Disclaimer etc.: see Prologue.
Thanks go to my lovely, wonderful reviewers: cmanuk, Kimmilein, keske, sweetiepie1019, MaNdErS20100, RonWeasleyismiking, ron.w rules, hogwartsgirl52, beama, ThruSnape'sEyes, scorpiagirl93, weasleyismyprince, LF, smore4u1, senga, James Beston, animegirl1o1, Gene Kelly, Evelyn Granger, Strangehearts047 and ShatteredTruth. Ah, I love you guys.
Just a quick query – do you guys think I should aim to cover their whole year, or just go where the story takes me? It's something that's been nagging me for a while now...
And maybe, if you look closely, you might start to see some answers appear. Ha ha. I love my characters.
R&R is blessed to the Muse (who is currently stuffed full of ice cream!), and enjoy!
To Continue
19 - Revelation, Transformation
The room was quiet, and Ron was silent in his own bed.
Harry was sat up in his bed, back pressed to the heavy mahogany headboard. The blankets were tugged up around his waist, and his hands lay in his lap – the slender length of his wand rested between his fingers. In the darkness, he stared straight ahead, anger and frustration blazing through his veins.
Failure.
His fingers screwed up in the blankets.
"You're not asleep, are you?" Ron's voice was loud in the darkness.
Harry shifted his weight – the blankets rustled. "No."
Doubt suffused through the air. It was in these moments, these stolen conversations in blackness, that the fear and pain could be really seen, even if just for a second. No words were needed – they were silent together.
You and your kiddies' army. Can't even bring yourself to use proper curses. What good do you possibly hope to achieve?
Harry screwed his eyes shut and jerked the blankets up to his neck, hiding from the world like a frightened child.
--
The three of them were subdued in the Great Hall the next morning, eating slowly, not speaking. They were the focus of many inquisitive glances from around the hall – word had spread, as it always did. Even Ron only picked at his food.
It was Hermione who broke the silence, as she gathered up her bag from the floor. "I'm going to the library," she announced quickly. Ron glanced up at her, and began to move, uncurling his body from his hunched position over the table, but she halted him with a hand on his shoulder. "No," she instructed, with a smile. "I've got three translations for Ancient Runes to do, and my lesson's fourth period. I don't need you as a distraction." Her smile slipped, just a little. "I haven't had time this weekend, what with the… frivolities."
Harry looked down, suddenly finding his omelette highly interesting.
Ron lifted his hand to hers and lightly squeezed her fingers. "See you in Transfiguration," he said by way of farewell.
She nodded to him. "Yeah."
Her shoes clipped quietly against the stone floor, the sound masked by happy chatter.
Harry looked up at Ron. "How is she?" he asked quietly.
The other boy shrugged as he twirled his spoon in a rapidly-cooling bowl of honey-drenched porridge. "She won't tell me," he answered, and there was worry in his voice. "She changes the subject every time I bring it up." He smashed the spoon down, and cursed as porridge splashed over his hand. He scrubbed it off onto his robes.
"Has she even said what happened to her?"
Ron just shook his head. "I think she's trying to worry about us instead of herself," he offered. At Harry's bemused expression, he reluctantly elaborated. "You after last night's… failure," he explained, with an accompanying wry twist to Harry's lips. "And me 'cause of… well."
"Yeah," Harry agreed. "That."
Ron shrugged. "We've all got things we'd rather not think about."
Harry nodded, and prodded gloomily at the egg on his plate.
--
Hermione had commandeered an entire desk in the library, and had tucked herself away in a corner, books spread out before her. The Ancient Runes translations that she'd finished last night after the disastrous DA meeting were strewn in front of her, ready to be drawn over the thick books in front of her if she heard Harry and Ron's inappropriately loud voices, and her forehead was furrowed as she strained to read the tiny print of the books of dark magic that lay before her.
She sighed in frustration and rubbed at her eyes.
Over a week, she thought to herself. Over a week of reading every book I can get my hands on in every second of spare time I have, out of the boys' sight. That long, and nothing!
She slammed the book shut with a smack that echoed through the library. Madam Pince shot her an outraged look, but Hermione didn't care. She let her head drop into her hands.
