Author's Note: Just another reminder for everyone who has asked; WSOSW has a complete timeline, and WILL be finished. I'm simply going to finish Blindness, which also has a completed timeline, first. Patience everyone for the poor authors who do not get paid, lol. We do this for fun in our spare time (what little we both have of it).

Hermione listened patiently, watching Harry's gaze as it remained locked directly ahead, not flickering, not moving at all.

More and more his eyes did not move to track movement, more and more his head no longer turned towards her own. But she knew he saw her, just as she knew he saw nearly everything around him.

At that very moment she could swear she felt his energy casting about him like a curious dog sniffing the wind and what way it might turn.

But for all his sight, he would never be able to grasp the nuances of facial expressions. He might be able to describe the way a heart beat faster in emotion, but he could only guess whether that emotion was fear, or excitement, or joy. He might be able to Look and see a smile, but he would never notice the way a person's eyes gave away the truth of it.

Right now, as he explained what the Minister was offering, and at what cost, he was desperate to know how she was taking it. She could see the tension in his face.

Hermione reached out and took one of his hands, running her fingers across its surface, linking them together with a squeeze as he spoke.

"I think we should do it. I should do it. I think this might present the opportunity we need when we attempt to enter the muggle markets with new inventions. If we are to successfully present hybrid magical-mundane tech we will need to go around certain obstacles. Most of the mundane world won't know it's magic, and the magical world will assume it's as fantastical as any other muggle technology. But someone, somewhere, will figure it out. In the medical field alone, if we tried to present a potion in pill form, certain officials will have to be spelled to pass…"

"I understand, Harry." Hermione interrupted his rushed words. "I figured we might have to get creative to pass drug trials. The results will be honest, and so is the science. But we'll be using plants and animal parts that no one on that side of things know exists."

His shoulders slumped in relief. "Then you agree?"

Hermione raised her chin. "Not just because of that. I'd also rather have the Ministry courting you than trying to contain you. If they figure you are working for them to capture dark wizards, they won't be so worried you are going to be the next dark lord."

Harry's face twisted. "I hadn't considered that angle."

Hermione grinned, standing to pull him to his feet as well, moving in to wrap her arms around him.

"You are more intimidating than you realise. And if the Ministry ever does figure out the extent of your ability with death and resurrection, having a good history with them will improve the fallout. Better make an ally now than an enemy later."

Harry hesitated a second, before pressing his cheek down against hers, his voice low in her ear.

"It's still bribery. Government really shouldn't work that way. I thought you would be angry."

She let out a long breath. "I am angry, because it's not fair to all the normal citizens who try to do things the legal way. But if I got angry at everything that's not fair in the world no one would want to be around me. I'll work to change what I can, and improve others. Who knows?" She leaned back, smiled up into green eyes that did not meet her own. "Maybe you can be Minister in a few dozen years and fix them, too."

Harry laughed. "I think I'll be too busy for a very, very long time to ever attempt that. And honestly, I don't care enough. If anyone should try it, it will be you. I'll be your under-secretary."

His voice was suggestive at the last, his smile disappearing from sight as he leaned down to kiss her, missing her mouth to land on her right cheek.

He corrected his mistake lazily, nuzzling into her skin as much like a cat as a lover.

Hermione laughed, pushing him away.

"Go on with you. Your aunt will be here any minute."

Harry lunged, and she let him catch her, enjoying his joy as much as her own.

When his aunt appeared at the doorway several moments later, Hermione felt her cheeks burn. But Petunia was smiling fondly, the wrinkles around her warm brown eyes crinkled in response as the woman moved back without interrupting, sending one swift wink towards Hermione where she sat across Harry's lap, her turn to be the contented cat.

And Hermione realized she needed to show that memory to Harry, because he did miss the nuances.

Everyone should be able to see just how much they are loved.

