrugs: I haven't the faintest idea. And, never fear Lisi, if there's one thing I've vowed never to do, it's leave a story unfinished. I will always continue. It may take weeks, it may take months, it may even take a year (I do hope you're cringing as much as I am at the thought! A whole year! It's absurdly too long!) but I'll finish it! Thanks for such a nice review, and I hope I won't disappoint any of your expectations.

Otakuannie: Haven't had a tackle hug since I was young...maybe when I was fourteen years old? Any who, thanks for reviewing both chapters. Masochistic? Possibly. I've heard it used before against me, so I can only assume it's true. :0) Well, I had no idea they were civil to each other, and I had no idea I did it marvelously. Looking back, maybe Draco was civil and Hermione was slightly antagonistic (what a switch, huh?) Do you know, these plot twists cause so many violent reactions from you I'm thinking of tacking on a "The End" just to save your life! Then I realize that such a cop out would result in a suicide murder from you, and we can't have that at all! Thanks for the many compliments—though I have no idea what to do with them except store them away from the light of day so I won't die blushing—and thanks for noticing the cohesion of the plot!

Oli: Yes. I feel I ought to have ended the last chapter with, instead of a quote, a DUN DUN DUN! So much drama...the rest of the fic should be filled with happy bunnies and fabric softener. But alas, it's me, and you know that more drama is more to come. Especially in the form of Draco-suffering...no I'm kidding. Thank you so much for the concern about my car accident (damn vehicle is being held together by rope. ROPE I tell you. Rope does not belong on a car. Duct tape maybe. Super glue definitely. But rope? That's just not natural!) Yes, considering that this is a Harry Potter fanfiction, I felt obligated to bring in the hero at one point or other (to tell you the truth, in the first draft, he never really crossed my mind!) Hooray for the demise of exammy badness! I envy you. Exammy badness is in my dark future. Thanks for your thoughts, Oli!

J Deann: Heylo, very observant of you. Yes, it's possessive, abusive love, though, one might argue, that love is always pure in its purpose. One however (and when I say one, I mean Draco) cannot use love as an excuse for every little thing. Can you imagine?

"Now, Draco, why'd you take that candy from that baby?"

"Well, because, mum, I love Hermione Granger!"

"Oh, well that's perfectly forgivable."

Okay, so maybe I'm exaggerating (or not, considering candy stealing is so much better than what he's done). Any questions you have regarding Ron Weasley may be answered in the following chapter (subtle enough? Probably not by half.). And, hopefully, all the "poor Hermione's" will die out in a chapter or too. Thank you for reviewing though, as I like it when a reviewer observes something so insightful.

Athena Linborn: First and foremost and firstly and first off and firsty first firstest...I must humbly bend on my knees (I'd say genuflect, but who really says genuflect?) in gratitude. There are so many of my reviewers who say they've seen my pitiful fic on your fav list, and that's why they took interest. So, thank you much for faving it, Athena Linborn.

Yes, well, if you're confused and unsure of your own emotion, I can only assume you're identifying with Hermione. Poor dear. By the way I torture her, you can't really see how much I admire her (and I do. I think she's the best character in Harry Potter, excluding Harry Potter, of course.) I do agree with your sentiments at the end of the Chapter 8 review, though. Bastard needs to be put away.

Then again, I'm not sure I agree with Chapter 9 review. Needs to be locked up, but end up with Hermione any way? Now, even though it's plausible, I don't think I'd enjoy writing a through-the-gray-bars romance. I just can't bear the thought. Though, to be safe, I won't totally rule it out. Sad thing is, it's only the third week of school and I've already skipped so many classes...can't get into the working mood, it seems. Might it be because, while in class, I daydream of the next plot twist? This fanfic can't possibly contributing positively to my future. :0( Very good of you to notice that my updates become fewer and far between. I am unhappy with the progress as well, though, to be fair, I'm almost certain that I won't pull a month-in-between update again in the future. Right now I'm hoping I won't regret typing that. Also, I can't promise that they'll end up together because, as I've said before, it's more about Hermione than a Hermione-Draco thing. I want her to be happy. I could give less than a rat's ass for Draco. If I feel that, at the end of the fic, Draco will make her happy, than Draco'll get her. But, right now, I think the two need a time out from each other! Thanks again for the recommendations and for reviewing both chapters!

Dastardly Snail: Gee, I love your name. Any who, yes, it's exactly like Christmas. Except it's warmer, there are no gifts, no fat man with a penchant for red is threatening to invade my home, I don't feel guilty every time some guy with a Salvation Army bucket rings the bell outside the Target...other than those things, yeah, totally like Noel.

Well, technically, the smarmy bastard did not get off. He's more like...waiting to get off. And yes, hooray for Weasleys...except for Ginny. I don't like Ginny much. There's not much to her, I think. But oh well, I don't like Draco either, and look what I've done for him. Thanks so much for noticing the chapter titles; I used to love to make something special out of them but lately I haven't found the time. Thank you for noticing, thank you for reviewing both chapters, thank you!

The Painted Past

Chapter 10

Help me carry on
Assure me it's okay
To use my heart

xoxox

He gave a curt nod by way of greeting. Hermione knew her jaw had dropped unattractively, but could not help it. Her surprise doubled when she took in his appearance.

Harry Potter wore, of all things, a plain, white, and cotton long sleeved shirt, and jeans barely hanging on by a brown belt which did not match well with his black shoes. His glasses were askew, as if he had been rushing to arrive. His hair was strangely short, making him appear responsible and adult. Without the messy mane of blackness for contrast, his green eyes were less startling, and, indeed, duller against his pale skin. He was gaunt, but evidently stronger.

But the glaring, screaming, positively blinding change...

He had no scar. His forehead was bare of any blemish, of any mark.

She knew it was bad manners, not to mention insensitive, to stare. But her manners and sensitivity were forgotten in this reunion.

He stepped to the side.

"Excuse me," he said politely, in a rough voice, now deeper than she remembered. "But I came to speak to Malfoy for a bit."

He reached for the knob again, and just before entering, turned quickly to her.

"It was nice seeing you again."

And he was gone.

It was not, obviously, the reunion she had always envisioned. Moreover, it was not the reunion her worst enemy could have envisioned for her. Not even a smile. Not even a hug, or a handshake. Time, war, events, and mysterious forces had inexplicably reduced the once close pair into politely chilly clichés.

For a second, for half a heart beat...it almost felt as if things would be okay again. After all, here was Harry Potter. She would tell him about how much Draco hurt her, and how confused she was, and how the rude world had moved on without her...and he would make it better. He would rescue her, and take her out for ice cream—chocolate, Hermione mournfully thought—and make her feel better.

But he hadn't.

He hadn't really cared at all.

Hermione closed her mouth, and stared at the door. Determinedly, she blinked away tears, deciding they were silly and quite unnecessary. She grabbed the knob, but it would not give for her. The guard beside it gave little indication of watching her struggle. Whatever happened between Draco and Harry would remain forever private.

She stood in the harshly bright hall way for a few more minutes, thinking she could wait him out. Harry had a great deal to discuss, however, and minutes gave way to an hour before she realised it was a futile move. Mechanically, she made her way down the hall way, and then out of the Ministry. Once outside, Hermione stared blankly at the telephone before making a quick and unwise decision.

Hermione apparated to the Burrow just before a pair of muggles rounded the corner. Rules and secrecy be damned.

"Why the hell didn't you tell me Harry's back?" Hermione demanded the first person she encountered in a fury.

Percy Weasley's hand paused in mid air. George passed by, and, spying an opportunity, nicked the sandwich out of his elder brother's hand, and then left as soon as possible. The theft was enough to snap him from his surprise, and Percy frowned at the irate witch before him.

Even before her abduction, they had not been on the best of terms, something that seldom bothered Ron. It had delighted him, of course, when, upon reconciliation at the end of their fifth year, Percy Ignatius Weasley had received a scathing diatribe. It had been, surprisingly enough, not from mum—though a few choice words from Bill and Charlie had given the boy enough familial regret—but from his best friend, soon to be girl friend. When faced with a confrontation, without the embarrassing audience of Mr. Weasley, Mrs. Weasley, or any of their off spring, Hermione had, reportedly, given a speech so lacerating that Percy—perfect prefect Percy—remained deathly silent for nearly two whole days. Neither Ron nor Harry ever learned exactly what transpired between the two while the others, outside, had been watching furniture duke it out, but were pleased with the results at any rate.

"What on earth are you talking about?" he asked now as he rose to fix himself another lunch.

"Harry Potter, you nit wit!" she screamed as she followed very closely. "Nobody said a word about his return! Wait," she said suddenly, though Percy had no intention of speaking up, "is this one of those things that happened but I didn't remember? Because if it is, I apologise."

Percy frowned, even more confused at the sudden change in moods. "I don't know what you're talking about. Harry's been gone for months. Lack of responsibility, if you ask me—"

Mrs. Weasley bustled in and gave a smile to the both of them. "I see you're catching up with Percy then?"

"Didn't even give me a hello," Percy grumbled.

Hermione, not at all eager to scream and swear in front of the only mother figure she had left, stomped to sit in the chair opposite of Percy, who had begun another sandwich. Now that she was calmer, Hermione took the time to study his appearance.

Still the same big head.

Still the same big ego.

And very odd pink pyjamas.