Okay, she told herself. Start again. The spell.
It was the place she started every time – praeteritum tempus spectare; the spell that had caused so much trouble. She dragged her Charms textbook towards her and flicked it open, searching for the charm that Ron had so blithely found so long ago.
After a moment of search, she frowned. "It should be right here," she murmured softly to herself, tapping the page with one fingertip. "Right here."
Aware of Pince's gaze swinging back to her again, and aware also that her good reputation with the librarian was slipping before her eyes, she silenced herself.
"T" for Temporal Reveal… she mused. Maybe I was wrong. "P"? Praeteritum?
She flicked through to the P section. Nothing.
Fear flickered in her stomach.
Hermione ducked under the table and dragged her bag towards her. She had Ron's Charms textbook in here, too—he'd claimed this morning that he had too much stuff to carry and had therefore offloaded it onto her—and she pulled it out.
She searched it all – the Ts and the Ps. Nothing.
"But I saw it!" she breathed. "Plain as day, right there!"
Hermione leaned back in her chair, confusion and fear whirling inside her. Slowly, she shook her head. "I'm getting nowhere," he murmured to herself. "I think it's time…" She smirked, just a little. "Time to do something stupid. Something that Ronald would do."
She swept her books into her bag in a crumpled mess, and fled the library.
Pince glared after her.
--
McGonagall looked up at the smart rap at her door. "Come in," she called, lightly pushing the fifth year essays she had been marking to one side.
The door creaked open, and Hermione Granger glanced around the thick wood. "Professor," she greeted as she entered.
McGonagall flashed her the faintest hint of a smile. "Miss Granger." Her smiled faltered. "How is Mister Weasley?"
Hermione's face changed – hardened. "With all due respect, Professor, how do you think?" she half-snapped. McGonagall watched, intrigued, as she visually calmed herself, and then flashed an insincere smile. "In fact, Professor, it's that which I've come about."
McGonagall frowned, watching Hermione as she took a seat in the chair in front of her. "Oh?" she asked. "And what exactly do you think I can help you with?"
"Well…" Hermione shifted in her seat, pulling her bag onto her lap. "You can start by telling me what exactly you know about why Ron is dying."
"Miss Granger, I—"
"Professor, we're not stupid," Hermione cut in. "Far from it, in fact. Harry, Ron and I – we know that something strange is going on this year, and that the teachers are at least helping in it, and we just want to help." Her hands were almost extended towards McGonagall, and her palms faced upwards. She was acting almost like a supplicant, but McGonagall got the strangest feeling that she was doing it all on purpose.
"There are some things that you cannot know, Hermione," McGonagall replied softly, stressing the girl's name.
Manipulation and acting? she thought wryly to herself. You are not the only one who knows how to play people, Miss Granger.
"Why?" Hermione demanded. "Because we're too young?" She spat the last word. "We are legally adults, Professor. All three of us, and we are quite possibly more deserving of the label of "adult" than some I have met!"
Silence hung between them.
McGonagall leaned forward. "I agree with you," she said, and she spoke the truth. "Yourself, Mister Potter and Mister Weasley have suffered more than any your age should have to. But that is not the reason that I cannot answer your question, save for reaffirming what you already know."
"Then why not?" Hermione asked quietly, leaning back, arms folded across her breast. "You agree with me, but then you refuse to answer me." Her eyes flashed – anger and pain and love, and McGonagall felt her heart go out to her. "This is not just about you, Professor. Ron's life is at stake, and I will not lose him."
McGonagall looked thoughtfully at the young woman sat before her. "If I could, then I would," she answered. "If I was allowed, then I would bring you, Potter and Weasley in here and enlist your aid in this final struggle. But, I am afraid, the Ministry still sees you as children, despite your age, and despite everything you three have done to save the wizarding world."
Hermione's gaze sharpened. "The Ministry sees us as children?" she questioned, quick as an arrow. "Not you? The Ministry?"
McGonagall let her eyes smile, but her lips stayed rigidly still as she rose from her seat. "I believe the phrase is, you didn't hear it from me. Now. I have work to do." Her eyes twinkled, and she felt warmth rush through her.