The fourth quarter Wizengamot session went just as the Minister had predicted. There were reporters waiting outside the large council room, and in the Atrium protesters had swarmed, among them at least a dozen house-elves.

Vaughn told him the elves looked as confused as the witches and wizards looked righteous. Harry had no doubt that educating the house-elves on their new rights would be a far more difficult task than getting the laws themselves changed.

Albus Dumbledore opened the session and went directly to the topic of house-elf regulation, and Amelia Bones stood tall to speak her mind. Lady Longbottom agreed with her.

Within an hour a committee was formed, to be headed by Lady Marchbanks and Lord Ogden. A basic draft for HER, House-Elf Rights, was presented, to be passed to said committee for refinement. It was announced that a vote would be called on HER in the first quarter session of the next year.

And without more than a murmur of protest, the topic was closed.

Harry sat back in his chair, closing his eyes as a rabid argument began to spark about the magical zoo. Across the room, Dumbledore's blue soul gleamed brighter than many around him, his light steady and sure, and a sudden reminder that the former Headmaster had given him the name of the broken soul pieces only a few months ago, instead of the years it had seemed.

He hadn't forgotten about the horcrux. Maybe, now, he could focus on that particular problem again.

Hermione had scoured the entire Black library, every book's title and subject catalogued into one master list. She had added many of her own books to it, as well as the myriad volumes Harry had accumulated. She told Kreacher about her organization technique, and how to put away any books left scattered about the library by Harry with the exception of the ones in his laboratory.

She loved books. Loved the knowledge they could give her. She took care of them, and bought more of them at any chance. The various bookstores of Diagon Alley knew both her and the sight of her owl.

But none of her books, and none that she could find at those bookstores, spoke of any sort of soul mirror.

There were spirit potions, concoctions meant to give the drinker waking dreams to discover something about themselves. There were spells to help find ones animagus form, which were undoubtedly related in some form to soul magic. There was even various artifacts that were reported to reveal one's worst fear, or greatest dream.

Hermione wasn't sure how Harry would react to any of them. And perhaps any artifact that reflected a portion of information garnered from the soul would also show him himself. But all of the artifacts were either in the Ministry collection, which everyone knew meant they were locked up for research, or in Gringotts Vaults owned by various pureblood families. Tracking them down and viewing them would be a difficult process.

But it was her only lead so far. And one of the artifacts, the Mirror of Erised, was an actual mirror. She would track it down herself.

If nothing else, they could gather valuable data.

Christmas came and with it the family descended upon the Dursley home like a pack of rowdy dogs.

Some of them literal dogs, as in the case of aunt Marge's highly annoying bulldog Ripper that had, more than once, taken a bite of flesh from any hand that came too close. Uncle Vernon's sister had gotten in a large row with Petunia over one such incident years ago that had left Harry up a tree and Dudley with a bleeding hand. After that, the beasts were banished to the back yard and a chain.

The Grangers came bringing gifts, and food that they had been told specifically not to bring but did anyway, as had happened the last three times the Dursleys hosted the holidays.

It was loud and chaotic and perfect. Harry sat on the overlarge sofa, one hand looped around Hermione's shoulders as he watched the patterns flicker by, hands gesturing, voices laughing, all alive and moving and happy.

"I just don't see it, Vernon, I don't see it! Why can't Dudley go to the college you attended? It was good enough for you!"

Except Aunt Marge. She was not happy. Then again, he had learned she seemed most content when she had something to complain about.

His uncle began speaking, his tone conciliatory. "Because he has a scholarship with the boxing team and..."

Marge cut off her brother with a squeak.

"A scholarship?! Our little Duddykins!"

The older woman pounced upon Dudley's pattern with a swiftness he hadn't known the woman possessed. Dudley's blubbered protests went unheeded as congratulations abounded.

Hermione moved under his arm, wisps of her violet hair tickling his skin.

"Has he decided on a major?"

Her voice was just loud enough to be heard over the many voices.