"Just a little prank," Mrs. Weasley explained, catching Hermione's bemused expression as she busied herself. "Every single thing of Percy's is pink, and I haven't a clue as to how to fix it."

"Fred and George should have chosen a colour that didn't clash with red hair," she laughed, and like the twin, reached forward to claim the other half of Percy's meal. All the recent drama had made her ravenous.

"Oh, no dear," Mrs. Weasley spoke up when Percy did nothing but turn beet red, "it wasn't the twins. Ginny did it."

"And went unpunished!" Percy cried in a whiny tone.

"You shouldn't have scolded her so," Mrs. Weasley responded wisely. "That's the parents' job you know."

Hermione looked at Percy again. "Do you live here?"

"I have that right," he snapped.

"But...you're a bit...do George and Fred live here?"

"They're looking for a proper flat near their store," Mrs. Weasley said distastefully. "But at the moment, yes."

Hermione said nothing again, but looked at Percy meaningfully. Because, though one was loath to admit it, Percy was mostly intelligent, he understood immediately.

"I am in between jobs," he informed her coolly, "and I thought I'd stay and...help the parents reorganise."

"And he's been so helpful," Mrs. Weasley chimed in, pinching his cheek, much to the mortification of her son. "Not useless at all."

Hermione smothered a laugh when Percy, through clenched teeth, stated, "No one had mentioned 'uselessness' at all, mum."

"Such cheek!" Molly laughed, not at all bothered by his embarrassment.

"Why not a job at the Ministry?" she wanted to know. "Surely your father..."

"I deserved to get sacked," Percy interrupted brusquely, "and I won't obtain a position unfairly. It wouldn't feel right, is all."

Hermione laughed and shook her head. Percy, still annoyed, demanded testily what she found so humourous.

"You're surprisingly honourable sometimes, you know," she told him with a smile.

"Oy, don't say rubbish like that," Ginny piped up as she strolled in and plopped into the chair. "His head'll get so big we'll have to move into a bigger Burrow." Percy, angered into silence, only glared when she added, "Nice pj's, brother."

"Hermione, here," he announced abruptly, in an effort to divert attention away from himself, "has been ranting nonsense about Harry."

Ginny stiffened at that, but assumed casualness when she turned to her and said, "What of him?" All eyes were now riveted on her, and her stomach tied in knots as she thought of her encounter.

"I just spoke with him," Hermione said, flustered. "At the Ministry. He came to visit Draco."

"Must have been somebody else," Ginny explained airily. "Harry's been gone for months."

"No...it was him. But...he was different."

"You must be mistaken," Ginny continued stubbornly. "Harry wouldn't come back after an eternity of absence just to see Malfoy. And he wouldn't have continued his little visit if he had seen you. He would have at least come to the Burrow and—"

"I told you," Hermione contradicted in a hard tone that left no room for argument. "That he was different."

Hermione found herself at a standoff of sorts, as she and Ginny began a childish but dire staring contest. She willed Ginny to understand that it was the truth. And Ginny, in turn, willed Hermione to understand that it was all bull shit.

"Harry would have come to see me," Ginny informed her warningly, finally saying what truly bothered her about Hermione's news.

"And yet he didn't," was Hermione's cutting reply.

She knew what she was doing. Ginny, all the Weasleys really, had been so kind to her. If she alienated them, who would she have left? Harry's friendship was no longer a certainty.

But, as manipulated as she had been, Hermione refused to surrender now. She knew what she saw, damn it. She may have been indisposed but she was not blinded. Hermione Granger, after months of being wrong, was not wrong right now.

"Are you staying for supper, dear?" Mrs. Weasley cut in, in a half hearted attempt to break the tension. "Oh, what am I saying? Of course you are. Arthur comes home around—"

"She was just leaving." Ginny spoke firmly and loudly, with so much authority that even Percy was visibly impressed.

There was no point in arguing, just as it was futile to stay. Dinner would have been awkward and angry, what with Ginny's tangible fury and the twins' inappropriate comments. Besides, after today's multitude of mind boggling events, Hermione was sure she could survive supper alone.

So, after polite good byes which were timidly returned, Hermione apparated to the flat. Or rather, at her flat's door step. Her apartment itself was a corner one, and so now she found herself in the dim end of a wide hall way, with no one to keep her company but a pot of silk flowers. Hermione gazed imploringly at the rectangular piece of wood, for she had no key, and Mrs. Weasley had locked it this morning.

Hermione braced herself to apparate again, when a voice on the opposite side of the hall way stopped her.

"You've already received two notifications for apparating with an expired license," Harry drawled, holding up two envelopes in one hand and a shaking box in the other. "I highly doubt you'll want to try for a third." He motioned to the large box, which had one handle and a few large holes. "Crookshanks was found, as you can see."

Hermione merely sent a blistering glance in his direction, grabbed the box, and then popped out of sight. She barely had time to set her beloved animal free before she heard the lock slide open and Harry stepped in casually, tucking his wand in his back pocket.

"Uninvited, Potter," she said coldly. Crookshanks, not caring for the company, left them alone to explore.

He refused to be affected. Carefully laying the envelopes on a nearby table and then locking the door, he snorted. "Now you sound like Malfoy. Call me Harry, if you please."

"I don't please," she informed him in arctic tones. Her attitude dropped to the friendly warmth of Siberia when he simply shrugged, and proceeded his way into the kitchen. Determined to annoy him just as much as he had earlier, Hermione stomped her way to the sofa. The angry noise carried to the neighbors below, who sent echoing bangs on their ceiling to convey the inconvenience. Harry laughed when Hermione frowned at the floor for ruining her effect, and followed to sit next to her.

As icy as her demeanor was, inside she nearly collapsed with relief. He hadn't changed so much, Hermione thought to herself. He hadn't turned into an unrecognisable adult. He wanted her to call him "Harry" and he cared enough for her to watch her cat. Her happiness with the fact was so immense she let out a heavy sigh of relief.

"Did you ever see Lady and the Tramp?" he asked, perfectly oblivious to her relaxed expression. "With the evil Siamese cats? And they're Siamese if you please and if you don't please?"

"So are you likening yourself to an animated animal?" she asked dully. Hermione focused on the windows like the night before, and noticed the sinking sun.

"No," he answered, slightly perplexed by her question. "You just reminded me of that, is all."

What words were proper in this situation? What subject could have possibly broken the odd wall formed between the two? Hermione contemplated speaking of the past, of the pleasant memories. Then she decided reminiscing was naïve and useless. What then? The present? The here and now, with all its kidnaping husbands and denial-loving Weasleys? No, no, she decided again. The present wasn't the best road to take.

It left one possible time choice. The future.

And she had no idea, let alone words, as to what that held.

Harry, ignorant to her pragmatic silent debate, suddenly spoke up. Hermione didn't really care for the subject, but found herself agreeing with him.

"This sofa," he exclaimed with laughable disapproval, "has no firmness whatsoever!"

"Yes," she said, caught off guard by his seriousness.

"No, really, Hermione," he continued, growing agitated, "there's no structure at all." He bounced, or tried to, on the cushion to demonstrate. "It's swallowing my arse into couch oblivion."

"Harry, you're getting annoying," Hermione sighed, and leaned back. She sunk into the cushions.

"No, it's not me," Harry argued petulantly. "You're irritated with this sad excuse of furniture. I could barely see your face, you're so sucked in."

"I am not sucked in," Hermione corrected, "You're being silly."

"We're drowning in a sea of bad upholstery," Harry droned dramatically. He was, of course, not gravely interested in the condition of the cushions, but rather the lack luster look in his old friend's eyes. Unfortunately for Harry and Harry's cute arse, Hermione was not tickled to the smallest of smiles by his display of stupidity.

"Ouch!" Harry cried when Hermione, without warning, rose, grabbed his arm, kicked the couch, and then dropped him on the recently vacated spot of hardwood floor. Harry glanced behind him and saw that Hermione did not, in fact, possess super human strength, and that the sofa had wheels which made her kick so effective. And then he rubbed his bum.

"That hurt," he pouted when she sat beside him.

"You were complaining," she offered simply with a shrug.

"I was trying to make you laugh."

"It'll take a lot more than that."

They were momentarily distracted by a faint tapping on the windows, and Harry, with a faint scowl directed towards Hermione, rose and slid open the pane. Hedwig sat on the ledge, looking sleepily satisfied. The thoughtful animal had even brought Harry a dead mouse, laid generously before him, in case her master had missed a meal as well.

A few more minutes of silence, and then Harry's stomach rumbled. She opted not to comment on it.

"I'll get to the point," Harry said abruptly, and turned away from his pet. Hermione watched from the floor as he became uncomfortable enough to start pacing around the coffee table. "I need you."

"Need me?" Hermione echoed, faintly horrified that this might become another unexpected secret love.

"Yes, you and Malfoy."

Her perverse mind produced the equally horrifying idea that Harry was suggesting a threesome, and Harry, with a spark of amusement, caught her expression. "Didn't know you were into that sort of thing, Hermione," he laughed quietly. Hermione blushed and said nothing.

"I had no idea of your...situation. It will make things difficult, to say the least. We'll have to get Draco out of the Ministry, of course."

"I haven't consented," Hermione protested. "Nor will I! Draco will wait in his cell until they decide his punishment!"