Dumbledore may have sworn by Potter, she reflected, but Miss Granger is still more than worthy of consideration.
Hermione rose from her seat, thoughtfulness etched into her features, and McGonagall shepherded her to the door.
The Transfiguration professor's hand rested on the door handle, and she paused. "And I can assure you," she continued, voice graver now, "that anything and everything is being tried and is being done to save Ronald Weasley's life. I made sure of that."
Hermione smiled up at her. "Thank you, Professor," she said, and there was a genuine smile on her lips.
McGonagall pulled the door open. "I will see you next period, along with Potter and Weasley," she said, by way of farewell.
Hermione nodded. Then she slipped out of the door and was gone.
McGonagall smiled, and returned to marking essays.
--
Ron was half asleep when Hermione skidded into the Great Hall and slammed her bag down on the table next to him. He jumped, his elbow slipping off the wooden surface, and blinked himself awake. "Hermione?" Harry asked from across the table.
"It's not McGonagall," she said, an ecstatic smile fixed on her lips. She slid onto the bench, unaware of curious gazes following her dramatic entrance. "Whatever's going on here, it's not McGonagall."
"Slow down, Hermione," Harry hissed, bringing their voices down to a whisper in the study session in the hall. "What are you talking about?"
"I went to see McGonagall," Hermione answered. "To confront her, I guess, about this whole thing—"
"You did what?" Ron asked, incredulous.
"Shut up, Ronald," she said automatically. "But she talked to me, after a bit of persuading. She's not behind all this trouble."
"Then who is?" Harry asked.
Hermione smiled. "The Ministry."
"What?!" were the twin gasps that met that statement, and more odd looks were flashed in their direction.
"The Ministry of Magic is perpetrating everything."
Harry stood abruptly, jerking the bench back with a loud scrape. "Outside," he ordered, his gaze flicking around the four long tables, and sounding staring down any of the interested observers. Ron and Hermione rose, too, with slightly less noise. The three of them left, bags hastily filled and questions on their lips just begging to be asked.
--
Harry led them outside to the main courtyard – it was empty, and it was cold, but neither of the three noticed. "What the hell are you talking about?" Harry demanded the moment they paused.
Excitement flooded Hermione's face. "I went to McGonagall," she began again, voice low lest it carry. "Asked her about everything. She told me that she wasn't allowed to tell us because the Ministry didn't want it."
"So she didn't actually say the Ministry was behind everything," Ron commented, arms folded and a sceptical eyebrow raised.
"Not in so many words, no," Hermione replied. "But what else could she be trying to say?"
Ron glanced briefly over at Harry, and then returned his gaze to Hermione. "She could have been just trying to get rid of you," he pointed out. "I'm guessing you weren't exactly asking nice, polite questions."
"Well, no—"
"There you have it." Ron's eyes shone dully in the cold light. "Stop grasping at straws, Hermione. The Ministry? Yeah, right."
Hermione nodded shortly, teeth clenched and fists balled. "Okay then," she began, "because the Ministry of Magic has never done anything wrong before! Ever!"
"Well why would they be letting a freak like Phil run around the school?" Ron shot back, squaring off against her, shoulders hunched.
Fire and attraction crackled between them, a bright contrast to the chill of the air.
"Why would McGonagall not tell us if there wasn't some higher authority forcing her not to?" Hermione bit off.
"Well, she's not exactly been forthcoming so far this year, has she?" Ron snapped scathingly. "Let's see, what exactly has Mc-bloody-Gonagall done for us so far? Nothing? I thought so."
"Guys!" Harry yelled, physically stepping between them.
They both snapped their gazes to him, and he felt distinctly intimidated by their piercing, angry stares.
"Arguing isn't going to help us figure anything out," he said calmly. "So stop it. Both of you."
Hermione tucked her hair behind her ears, suddenly icy cold. "I have work to do before Transfiguration," he said, voice full of restrained anger. "If you need me before then, make sure you've put Ronald back on his leash."
She stalked away.
Harry rounded on Ron. "What's got into you?" he hissed.
There was something empty about Ron's gaze that scared Harry. The red-head pushed past Harry, bag knocking into his stomach and driving the wind out of him. "She's trying to help me," Ron said, half-ignoring Harry as the latter struggled to keep pace. "That's why she went to McGonagall."