"Law enforcement. I think his girlfriend's dad talked him into it. The Inspector."

She hummed in acknowledgement.

Nearby, Aunt Marge finally let go of Dudley long enough for the teenager to take a breath. Harry felt the woman focus on him like the touch of a sweaty hand and resisted the urge to fidget. She had made him nervous ever since he could remember.

"What about you, boy? How is your performance in your college classes?"

"Acceptable." Harry muttered, studying the green pattern under his feet.

Over his shoulder, Petunia spoke up, and he couldn't mistake the pride in her voice, nor the strong tone of bragging.

It was the same words she had spoken to Mrs. Jones in her front lawn, Mrs. Lewis in the grocery mart, and Ms. Welling at the Surrey Expo. His aunt did like to brag, to the point of excess.

"We have two very bright boys in this house. No mother could ask for better."

"I absolutely agree, sweet." Vernon's light leaped in some gesture as he spoke.

Harry smiled, surrounded by the scent of food and the evergreen air freshener his aunt preferred.

Dudley laughed. "I bet you didn't think so five years ago!"

As his aunt began to scold her son, Hermione leaned into him, and he felt her lips move into a grin.

"I'll show you this memory, too. Marge looks like she's about to sneak a swig of her liquor flask again."

Harry didn't bother to argue about how much he hated viewing images in the pensieve, conglomerations of unrecognizable patterns and dead colors that still made him nauseous. Hermione insisted on showing him snapshots of all the things she thought he missed, and he saw no point in dissuading her from doing something she found so satisfying.

But he didn't need her memories. He had his own, and could hear the love of his family more easily in the tone of their voices than in the flat colors and lines she showed him.

He held her closer, eyes closed in relaxation, watching as Marge slipped purple metal back into the brown folds of her bulky skirt.

"What about you, dear?"

Hermione paused, hands soapy as she leaned over the sink. Petunia Dursley stood nearby, half of her attention on the baking pie.

"Pardon?"

Petunia turned more to face her, thin face smiling.

"Have you decided on a college yet? Harry is completely mum on the subject. Surely you do plan on more schooling?"

She didn't sound completely certain. Hermione didn't doubt the older woman had some fear that she would get married and skip getting a degree, as Petunia herself had done. The woman had said she regretted nothing, but had also mentioned more than once that she would have liked to experience college life.

"I do. I'm actually considering some form of medical school. Or a year for the prerequisites, at least."

Petunia blinked, surprise bowing her mouth.

"For… your kind? Or, ah…"

Hermione smiled.

"Normal college, for now. I'm also considering taking on a potions apprenticeship part-time, but there are tests to be taken by the Ministry first."

She actually had a very strict timeline for herself. Hermione knew exactly what she wanted to accomplish.

But she doubted Petunia would understand or accept that Hermione planned to learn enough about mundane medicine and wizarding potions to create her own hybrids that could pass muggle scrutiny and revolutionize the world. That was years, even decades away, of course. And she would need Harry's help.

But she knew it would be her own research that would create acceptable cures to mundane diseases that killed millions. And therefore her own responsibility to figure out how to also feed and house a population that no longer died from such illnesses.

It would take a miracle of magic and technology to accomplish both.

She did revel in a good challenge.

"That sounds nice, dear." Harry's aunt nodded firmly. "Very nice. I'm sure your mother is proud."

"I most certainly am!" Jane Granger declared, entering the kitchen. "Now let me do something for you, Petunia, before I go crazy. Vernon is telling his golf jokes again."

Both women groaned in unison, and Hermione grinned down into the sink, pulling a dirty dish free of the soapy water to rinse it clean.

The new year was born quietly in the still darkness, as Harry looked into the crackling red light of the fireplace, Hermione dozing on the couch, the scattered rectangles of green about her all he could see of the notes she had been perusing.

"It's midnight, sir." Kreacher whispered, the old elf's voice rougher with his low tone.