Harry paused long enough to send her a grave, admonishing stare, an eerie imitation of Dumbledore himself. Hermione hushed meekly, and only said, "You haven't even said what you need us for."

"I was getting to that, eager student," he chuckled. "But I don't know quite where to begin. Have you eaten?"

"What?"

"Supper," he told her impatiently, "I'm hungry." To emphasize his point, his stomach let out a quiet roar again.

"Is that where you're going to begin your explanation?" she asked incredulously. Quickly, she scrambled to her feet. "Hello Hermione, I'm here after months of disappearance, ready to bust Malfoy out of jail and you out of depression so I can execute a mysterious plan—I'm fucking hungry?"

"Christ, Hermione, don't swear—"he began uncertainly, backing away.

"I'll do whatever I damn well please," she replied furiously, "because I am tired of being in the dark! You will explain yourself or I will drown you in that damn sofa and starve you with no food!"

Harry looked about helplessly, and saw the tempting kitchen just a few feet away from them. "But you have sweets on that table."

"Not a bite," Hermione threatened with inspiring menace. "Until you speak."

"Not a word," Harry threatened back, showing just why he had faced Voldemort and lived, "until a bite."

Hermione was shocked that he hadn't caved in. Ron did it often enough, as did Draco. Then again, she realised when Harry—too starved to finish the staring contest—drew out his wand and summoned the table closer, this Harry was different from the boy she once pressured into doing his homework. He wasn't in the mood for silly arguments that decided dominance and strength. He simply wanted something accomplished with the smallest amount of nonsense possible.

"I need somebody just as or more powerful than myself," Harry said casually around a peppermint jelly bean.

Hermione's eyebrows rose in surprise.

"So I wanted Draco Malfoy," Harry explained as he opened a chocolate frog.

She blushed, just a bit, feeling her wizarding confidence drop just a ton or two. Of course he was speaking of Malfoy!

"And I need somebody infinitely smarter than the both of us."

She stared blankly, meeting his gaze, when she realised that he meant her. Oh! That sinking self esteem rose again in recovery.

"Nobody else? Couldn't Dumbledore help?"

"No," Harry answered uneasily. "The spell requires a triad, and... it's a bit...unusual."

"Unusual meaning illegal?"

"If one must phrase it so pessimistically, yes," Harry admitted solemnly. He had the appearance of regret, Hermione noticed, but the distinctive glint of mischief flared briefly in his green eyes. Hermione sighed, and wondered if he would ever lose that boyish desire for trouble.

"Is there a time requirement?" she inquired curiously.

"Oh hell," Harry burst passionately, dropping the candy. "I need real food. I'll order something." It was startling, and a bit amusing, how easily he was distracted by the most innocent of things. One minute he was so stern, and the next he complained like a school boy. "Do you want to know my ring tone?" he asked excitedly after he had ordered a pizza on his mobile.

A mobile?

"Well," Harry said, a bit cheekily, "one can't always communicate through fire places, arse in the air."

She frowned at his explanation. Of course she didn't mind that he had one...it was just strange. For it meant, her swift mind thought, that he had friends who could not even communicate by fire place. It meant that Harry had made friends outside the wizarding world.

And that was weird. For Hermione—purely muggle-parented, normal little girl—hadn't even a minimal acquaintance with people in the muggle world. She hadn't even known her neighbor's names, back at her parent's house. Well. That was another problem to fix, wasn't it?

A loud beeping startled her out of her thoughts.

"Recognise it?" Harry asked with childish enthusiasm. Hermione shrugged, obviously not on pins and needles to find out. "Every little thing she does is magic. Reminded me of Ginny." It was, Hermione decided, a deplorably cheesy song, for a deplorably cheesy reason, but she decided Harry might not have taken kindly to that.

"Speaking of which," Hermione added delicately, "she'll want to see you."

"She will," he said uncomfortably. "Just don't tell her, yeah?"

"What do you mean?"

"Don't tell anybody I'm back, I mean. 'Course, some people already know at the Ministry, but I've made sure they won't say nothing either. Yes, yes, I know," he waved away her words of double negatives. "I don't want anybody to know that I'm back, you see, because then I can't perform the spell. Also, it would very conspicuous for me to be visiting Draco, the most hated wizard since Voldemort."

Hermione bit her lip and decided honesty was the best policy. "I've already told the Weasleys."

"What!"

"It's okay," she hurried to explain. "They don't believe me."

"Hermione," he still moaned miserably.

"Well it's not like you said anything along the lines of secrecy," she rebuked tetchily. "In fact, you said very little."

"Only because I had a limited amount of time to speak with him," he argued. "I didn't have time to chat with you once I worked so hard to get an impromptu meeting with the criminal."

"Don't call him that!"

Harry paused in his increasing panic long enough to study her with something like bewilderment. "Why not?"

"Because he's not," Hermione said heatedly. Harry tilted his head, still quite confused by her defense. "At least...until proven guilty of all his charges."

"I think it's fair to say he's not being framed," Harry said dubiously. There was a knock on the door, for which she was very grateful, as it had saved her from a lengthier and incriminating explanation.

Hermione didn't know why she was surprised to see his face suddenly become guarded. Harry was acting so strange that she fully expected him to simply magically open the door, without any regard as to who was outside it. It was plain to see he was now more accustomed with his magic, and could freely use it. He moved carefully, yet with more confidence she noticed, towards the door. Despite his new ease with himself, Harry had not lost the tense carefulness of his school days.

Wand out, he opened the door slightly. "Yes?"

"Delivery."

"Of?"

"An atomic bomb," she heard a teenage boy say on the other side. "What d'you think? It's a pizza."

Harry gripped the wand tighter behind him, ready to strike if necessary. Hermione wanted to tell him not to waste his time, for her intuition told her there was no danger awaiting in the hall way. But her curiosity as to what he would do overrode her mouth, and she stood silent.

"Show me," Harry demanded. The boy laughed. Hermione guessed Harry gave some of that "fear me, I am the Boy Who Lived, also the Boy Who Thrashes Snotty Whelps" vibe, for the disrespectful chuckles subsided abruptly.

Satisfied, he swung the door open and Harry paid for the meal. Hermione then saw why Harry had been so suspicious. The delivery boy wore a long, black trench coat, and had dyed long black hair. If not for his Pokémon plastic watch and Dungeons and Dragons black t-shirt, he could have passed for a Death Eater of lower standards.

Just before he left, sans tip, the boy noticed Harry's wand. "Er..." Harry stammered, "remote control."

"No telly," the boy said in turn as he observed the flat, though he spent an unusual amount of time ogling Hermione.

"None of your business," Harry growled, and all but slammed the door in his face. They heard a whiny "ow" and the stomping away of thick soled shoes.

"You have an odd expression for one who should be chuffed at the sight of food," Hermione commented cheerfully when they moved to the kitchen.

"Disrespectful wankers," Harry muttered, opening the box. "Were we ever that horrible to our elders?"

Hermione, who remembered the exasperated expressions of Snape, McGonagall, Trelawny, and many other professors, snorted and gave him a knowing look. Harry appeared sheepish, and muttered, "Right."

"Imagine what he would have said if he noticed your scar," Hermione said without thinking as he handed her a slice. Harry paused, but then moved quickly when a large glob of cheese threatened to slide off his own slice. The greasy dairy splattered on his lap, and Hermione, in an effort to distract herself, stood to retrieve some plates and a napkin.

"Well," Harry said wryly when he had wiped off the mess as best he could, "that just screams incontinence."

Hermione laughed out loud before she could restrain it.

"Finally," Harry grinned, "things just didn't seem right until you broke that famous coolness and laughed a little."

"We need to sort things out," she sighed. Harry nodded, though it seemed he was more focused on his food than the current situation. "Harry, what will the spell do? What could you possibly need to be done, after everything that's happened?"

Harry took a bite, and said with a full mouth, "I knew I could count on you."

"I told you I haven't consented yet," she reminded him.

"Yes, but the illegality isn't what's bothering you. And that's brilliant!"

"That I'm willing to engage in unlawful activities?"

"No. It's brilliant that there are still some things that don't ever change," he said merrily.

"Oh, just get on with it, will you Harry?" she uttered in annoyance, though a tiny smile crept into her expression. "First off, what will this spell do?"

"I'll get to that," Harry replied evasively. He grabbed a second slice. "Now," he intoned with mocking earnestness, "sit down, for this may take a while."

"I am sitting down, you imbecile."

"Any listeners who call the story teller an imbecile will be dismissed," he threatened.

"And any story teller who limits the listener's freedom of speech will be thrown out of the flat," Hermione parried.

"Silly little threats from silly little girls duly noted," Harry said with a nod. "Right. On with the story..." Harry shifted in his chair and looked around nervously. "I don't suppose you have any alcohol around?"

"This flat was chosen and furnished by Dumbledore," she informed him primly. "So I highly doubt it."

Harry turned and glared at the displaced sofa. "I believe it. He'd probably find Death by Seating very funny."

"Harry," she warned, reaching the limit of her patience.

"Hmm? Oh, all right. Let's see...you've heard what's happened at the deciding battle, right?"

"You mean the disappearing part?"