"Why can't she help you?" Harry asked.
Ron halted, and there was no emotion in his expression. "I don't want help. I want you to accept it, and just let me live my last few weeks in peace."
With a final solid shove to the centre of Harry's chest, Ron followed in Hermione's footsteps, up the steps into the castle.
Harry watched him go, and felt his heart break.
Hermione had retreated to the library, and Harry followed her. He tread softly through the rows of books until he found her, curled up on one of the wide windowsills that doubled as a seat. There was a paperback book in her hands, and it was open, revealing densely-packed text, but she wasn't reading. She was staring out of the window at the blue sky.
Harry crouched down beside her. "Hermione?" he asked softly.
"I was trying to help him," she said quietly, unmoving. She still gazed out of the window, fingers curling around the flimsy pages of the book in her lap. "That's what I came here to do – find a way to save him." She blinked, and a tear slid down her cheek. "And then I found that the Temporal Reveal Charm wasn't in our Charms textbook, even if he'd found it in there before, and I went to McGonagall, and it was all for him."
Harry said nothing—what could he say?—but he reached up and covered her hand with his.
"And all he does is argue and ignore me." Finally, Hermione moved, looking down at Harry. "Why?" she whispered.
"He said that he'd be having mood swings," Harry reminded her gently. "We knew to expect this."
Hermione smiled, even as another tear made its damp path down the smoothness of her cheek. "It still hurts," she whispered.
"It'll be okay," Harry said softly, and he didn't quite realise it, but it was the first time he'd said those words and actually meant it. Somehow, whatever it took, everything was going to be alright again. "I promise." He smiled, just a little, and squeezed her fingers. "We've already made the first step, no matter what Ron says."
Hermione nodded, and the fight seemed to go out of her. "I hate arguing with him," she whispered. "I mean, I hate it when it's serious. Normally, we'll fight but then it'll be okay again, but now…" She trailed off. "God, he can be such a bastard."
Harry couldn't help but laugh at that, and she smiled back, the merest up-curve of the lips. "Come on," he proffered. "Let's go help Ron, even if he doesn't want to be helped."
She pulled her hand out from under his and rose. "That suits me," she replied, wiping away the tears that still dampened her cheeks.
--
Red hair was clutched between her near-skeletal fingers, and she was obsessed with it. The air around her was dark, and the thoughts that swirled in her mind were as black as the night sky, but the few strands of hair in her grasp were bright, blazing red. They seared her mind so much it was almost painful, but she was drawn to them.
Drawn to him, she should say.
Don't think such things, he advised her, voice echoing between her ears. He is prey; we are hunter. He will pay. They will all pay.
She pouted, her lips forming a twisted "O" of mock-distress. "But I want him," she purred, and a laugh welled up in her wraith-like form.
She heard him chuckle, just slightly. I know you do, dear sister. I feel your want, as clearly as it were my own.
"We are failing," she reminded him. "They are escaping us."
Then let me go to them.
"They know you," she hissed, and her green eyes flashed in the darkness. Green and red – two bright pinpoints in the void. "They will not trust you."
I know that, he replied, and she could hear the glee in his voice. But they do not need to see me for me to wreak mischief. You know that. It is my way.
She laughed.
Let me out, Alaea, he cajoled. Let me take my turn. It's dark and quiet here, and I long to hear them scream.
A smile cracked her lips, revealing little white pointed teeth. She raised her hands to her throat, and unclasped the tarnished locket from around her neck. She held it in her hands, chain trailing down through the darkness to whisper across her naked thighs. A hiss echoed in the darkness; a reptilian hiss.
With a twist of her thumb, she flicked the locket open, and she wavered.
The darkness sucked her in, and there was such a silence that she wanted to scream and writhe and bite and slash, but she was immobile.
In the darkness, kneeling alone and bare-skinned, a blond-haired boy with cornflower-blue eyes ran his fingers over the surface of the heart-shaped locket in his hands. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back, tendons standing out against faintly-bronzed skin.
Phil Parsons rose to his feet in the darkness, and studied the red hairs that were still wound around his fingers with a smile on his lips.
--