Harry nodded slightly, his right hand raising in the universal gesture of acknowledgement.

On the middle finger, the impossible ring gleamed blackly white, prisms within cones, all its angles defined only by the point he happened to fix on first, changing the second he looked away.

"Thank you." Harry murmured, opening his eyes and rising to gently touch his girlfriend's shoulder. Light shifted, stretched, sighed.

"I don't know what's wrong with me. A minute past eleven and I'm dead to the world."

He smiled, grasping a raised hand to pull her to her feet. "Probably because you are working so hard and waking up at ungodly hours of the day."

She snorted. "Not everyone can sleep in until noon, Lord Potter."

He laughed. "I wake up early for classes."

"Only when it suits you to do so." She quipped, before leaning into an embrace. "Happy New Year, Harry." Blue-violet light rose towards him, and he dipped his chin to accept her brief kiss.

"Good luck, Viola." He whispered, as he had the year before, and the year before that, holding her tight, wishing she didn't have to go, even knowing he would see her the very next day.

Hermione hummed, swaying slightly in his arms, the beginning of a slow dance.

He let her lead him in the steps, colors swirling around them, the red fire in its purple stone mouth, the brown walls and green floor, the yellow spark in a wide doorway. He held light in his arms and held it tightly, feeling an odd tightness in his throat.

A part of his mind categorized all the medical problems that could cause such a symptom, anaphylactic shock, tonsillitis, mononucleosis, long words for many problems, and all of them a distraction from the real reason.

He loved her, in every small moment like this one, more and more each day. He could blame it on dopamine and the brain's reward centers all he liked, it didn't negate the very physical and emotional reactions he had to being with her, and being without her.

Humankind did love to attach itself to one another, for reasons science and magic still couldn't completely explain.

"This is nice." Her words were soft against the fabric of his shirt, and Harry breathed in her scent, fixing the memory in his mind along with all the others he had of her, every nuance of her soul that he had seen, every flicker of her pattern and sound of her voice. He knew her better than he did any other.

"It is." Harry agreed, stilling their dance, lowering his head to hers for another slow, soft brush of lips.

It really, really is.

1998

Harry was not sure what he had been expecting when Head Auror Robard summoned him for his first training session.

He was sure he had expected to be tested, magically, physically. Certain he would be forced to prove some level of spell accuracy and defensive capabilities. He would be expected to work with Hit Wizards, after all. As far as he was aware, the closest muggle alternative to such a force was a rapid response team, and the members of such were always the most trained and efficient at their job.

Instead, Harry found himself sitting on a purple chair in a small conference room down from the main Auror Office, the walls white with enough layered wards to trap a dragon.

Across from him, Robard's salmon pattern flipped through thin rectangles of parchment.

"You should have at least five grade O N.E.W.T's, but you've never taken any Ministry competency tests. You should have an apparition license. You should have graduated from a magical school, in the least. The Ministry has only rumor and suspicion of what you can and can not do, besides what has been observed during the Tournament and several instances after."

Harry wondered if the word instances referred only to the disposal of the inferi, or to the multiple lives he had taken in his own self defense. He waited for the man to get to his point. If any of that had mattered to the Ministry, he wouldn't be where he was.

Robard sighed. "You do not appreciate how respected, admired, and envied the members who make the level of Hit Wizard are. Many aurors at least try to pass the extra tests, for the salary if nothing else. The ones who don't try are the ones who realize that each wizard on the squads has a bed reserved at St. Mungo's for their own use. It is dangerous, often thankless work."

"I'm not going to be a Hit Wizard, and if you are trying to talk me out of working with them, feel free."

At Harry's comment, Robard's light tensed and straightened.

"No, you won't be. You'll be a civilian specialist. But I'll be damned if you get any of my men killed because they risked their neck saving yours."

Harry remembered the chaos of the building in Knockturn Alley vividly, the too-fast flashes of magical color.