"Yes." Harry crossed his arms and then uncrossed them, reached for a third slice but thought better of it. She hadn't seen him fidget this much since McGonagall caught them in the girls' loo sixth year—though, it had to be mentioned, that, after that incident, he and Ron were rather pleased in hearing they had been caught in the female facilities more than any other male student in Hogwarts history, and that special preventative measures were to be installed in their honour.

Hermione watched in fascination as Harry visibly tensed, as he mentally recreated the events of that battle.

"I don't," he began, agitated, "I don't want to tell you everything—"

"You don't have to," she reassured him softly, "just...the important parts." It was a stupid notion, she thought later. What part of Harry's life wasn't important?

"Then I won't," he continued, almost angrily, as if she were forcing the past out of him. His hand flew to his head, but there was no scar to cover. Realising this, Harry lost some of his intensity, and stared tiredly at Hermione.

God, she wanted to help him. But she couldn't. She didn't know how. She didn't know very much any more, but recognised irreparable pain when she saw it. And Harry's helpless gaze conveyed enough of the emotion that she leaned forward to hold his hand.

Another stupid notion, she thought again. As if he was a child, not some legendary wizard.

But he did not think it so stupid. Harry smiled slightly and said, "Your elbow."

"What of it?"

Harry nodded to the open box. "It's in the middle of the pizza." True to his word, the joint had sunk in gooey cheese and warm sauce.

"Oh!" Hermione jumped up and hurried to the sink. Where the water did very little for her greasy elbow.

Harry laughed, a nice, genuine sound, and said, "That piece is yours, by the way."

"You know you'd eat it, contaminated or not," she teased, and Harry shrugged, unable to deny it.

Harry mumbled something unintelligible, and Hermione pretended not to hear it. He mumbled again, louder, and Hermione rolled her eyes. It wasn't until he muttered something about her deafness did she glare. "Harry, I want you speak loud and clear. You're not going to make me bully you into an admission." She had meant, of course, that when he told her whatever was so terrible, she wanted it to be a voluntarily given speech. Hermione would not stand to being accused of browbeating later.

"Was that supposed to make sense?"

"I'm Hermione Malfoy," she replied with a sniff. "Everything I say makes sense."

Harry looked at her sharply but let it slide. The witch had no idea she had committed the mistake of name change again.

"He gave me a choice, Hermione," he said evenly, studying the grain of the table. "An offer."

"Who is he?"

"Tom Riddle." He fingered the former seat of the scar again, with such tenderness Hermione almost believed that he missed it.

"I—I knew it was wrong. To accept anything from him was bound to have its negative consequences. It's like signing a contract with the devil and then expecting heaven."

Hermione leaned heavily against the counter, because her legs felt oddly weak. Her mind scraped for a conclusion, but she did not like the idea. The idea that Harry would make a deal with the creature who had killed his parents, his friends, and...her Ron...the idea was incredibly stupid, disloyal, and excruciating.

"Harry," she issued, herself sounding older than ever before, with an intended note of condemnation. He winced, and scratched his forehead. "Harry, you didn't."

"But you didn't know the deal, Hermione," he pleaded, eyes riveted on the table. Even with the lifeless view, his eyebrows slanted painfully in desperate hope. "You didn't know what he offered."

"What could he have offered?" she demanded icily. "What the hell did he have that was worth the forfeit of your honour?"

Now he did whip his gaze to her, so that she could see the hurt swimming in the deep green. "I never said I gave up my honour!"

"No," she agreed, with an unforgiving stare, "one does not need to say it." A shadow of agony flitted over his face, and she felt no qualms. Her eyes flickered to his bare fore head. "Did he do that for you? As a reward for surrender? Good little Harry, giving in and earning himself a scar-free life."

He stood and closed the distance between them. Each step emanated dangerous power and unbridled confusion. Why was she hurting him? his eyes seemed to ask. He was close enough to push away, but Hermione did nothing. His hands were clenched for battle, but his shoulders were slumped in defeat.

"I have scars Hermione," he told her in an anguished whisper. "And I hurt every day. But it was worth it. Because he's worth it."

He stepped back. Hermione could not extinguish the burning ice that had spiked through her, so there was no pity for the angst written clearly on his face. Scars were good, in her opinion, considering they were merely memories of fighting the good fight.

His hand shook as he pulled up his left sleeve.

"Get out."

"Hermione, wait—"

"Get out right now."

Harry grabbed her elbow, and she shook it off. Hermione's swift, angry footsteps brought them to the door, and she threw it open.

"Hermione!"

"You coward!" she erupted, finally abandoning her controlled fury. "You fucking bastard!" She jerkily motioned to the open door. "Get out!"

Ron died for him. Ron died for him and he turned around and formed an alliance with Satan. The fucking bastard made Ron's death meaningless.

"You need to listen."

"If you don't leave right now," Hermione warned him as the tears streamed down her face, "I'm going to kill you. If I have to do it with my bare hands, I will kill you."

"You're not being reasonable—"

"Reasonable! I've had the worst time in my life, Potter. I just found out that my husband is a murderer and kidnapper. That I was mourned and buried. That everything I knew and loved has changed or died. So did you think this was the best fucking time to tell me that you betrayed us when we all thought you won for us? I'm not being reasonable?"

A simmering, scalding hatred flowed in her blood, and Hermione felt the familiar and frightening urge to murder. A part of her didn't want to take more lives, thus her warnings to him. But mostly, she wanted justice. Harry's confession meant everything they had sacrificed—be it principles or friends—had been for naught. And he had to be punished for that.

"I'll kill you," she said again, quietly. Harry searched her eyes, ready to see the blind, half crazed look that normally accompanied that threat. Hermione's brown eyes were frighteningly lucid. She wasn't acting on passion. It was a sensible decision in her mind, one that she would carry out if he didn't act fast.

"He said I could—"

"If it were a choice between death and life, you should have chosen death!" she screamed.

Harry stared at her, shaken by the chilling reminder of the last time he had heard those words thrown with such rage. He was ashamed to feel grateful that Sirius was not here to witness this damning conversation.

"To continue living, after what you did—surely you didn't think it worth it?"

"It wasn't my life at stake!" he yelled back, and reached forward to slam the door shut. Neighbors from below repeated their annoyance, and Harry was strongly tempted to reach for his wand and silence them.

"I did it for him," he explained desperately, leaning against the door.

"For Riddle!" she scoffed in disbelief.

"For Ron!" he exploded. "I wanted Ron back! He said I could have him, if only...If only..." Harry breathed heavily, exhausted by the yelling and memories. His green eyes were wide and hopeful, seeking approval with childlike innocence. "I thought you'd be happy."

Hermione took a step back. And another, and then another. She wanted to run, but he blocked the only exit. She slowly shook her head in horror. As much as she wished it other wise... "Ron's dead. You can't change that."

"He's not," he argued doggedly, "that's what Voldemort wanted us to think."

"You're sick, Harry." It was said with pity, void of the burning ire of before. "Harry, you need to get help."

"You're not listening," Harry bit out impatiently. "Sit down," he suggested, and motioned to the hated sofa. She did nothing, not until he brandished his wand again. Like Fred, Harry settled on the coffee table opposite her stiff form. In exasperation, he ran his hand through the left side of his hair, giving it the messily charming look of the old days on one side of his head, and the collected look of now on the other.

"I went about this wrong," he said to himself. "I'll start somewhere else." Harry squared his shoulders, as if preparing himself for battle.

"Nearly eight months ago, we finished the war. Suddenly, I had the power to bring him back, to rescue him. But I needed more than power, Hermione. I needed people, the time, and the place. People, I learned, like Draco, and yourself. The time—the exact anniversary. And the place—the exact location of his so called death."

Hermione opened her mouth, but stopped herself. Poor Harry, she thought as she noted his haunted eyes and unshakable faith.

"The wait, of course, was necessary. At times, it seemed too long. Other times, there didn't seem to be enough time. I approached Draco because he had something I needed."

"Power?"

"Yes. That and money. Hogwarts needed to be reconstructed, and there's no such thing as Voldemort school insurance. My funds were suddenly limited by the cost of the ingredients I needed. People to bribe into secrecy took enough money, as well. I couldn't very well do an illegal experiment with media hounds following my every move, especially on the anniversary of the beginning battle. In order for the Great Hall to be completed in time, we needed an extra donation.

"Draco was willing to anonymously donate—never one for a do gooder's reputation, under two conditions. One, he wanted some say over the reconstruction. And two..."

"Did you trade me?" Once the question was spoken, even Hermione doubted the sense in it. To trade her would guarantee her refusal in the resurrection spell.

"No!" he immediately denied. "And...yes, in a way. He told me he was ready to do something illegal. And he wanted to ensure that I wouldn't come to the rescue."

"So you knew I was kidnaped and did nothing?"

"No!" he cried again, offended enough to turn red. "Christ, Hermione, what do you take me for?"

"Take a look at your left arm," she said curtly. "You can be anything for all I know."

He tightened his mouth, and merely nodded, as if knowing he deserved that cut. "He was speaking of you, of course, in the vaguest of terms. I assumed, in my stupidity, that he was speaking of Zabini."

"What did he say?"

Harry frowned, and fiddled with his spectacles. "Side tracking a bit, aren't we?"

"What did he say?"

Harry began to fidget again. "Er...ah well...I don't remember exactly...but it was something about an old school mate he often admired. Draco told me that he'd 'take care of' said class mate. And that this person would get everything they deserved. I remember thinking he sounded kind of...partial to the one legged bloke."

"Zabini?" Hermione asked, confused.

"Yeah."

"He said that he admired this school mate?"

"Yes."

Hermione, crossed her legs, and leaned forward in bafflement. "Harry," she prompted, trying to meet his avoiding eyes. "Harry, did you think Draco was gay?"

He said nothing, but the widening of his eyes and the quickly stifled grin on his lips spoke volumes. "Harry!" she exclaimed, terribly offended for her "husband's" sake, "You thought he was gay?"

"You had to admit," Harry said with a careless shrug, "There was something poufy about him."

"Did you not hear the rumour that he slept with half of his house?" she demanded, quelling a smile.

"Ah, of course. But which half?" he pointed out sagely.

"Harry—"

"And the way he slicked his hair," Harry added with a chortle. "And the way he walked—kind of daintily, you know? As if he had a balance problem without walking on tiny little high heeled shoes."

"If he did have a balance problem," Hermione said defensively, "it wasn't because of anything little."

Harry tilted his head, once again confused. "Huh?" He scratched at his absent scar, and then his eyes lit anew. "Oh!" A pause. "Ew, Hermione. You shouldn't say phallic jokes."

"Harry!" Hermione reproved, blushing because he had said it so baldly.

How strange, how utterly bizarre to be sitting here, with a traitorous friend, and joking about her even more traitorous lover. The humour was inappropriate, they both knew. While she laughed, her eyes strayed to his covered arm uncontrollably. While he chuckled, he gripped the condemning brand by habit, as if sheer will could force it off. Their laughter was as strange as it was ill timed, and yet they both so desperately needed it.

"What? Some people insinuate, and then I say it flat out," he laughed. Not wanting to wait for the down turn of her mood, Harry continued immediately. "Any way, I heard of Zabini's death, and assumed that he refused Draco's affection, and was promptly killed for his good sense." Hermione glared. "I never heard of your disappearance. My only contact with the UK wizarding world was Draco. He wrote of things he thought I should know. The twins' reappearance, Percy getting sacked, and all that. Nothing of you, of course, otherwise I would have come and helped you escape, which he very well knew."

"What about the newspapers?"

Harry shook his head. "No, full of false information. Perhaps you hadn't noticed it, Hermione, but ever since the War began every newspaper had been full of propaganda. Even Luna's. It was helpful at first, but the falsehoods hadn't died immediately after. One week, the Daily Prophet said that Neville was the ruler of Surrey by divine right, which is, you should know, ridiculous. If anybody's anybody, I'm the god given monarch of Surrey, for all that I've suffered in it." Hermione gave an impatient shake of her head, and he sheepishly dropped his half serious joking. "Well, I mostly ignored them after that.

"And that was that. I've been around the world, gathering, hunting, and stealing the right materials ever since. Just finished, and I come back to this bloody mess."

"But the deal?" she reminded him gently.

"Ah yes...he tricked me."

"Draco?"

"No. Voldemort. We fought..."

Harry's entire demeanor changed again. His muscles were taught, eyes dull, and lips twitchy. He sat stiffly, as if ready to attack an unseen enemy. "And I did some things I didn't know I had the capability for." Harry looked anxiously out the window. "Or the pettiness.

"I was on the point of winning—though it hardly felt like it—when he asked for a moment please. Maybe it was my delirium or his just shocking politeness—did you ever think Voldermort'd say please to me?" She shook her head, too lost in the story to summon her anger.

"But where were you?"

"Do you remember how my scar was sort of a link to him? I have this theory—far fetched and completely unresearched—that there are all sorts of planes. Of course, the physical and the emotional, psychic, and all that good stuff."

"I hate to break this to you, Harry, but that theory's already been invented."

"Let me finish," he told her, irked by her condescending attitude. "My theory that all the planes, or at least the psychic one, is much more physical than we realise. Another dimension, if you will. Now don't roll your eyes," he complained. "You've heard of dream worlds, correct?"

"Yes, but—"

"Oh fuck it all," he interrupted with surprising impatience. "The point is, we met somewhere in between. Between my mind and his mind...oh damn, this is hard to explain."

"Do you mean that everybody lives mentally on some sort of psychic plane the way we all live on earth?"

"Yes—no, I mean..." He sighed and rubbed his eyes tiredly. "Look, all I know is, Voldemort forged a link with me, and that provided the proper battle grounds for us. Where it didn't matter that he has the physical strength of a toddler, and it doesn't matter that I'm centuries behind him in magic knowledge. All that mattered was what we possessed in our mind, will, and our souls. There were no fancy spells, no intricate incantations. We had our wands, of course, we still used them a bit...but not really. Damn, I don't know how to say it. It was just us, ourselves, if that makes sense. That's what it all boiled down to.

"Go ahead," he invited dismally, "tease all you want. I know it sounds silly."

"I'm not going to tease," Hermione replied gently. "I just want to know what happened."

Harry squinted at the rest of the of her apartment. "He said please, you know. It was my down fall. The bastard was polite and I gave him the benefit of the doubt." He awkwardly scratched at the lining of his jeans, tracing his thumb down the seam in a sadly guilty manner. "And then he proposed a deal.

"He said he could give me the power to bring somebody back from hell. Somebody who would spend the rest of eternity in torment if I didn't do anything."

"Did you honestly believe that Ron was in hell?"

"I believed Voldemort when he said that Ron was some place where he shouldn't be. I had been—please don't laugh," he requested, and she promised. "I had dreams. With Ron talking to me, or at least trying. And I thought, 'If Ron is in heaven, why is he so bothered?' It had been plaguing me since the First Battle. I felt it was him, not just me dreaming of him.

"So I wanted to help him. There's always a catch, of course. In this case, two. Voldemort was willing to give the remnants of his powers and Ron's location to me—not much after all that, I tell you that much—under one condition." Harry rubbed his palms on his denim covered thighs, and Hermione assumed it was because his hands were sweaty.

"He wanted me to erase him. He wanted me to eradicate Voldemort."

There was a pause, not for effect, however. Harry appeared somewhat amazed, as if it were the first time he had said it aloud. Hermione breathed deeply, swallowing the words.

"How is that a catch?"

Harry looked at her in surprise, for, in his reminiscing, he had forgotten her very existence.

"What? Oh, oh yes, that. He wanted me to kill Voldemort—but allow Tom Riddle to live. He spouted some nonsense of how there's a bit of the old Tom Riddle still in him, some where inside."

"But that's not true," Hermione couldn't help but argue. "You killed him. You destroyed Tom Riddle."

Harry smiled wanly. "And brought him back. Accidentally. Voldemort had changed himself into something inhuman, Hermione, something past comprehension and decency—but he needed my blood, don't you see? He needed my blood, my human, normal, partially Muggle blood to become stronger at the end of our fourth year. When he took my blood, some part of Tom Riddle—the only half way decent part about him, I suppose—was resurrected, but shut away. That was why, I suppose, Dumbledore was happy about the news, of my blood being stolen. It gave the crazy old man some hope, at least."

Hermione, not being present of that fateful meeting with Dumbledore after the death of Diggory, had no idea what he meant by that, and the two sat in relative silence. At last, she spoke.

"So?"

"I agreed."

"Why?"

"Would you believe me if I said, 'Because I'm good ol' Harry Potter'? Right, didn't think so. Because...I thought it was my only option. To get him back, and to be rid of Voldemort totally. Perhaps I could control his evil better, I thought, if it was in me."

Harry reached forward timidly. Hermione kept her hand tucked in her lap, afraid of what physical contact meant. Voldemort's spirit, his essence, was in the boy who sat in front of her. And there was no way of denying that when his sleeve rode up to reveal the Death Eater's mark. Despite her reluctance, Harry clasped her hand firmly, more for his comfort than hers.

"What happened?" she demanded.

"Maybe I did give up my honour," he drawled bitterly. "I did something bad, Hermione." His tone was grated, hushed and filled with self loathing. Harry stared at her imploringly, strongly reminding her of a sinner begging for forgiveness. "Very, very bad."

"What did you do?" she demanded again, trying like hell to swallow her disgust.

His mouth moved several times to begin, but the words refused to pour out for several minutes.

"I agreed," he said slowly, in a detached manner. He spoke with a tiny frown, much like one would when recalling a different, less fortunate person's past mistakes. "And he gave me that power. He gave me everything that was Voldemort, the Dark Lord, the—the man who killed my parents. I owned everything he owned. I was everything that he was. And I knew everything that he knew. And...well, it sort of scared me, you know? Having that much power—enough power to send somebody clear into nothingness. Enough power to just transfer power, as if it were nothing at all. I don't like that idea—taking away knowledge, power, life...and just giving it to somebody else. I especially didn't like the idea of transferring knowledge.

"It was his mistake," he breathed, nodding to himself thoughtfully, "that part. I reckon he thought once I found out, it wouldn't have mattered, because by then I was bound by my word." Harry grabbed her other hand, securing her position, and then spoke frankly but slowly. "Ron wasn't dead."

What? She thought she asked frantically. What do you mean? She thought she had screamed. But, in actuality, Hermione had said nothing. She had done nothing but stare.

"By no means was he alive, either," Harry muttered ruefully. "Now, this isn't a theory of mine. It's fact. There's a place between heaven and hell, between living and dead. It's not Purgatory, and it's not zombie-like either. Some call it Limbo, but I think it's too horrible to have such a silly name.

"Dante mentioned something of it, at least what he thought it was. It's not exactly reserved for those who missed their baptism, but it's not for the bad people either."

Hermione's face betrayed nothing, but the emotionless mask was interpreted as confusion by Harry.

"Think of Existence as a long, straight road, all right? And then there's a fork in that road. The fork is death. The right turn leads to heaven, and the other to hell. But Voldemort managed to send Ron straight past the fork—where there is no road. He doesn't exist, but he's not dead."

"Could we..." His eyes were wide with her interruption, as if it hadn't occurred to him that Hermione wouldn't understand. "Could we—people living like you and me—could we visit that sometimes?" He shook his head in confusion, not grasping the gist of her question. Hermione herself did not comprehend why the question was so important, why the very possibility made her palms sweaty and her heart speed up. "Could we wake up to nonexistence?"

"No," Harry answered, still perplexed. "No, I don't think so...of course, nobody really knows, do they?" His gentle smile was all he could offer in her apparent apprehension, and she returned it with a pitiful one of her own, despite the hope slowly staggering within her mind.

"I had to save him from that. He deserves something, Hermione, something decisive. Not the horrible place of in between. Voldemort had kept him there all along, as a sort of insurance plan, a last minute barter. Just in case he was near death and needed a bargaining tool.

"That bastard," he said to himself, and released her hands. Distracted, he ran both his hands through his hair, and the black locks went every which way. "I was angry, but in a way I had kind of expected it." He smiled, though for what bizarre reason Hermione had no idea.

"Do you know what he said then? No, I expect you don't. He asked me, 'Where am I?' His voice was different, sure. As were his eyes, his face, and his body. Still rather disgusting, but more human than before." With care and shame, Harry pulled down the sleeve that covered the mark.

"Close your eyes," he ordered, without emotion. "Please," he added when she simply stared.

"Why?"

"Because I don't want to see your expression when I say what I did."

It was the truth, and though she still had doubts of his present set of principles, Hermione complied. Then she heard him laugh quietly.

"Something—perhaps himself—reminded me that I was bound by my word. But what is a word, Hermione? It's a sound, or a series of sounds that you make to get what you want. My word wasn't a physical chain, and there were no witnesses. I gave my word, yes, but all I really did was make a meaningless sound to arrange his thoughts, his logic, his reasoning in just the right order to get what I want."

Another, dry and humourless laugh. It frightened her, how easily and often her Harry would give it, for the self deprecation was thick in his tone. There shouldn't have been so much self loathing from one who used to be so noble.

"I'm rationalizing, yes. Even when I can't see your eyes, your eyebrows are doing that thing they do when you don't approve. It's okay, Hermione, don't apologise. I don't approve of myself either."

Now was not the time for tears. Part of her wanted to cry for his lost of innocence, but mostly, she knew that she had outgrown that level of pain. Something so delicate was expected to die eventually. And in the war's generation, lost innocence was just a fleeting wound to be bound and forgotten.

"Nothing but myself was binding me. And, while I hate betrayal from others, it's my right to myself. Only I knew the amount of pain a betrayal to my person would cause, so only I had that right. That's what we both hate about betrayal, isn't it, Hermione? The other person never quite realises how much it'd hurt us. I was very angry with Ron, for dying. I told myself he had no idea how much it would hurt me, Ginny, you, and every one else."

Hermione suddenly envisioned Draco, and made a note to repeat that to him the next time she had the chance.

"And this was my chance to tell him. To tell him how very selfish he had been for going away. I knew the pain I'd cause myself—and risked it. I broke my word to Tom Riddle, Hermione. I killed him. I killed him when he had no mode of defense, when he had no idea just how much pain he had caused, when he was looking to me for answers, when he..."

Harry's lips tightened, and his face went pale as he remembered. Gently, he plucked the spectacles from the bridge of his nose and made a slow, careful show of wiping the lenses with his shirt. When he spoke, it was with cool indifference; something that made Hermione flinch, and yet she did not mind it so much. Harry needed to feign apathy in order to preserve his sanity.

"Tom just kept asking all these questions. He was just so bloody confused. He wanted to get out of that place and, please, could I help him?" He replaced the glasses and shrugged, turning to study Hermione, with her closed eyes and total ignorance of just how terrible it had been. Suddenly, he was angry. She didn't know, did she? And yet, she was judging him. She hadn't said anything, but he knew, of course he knew, that she was judging him, thinking him lower than dirt, thinking him to be the worst wizard of—

"Go on, Harry," she said softly, one small hand reaching forward blindly to clasp his hand. Eagerly, his own hand, larger and callused, enveloped it, holding it tightly as if it would save him.

No, she didn't understand. But he was rather glad that she didn't.

"I just killed him, Hermione. I didn't give an explanation or reason...and the mark appeared. Another fail safe, I suppose. Just in case I went back on my word, which was something I never thought would happen."

One of the millions, she sneered silently, hating herself for the lack of empathy and cruel enjoyment she felt for high and mighty Harry Potter falling from the pedestal. Oh god did she hate herself. But at least she felt ashamed for the selfish thoughts, and supposed that counted for something. As if sensing her betraying doubts, he withdrew from her, keeping his hands on his lap in a protective gesture.

"My old scar disappeared—the one that showed me for the Boy Who Lived, the zig zag line of blood that was testament of my mother's protective love. And the new one burnt into my arm permanently—one that always stings, reminding me of my promise broken. I know I deserve it, but I hide it. Because I'm ashamed of what others would say when they saw it, and what they'd do when they heard the story. I don't want the Weasleys to see it. But I felt I could handle telling you, because your doubt was always second to your loyalty."

She was not given permission, but Hermione could no longer keep her eyes shut. When she looked at him, Harry hadn't noticed. He focused on his hands, clenching and unclenching them as if testing their power.

He was worse, of course he was worse. No longer shining with his halo, no longer bursting with good deeds...but he was better. So much better. For he was shaded by sin and yet still so heroic, silent in his torment and willing to save those who could not be rescued. An ache grew in her throat and in her heart for the one who was tirelessly brave, even when his soul nearly died with fatigue.

"One could say," she said softly, "that it was a measure of safety. Like you said, Harry, it could have all been nonsense. Perhaps there was still some of the evil Voldemort left in him. One could say that you couldn't have let him walk, in case he went on to kill more people—"

"Yes," he cut in firmly. Harry refused to avoid the lacerations of his past, and said, "One could paint that pretty, fake picture." Harry clenched his fists again, not as a test of strength, but as an act of anger. "Point is, he knew that I had believed Ron dead, when he knew that Ron wasn't. It wasn't his duty to inform me, of course, but it would have been good to know before we sealed the deal upon honours of our words. I was angry, and I killed him. End of story."

"And now?"

"Now?" Harry repeated dully.

"Now what happens? There is no 'end of story,' Harry. It's continued. You can't dwell on that mistake—"

"Was it a mistake, then?" His smile was small and self deprecating.

"—if you intend to do what you intend to do."

"You didn't say 'we,'" he noticed aloud. Hermione had no time to explain her indecision when he continued, "I have the place ready—the hall was recently finished. All I need is the time and people. I thought both were confirmed. But with Draco's sentencing, who knows when he'll be out? He's willing though..."

"Why me?" she asked tiredly. Hermione, feeling the full weight of the day's events, leaned back against the shapeless cushions. "I'm smart, yes, but so are a lot of people willing to do illegal things."

"I don't need you for intelligence—oh, don't be insulted Hermione. Of course I need you for that—but I also need someone who loves him." She scoffed, and he hurried to reassure her. "No, really, it's in the spell. According to the Neutiquam erro ceremony, one needs familial love—that's me. Pure love—that'd be you, if you're willing. And then pure hatred—Draco."

"Draco hates him?"

Harry shrugged. "Evidently. He said so in so many words this afternoon."

"Then why would Draco help in the ceremony to bring Ron back to life?"

"I guess that's why the ceremony is rarely performed successfully. Never gets all the participants."

"Answer the question, Harry."

Harry smiled unpleasantly. "Because he gave me his word. I never interfered with your stay at the Malfoy Manor. I ensured his position at the reconstruction of Hogwarts. He has to keep his end of the bargain."

"He'll break it," Hermione said without hesitation. She didn't know if she was relieved or disappointed by her words.

"You never know," Harry said blandly, "Malfoy may have more honour than me. Then again, even if he was willing, we might never have the opportunity. He might rot in jail as our chance flies by."

Hermione stood indignantly. "That's not fair," she argued, "to ask me, to pressure me." Harry stared up at her impassively. "You don't know what I've been through, damn it, you don't know what it's been like. You haven't the faintest idea how much hell I've endured. And now you're asking me—telling me, basically, to surrender my right to punish him so that Ron will live again?"

"I never said he'd live," he admitted, unfaltering.

"What?"

"Ron's lost. And 'lost' will become more permanent with every passing death anniversary—stuck in nonexistence forever. The spell puts lost people where they belong. If he was meant to live this long, he'll come back to life. If he was meant to die in the second, third, fourth, and all other battles, then he comes back dead. The point is to put him where he belongs."

It wasn't a good incentive, as far as consequences were concerned. Whether she dropped charges or helped Draco escape, there was no guarantee there would be a living, breathing Ron to comfort her. But, she was not certain she wanted that. If all went successfully, that meant two free men were to pursue her. But if all went wrong, that meant one, imprisoned man was restrained from loving her.

"You said..." Hermione heard a flat, dead voice begin, barely a pitiful thread in the stark silence. It had taken Harry's waiting expression to make her realise it had been her own, strange, unrecognisable voice. "You said you needed somebody more powerful."

"Yes," Harry agreed, immediately grasping the context. "The more power involved in the Triad, the safer it will be for all participants. And Malfoy, it seems, has become double the wizard he once was since the Year began—"

"But Harry." Hermione shook her head, and met his gaze directly. "You're far more powerful."

"No, Malfoy is. I used to be better than him, before, in school, but I guess Death Eater training has toughened—"

"I mean," she interrupted delicately. "I mean, you're double the wizard as well." He looked blankly at her. "Harry. You have Voldemort's power in you."

Now comprehension slowly spread over Harry's gaunt features, and with it came disgust. "Yes," he agreed, and with a sickened tone he added, "but that power comes with a price. It comes with knowledge...memories...I'm not going to tap into that. I'm not going to tap into that."

It was Hermione turn to watch him with abject confusion, so he clarified. "He's used it, that power, before, Hermione. On other people." My parents, he almost said, but swallowed. "I can't use that power, Hermione. It would be...it would be like—" It was so damn hard to find an adequate comparison. "It would sort of be like spending blood money."

She understood immediately, and was suddenly unable to meet his hard, green stare. Of course. Of course. How the hell could she have not known?

Just how different had she become since her school girl days?

He must have seen some of the self criticism in her eyes, for he patted her shoulder awkwardly for comfort.

"I'm knackered," Harry announced suddenly, and stood to stretch expansively. This abrupt exhaustion seemed to be mostly for show, or a sudden conversation change, for his eyes were still bright from the conversation. "Any where to sleep?"

"Of course."

"Any place besides this miserable sofa, I mean."

"There's only one bedroom, Harry."

This soft relay of information revealed that, for all he had lost in the past year and a half, Harry had not misplaced his basic gentlemanly manner. He did not even mention sharing the bed, and only murmured, "Of course." With drowsy alarm, she felt his searching gaze on her retreating back as she left him. "You'd want to have a bed to yourself now, wouldn't you? After all those months of him?"

She did not answer. Hermione was not sure if he had expected one, just to test her. But she was too damn emotionally and physically drained to venture into that dangerous field of conversation.

It was difficult, naturally, to fall instantly asleep, considering the day's round of exciting events. Her mind switched gears without warning; first to Draco, and then Harry, and then Ginny's pained expression, and then Dumbledore...until she finally resigned to reminisce about the one person she hadn't seen in a very long time.

"What're you studying?"

"Latin, I told you already."

"What's this? Ouch, don't snatch, you horrible thing, you'll leave paper cuts."

"They're little phrases, Ron. Cute little things that help me remember conjugation."

"My, my, aren't we a clever little monkey?"

"Says the boy with ears that could take flight."

She could almost picture his face, sharp, angular, faintly shaded by stubble. She could almost see the angle of his tilted head as he looked down at her, sitting so close to her body that she felt his body warmth through their layers of clothing. She could almost feel his cerulean gaze as it slid from the parchment to her lips, lighting anew when an activity, more enjoyable than studying a dead language, popped into his red haired head.

Just the night prior, Hermione remembered obliquely, just the night prior to the first battle, they had a terrible row. One where it was more about landing a barb more hurtful than the last, instead of actually making a point. She recalled, vaguely, how each heated reply was designed to hurt more than the prior had, because pride would not allow either of them to back down and admit how much those words that he spat or she shouted hurt them.

But, try as she might, Hermione could not recall the exact details of the argument as she laid on her pillow. She could not blame Draco's spell either; for it would have been his Machiavellian generosity to let her remember any terrible memories concerning Ron Weasley.

Little mattered, however, once she surrendered to slumber. The troubling gaps in her memory were washed away by the gentle sway of unconsciousness. Despite the alarming motivations that brought him here, Harry's arrival was welcome. It grounded her. Reminded her that there was more to the world than Draco's kisses and the lies that were hidden in them.

When Hermione found herself lying on a rug in the Burrow, she accepted the fact with drowsy contentment. Whether one accepted the facts or not, dreams would continue, she reasoned, so there was little else to do but resign.

Of course she was laying on the floor. Of course the Burrow was perfectly empty of all the normal occupants. Of course that the only sound was the heated shower upstairs.

And of course Ron Weasley finished his shower and stepped down the stairs with an air of nude nonchalance.

He saw her vague distress, however, and took care to wrap a towel—now where had that come from, Hermione wondered—around his waist to cover matters of importance. Now much relieved—though really, she couldn't understand why, as they were married, here, in the empty Burrow—she rose and joined him at the kitchen table to dinner.

She didn't need help to walk. She didn't need to hold his hand. She didn't need a firm grasp on her elbow.

But he kept touching her. He kept skin contact and...well, it just felt wrong. Just like it was wrong for him to walk around in his altogether, and just like it was wrong for the kitchen to suddenly transform into a bedroom.

His fingers found exposed skin between the hem of her blouse and the waistband of her jeans. Before she could snap at him, the callused fingers slid slightly, creating a pleasant pressure on her aching muscles. When she turned to him, Ron smiled with perfect innocence and even threatened to back off, not wanting to crowd her.

Her body was pulled toward him, as if a spell had bound them together.

It was okay if her sudden hug threw him off balance, making him swear, "Bloody hell!" as his bare back collided sharply with a bed post. It was perfectly all right for him to glare down at her, determined not to smile as she giggled. And it was tremendously wonderful for the bedroom to swirl into a pleasant version of her home, where the television boggled him and he was too tall in her small living room.

She just watched him, fiddle with this and nearly break that, with a childlike curiosity but a manly condescension. She loved to look at him with his sudden jeans and rough, knitted jumper. He was cranky, beyond cranky, when he, too tall for the dimensions of the house, bumped his head into the door frame while following her wherever the hell she went—where is your sense of navigation, Hermione, in your very own house? He wanted to know—and she laughed. He refused to laugh, refused to admit that television was more entertaining than gobstones, refused to say that muggle radio stations had more interesting opinions than the sole channel he listened to at home.

"Bloody hell," he swore again—her parents might've disapproved, if they were in residence—but this time she couldn't figure out what for.

It didn't matter.

She knew, just as he assumed she would.

She knew that his defeated "Bloody hell's" meant "Go on, laugh. I'll love you no matter what."

She knew that his "insufferable know it all's" meant "Wish she wouldn't show me up. Can't impress her if she shows me up."

She knew that his rolling eyes-irritated sighs meant "Stop talking about so-and-so, he's not good enough for you."

She knew that his pushing hands, his "Don't be daft's" meant "Go now, and be safe, because you just have to be safe, Hermione, you have to be safe."

She knew that his dying meant "I'll miss you Hermione, but this is more important."

She knew that his ensuing silence meant, "See Hermione? See how well I'm resting. No need to worry Hermione. No need to worry."

Why did Ron lie?

If he had been lost, stuck, misplaced...if Ron had been in a place unfit for anybody, why hadn't he contacted her? Harry spoke of dreams, of an agitated Ron. Throughout the war, throughout the reconstruction, not once had she had a strange dream in which Ron requested some sort of rescue.

Why did Ron lie?

Hermione's eyes flew open, something unknown shaking her from her sleep. For a moment, she was confused, for the view was not that of Draco's bedposts, of the high ceilings in the Malfoy Manor. She shook her head, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. It had been days. She thought she'd be used to it by now.

A soft knock at the bedroom door startled her, hinting perhaps that that was what had awoken her in the first place. Sitting up slightly against the headboard, Hermione bade the visitor to enter.

Harry sauntered in, with an unfamiliar hunch, as if he had grown accustomed to sneaking around in shadows. She did not bother to reach over and turn on the lamp, and sat with silent curiosity as he approached the bed.

"It's...past midnight," he murmured in an estimating tone, as if she had asked him a question. Without permission, he quickly sat on her bed, narrowly missing her feet in his exhaustion. "Couldn't sleep. I picked these up...it's been a while since I've read it..."

Hermione barely glanced at the sheaf of papers that he tossed by her hand. "Harry, what's the matter with you?"

She noticed that he still wore his shoes, and he smelled faintly of night air. Had he just returned?

"Do you know," he continued in a calm tone, "that they think he should get off?"

"Who?"

"People. By no means do they think he's innocent. But he should get off. That's what some are saying."

She was in no mood to interrupt her slumber simply for another round of bitter conversation. "The masses are asses, Harry," she sighed impatiently, shifting once more to her supine position. "You should know that more than anybody."

"Yes," he agreed, timbre still light, still casual. "But I can't help but think that individuals believes this rubbish as well."

"Point being?" she snapped. The more complicated the issues, the more she awake became, and the less likely she would be able to fall asleep again.

"Point being, it's all hypocritical."

"Of course it is. Doesn't mean talking about it will change it."

"I mean, look at Sirius." Hermione stilled, not understanding this sudden subject change. Her eyes slid to Harry, who sat with his forearms resting on his thighs, studying his hands as if discovery waited in them. "According to the press, Sirius killed muggles and a good wizard, betrayed the people he loved, et cetera, et cetera..." He shrugged. "They hated him. They still do."

She said nothing.

"But Draco Malfoy," he continued, voice taking a falsely amused chord, "now there's a boy who killed good wizards and bad wizards. Who betrayed his family and the ones he loved several times over. Who is totally and completely unashamed by his lack of scruples, by his selfish goals, by his I don't give a damn about anything except my own happiness attitude... And yet they say, 'He should get off.'"

"It's what you want, isn't it?" she challenged.

"I want him for the spell," Harry clarified. "I don't want him unpunished."

"Punished how? Death? Imprisonment? How do you begin to punish a man who is not, and probably never will be, sorry?"

"Oh yes," he agreed, his placid voice wavering. "He's not sorry, is he? I heard of that bit. Ridiculously invasive questioning, right?" She nodded vaguely and he shrugged. "He's not sorry because you love him."

He waited, unsure of her reaction, meeting her gaze in the shadows. To his immense disappointment, she turned away, reaching over to switch on the lamp on the bedside table.

"You love him?"

She should have answered. She should have hinted that, yes, she found the last few months horrendous. It might have been a lie, yes, but it would have kept her safe. Hermione couldn't bear the look of shocked repugnance on Harry's face, half hidden in the shadows. She might have borne it from Ginny, from the twins, from Mrs. Weasley...But Harry was her friend. Harry was the only family she had left. His opinion, right now, was one of the few that mattered. It was her secret, and she did not want Harry to find out until she had emotionally prepared herself for his expected reaction.

But Harry, of course, had a habit for drawing out secrets. He was the master of so many, after all.

"Harry—"

"You love him. You love that cruel bastard?"

"It's not what you think..." Hermione sat up, puzzled. Now whatever had possessed her to say that? She didn't even know what Harry thought. All she knew that if Harry was reacting this violently, then surely he was ignorant of the true nature of her relationship with Draco. Whatever she felt for Draco, it wasn't something to hate. It wasn't something to abhor as Harry did so apparently.

"Oh, you know what I think? Hypocrite. You're nothing but a hypocrite." He stood now, as if the very nearness of her sickened him.

"I beg your pardon?"

"It's so hypocritical, Hermione, so beneath you, that I never would have thought... Damn it, Hermione, what if Ron had done it?"

What?

She hadn't spoken; only opened her mouth in blank surprise. Hermione watched with wide eyes as Harry ran his hands through his hair, and found a chair in the corner of the room to bring it beside her bed. His lips were merely a tight line of disapproval, and his knuckles were white with tension.

"All right, I'll say it differently," he conceded with false sympathy. His voice, the sheer cutting of his tone, wounded her into silence. "Draco Malfoy, poor soul, was raised by the wrong people. He can't help being evil. It was society and blood that made him the prat he was for all those school years. It was his warped sense of duty that forced him to kill our professors, our class mates, our friends for the first battles of the war. It was his miraculous epiphany of righteousness that made him join our side and repent his sins. It was admirable love and devotion that motivated him to kidnap you, harm you, cut you, bleed you, drag you into the emotions that he deemed necessary—because, as smart as you are, you're only Hermione Granger, practically a child, practically a blind little girl who needs pushing in her own emotions. You don't know any better; Draco does, because he's fucking Draco Malfoy. Because he's everybody's wet dream of a bad boy reformed. Because he's so unapologetic that commiseration or censure won't work on him, so people decide to cheer for him."

"Shut up!"

He was hurting her; his words were slashing at her more than anybody else's could have. And, worse yet, he knew it. Harry knew how much his mocking tone clawed at her, and he continued.

"But what if it was Ron, hmm? Suppose it was Ron who loved you but you didn't love him. Suppose poor Ronald Weasley—not half as handsome nor a third times as rich—abducted you, tricked you, killed dozens of wizards and witches in his life time without one flicker of regret... Do you think Witch Weekly would be petitioning for his cause? Do you think there'd be fliers and protests outside the Ministry for Ron if he had done everything Draco had?"

He dropped the sugary tone, just as he dropped his false, sympathetic smile. His face was a harsh composition of sharp lines and shadowed planes; his voice a bitter landscape of grating chords and sharp notes.

"No. No fucking way. People are fucking hypocrites, Hermione. People barely blinked when they heard that Ron died. Those same people are practically sobbing because Draco Malfoy just might get a punishment he deserves.

"And why? Because Draco is Draco. Because people misinterpret his selfishness as devotion. Because people misinterpret his cold blooded calculating as admirable prowess.

"And I never thought you'd be one of those hypocrites."

"I did more than blink," Hermione told him tremulously. She had to argue, though her heart was bleeding. She had to argue, because, even though some part of her whispered to her Harry's right, another part said that she was Hermione Granger, and he had no right to speak to her as if she were the criminal. "Don't you dare say I didn't care."

"Past tense, is it?" he remarked wryly, and stood up abruptly. "Don't you ever think?"

It seemed to be the only thing she could do lately. She understood what he was attempting, acidly, to convey.

Identity had no role in justice. Or rather, identity shouldn't have had a role in justice.

She just...just hadn't wanted to think of Draco as a criminal, that's all. Because...well, because she loved him.

But people loved Voldemort, hadn't they? People worshiped the ground that bastard walked on. People misinterpreted his wishes of genocide for noble purging. It didn't mean that what he had done was right. It didn't mean that whatever criminals had attempted was justified.

No...it was too much of a stretch, to compare Draco to Voldemort. Voldemort did his abominable crimes because he was full of hate, full of prejudice, was blind to everything but his own distorted ambition. Draco committed his infamous deeds because he loved her.

Damn. It didn't sound so justifiable in her own mind either.

"Suppose Malfoy hadn't attacked from below," Harry continued conversationally, strolling slowly to the door. "Suppose those entangled with the Death Eaters in the dungeon were available to help us in the Great Hall?"

Hermione grit her teeth. "What are you playing at?"

He shrugged as, with his foot, he nudged open the door. "Nothing. I just think it a shame that Malfoy saw fit to distract those who could have assisted Ron and myself above. Ron, obviously, could have used the aid."

She was furious. "You're trying to manipulate me! You're trying to convince me to not love him!"

Harry spared her a cold, amused smile. "Manipulate you?" He tasted the words. "It seems to be the only way to reach you, now."

Hermione watched him gently closed the door, and irrationally felt something terrible would happen if she let it end like this. An inexplicable panic filled her as it nearly clicked shut.

"Harry," she called out, the mere name thick with emotion.

He did not enter, but the door did not close, his shadow lingering in the faint light the opening allowed. He waited for her to continue, while she scrambled for the right words to say.

"I can't help but love him," she said helplessly. "I can't help it." It felt oddly like apologising for an irrevocable fact. She might as well have apologised for the darkness of the night sky.

She heard a wild, tired laugh, and the door fell open with a threatening creak. She heard his foot steps as the thick soles of his shoes met the hard wood floor, coming just a little bit farther in, coming in one last time for this emotional battle, and heard his words as the words fell solemnly from his cynical mouth.

"Do you think he's worthy?"

She had the gall to roll her eyes, too bright in the darkness, and smiled in a vain attempt to right this wrong between them. "Don't be a snob, Harry. People change."

"He hasn't. He doesn't want to." He spoke factually. "You wouldn't want him to, if you love him so much."

That "if" seared through her, making her stiffen as if an unseen blade had stabbed at her. Swallowing the silly lump of tears in her throat, she fiddled with her scars on the otherwise smooth skin of her arms.

She thought it was the end of the conversation; she thought Harry had given up, acknowledged the stale mate. He did not want her to forget Ron, to move on, to love their enemy. She could not shake off the feeling that Ron was gone, just as she could not shake the feeling that, manipulated or not, she loved Draco.

"He doesn't deserve you."

Her palm pressed on one smooth ridge of skin, feeling its sister scars under her finger tips and wrist. Several uniform cuts left their memories on her skin, and she felt the souvenirs with more shame now, in this room with Harry, than ever before.

Hermione shook her head. It was a disagreement, though for what she was not sure.

"I'm sorry for calling you a hypocrite," he apologised quietly. He shuffled, not unlike a young man who'd been reminded he was not quite so adult as he thought. Harry looked so...young. Almost ashamed, surprised, of the words that had just spewed from his mouth. "I just...he's never done anything, Hermione. He's never done anything worthy of you."

"And Ron had." It was an empty statement, not a challenge. Harry answered nevertheless.

"Possibly. Never really had the chance, though, did he?" With those contemplative words, Harry shrugged again, shoulders rising and falling into that annoyingly hunched stance, and then closed the door behind him.

Damn him. Damn him and all his pontificating. She would not be swayed into hatred; though, she was forced to admit quietly, Draco did deserve it.

Her fingers brushed against the papers, and she leaned towards the light to better view the picture. In it, Draco was surrounded by guards, photographers, journalists, and fans while being escorted into the Ministry. His handsome face was twisted slightly with disdain.

He wasn't sorry.

Because he got what he wanted.

Damn it.

Hermione threw the papers into the chair Harry had vacated and switched off the lamp. She definitely couldn't sleep now.

xoxox

And not my eyes
To navigate the darkness

Hoobastank, Crawling in the Dark