"Anything can happen. I could die saving them, as well."

At the thought of his own death, he felt the invisibility cloak rustle around his shoulders where it was tied and inactive. Harry frowned at the sensation, distracted when Robard began to speak.

"Yes. Which is why the purpose of future training will be to prevent dying at all costs. Nearly any magical malady can be reversed, limbs and bone regrown, blood restored. You will be taught how to stay alive when people are trying to kill you, as part of a team."

Harry ran his gaze over the walls, spiderweb-thin strands of wards of every kind and color until they melded together into one pearlescent wave of white.

"Are you going to teach me, or lecture me?"

Robard stood, and with a sharp gesture a door opened, two pillars of light stepping through.

There must be a window, Harry realized, and at the same time knew he was in what amounted to an interrogation room.

Abruptly, the walls began to twist and bend, moving away, their lights glowing bright with magical power.

Built in expansion charms. Not just an interrogation room, then, but a training one as well. The wonders of magic never ceased.

One of the strangers was a compact pattern of deep blue, a hue often called resolution, the other a pale purple shade oflavender. They didn't introduce themselves.

Robard moved away, his voice unmistakably smug.

"Neither, Mr. Potter. Prepare yourself."

The two patterns bent in what might have been a bow, twin wands of brown and red in their right hands.

A duel? He supposed it was a compliment that it was two on one, but he wasn't sure what the man hoped to prove.

There was a long moment of silence. Harry waited for movement, a spell, anything. He expanded his sight around him, closing his eyes for focus, finding it easier to look in every direction when his brain was not telling him he should be seeing only ahead.

Nothing.

Harry frowned.

Robard growled. "Are you even going to stand up, fool? You won't last an hour in the field!"

He resisted the urge to reply that he had lasted at least fifteen minutes the month before, which was something. He also didn't mention that he found standing superfluous. He couldn't dodge well or move fast, and would be relying completely on his magic anyway. Being seated would change very little.

Harry slowly stood, his staff in one hand, debating for a second whether he would be better served to Look and see his surroundings outlined, or retain his color vision to manipulate any spells.

He decided on the latter, just as the blue pattern spoke a casual spell in a feminine voice.

"Expelliarmus."

It was green intent wrapped with the blue of the caster's magic. It moved slower than a bullet, perhaps even slower than a ball kicked across the floor, but fast enough that Harry had little time to think through a course of action, only respond.

He turned it to water. He liked the way water looked, simple blue crystals that fell beautifully to the floor in a small shower of pattering sounds.

There was a moment of silence; either surprise, or simple expectation.

Blue spoke again, this time moving two paces to the right, even as Lavender also cast, moving left, a male voice.

"Expelliarmus." "Impedimenta."

These two were obviously a team.

Harry blinked, and again water fell. There was no pause this time. The two burst into movement, rolling, spinning, their patterns swift and nearly silent, almost like they danced to music he could not hear, spells moving from their wand in elegant spirals, some spoken, some silent, all tinted green with offensive intent.

Harry figured the floor was getting very wet, when Blue paused her attack to vanish traces of blue liquid from the floor. He decided to change his own methods.

The next spell, from Lavender, was made into fire. Ir roared red and bright, blocking his vision for a moment, a mistake that let Blue's next spell get much closer than he would like.

His hand tightened on his staff, and in a moment of annoyance he cast the golden tones of protego maxima.

It rolled out like a wave of its own to form a solid gold dome overhead, even reaching below the floor under his feet. He saw nothing but the golden magic of the shield, now blind to the position of his opponents.

That might have also been a mistake.

Harry sighed, listening, hearing them pace and move, seeing random splashes test the strength of his shield at sharp angles.

Protego could be seen through by normal people. And he doubted they were aware that he, however, could not see through it. Still, they did not give away exactly where they were by the position of their spells. They were clever, trained, and worked as a unit.

And, if they had really been enemies, he would not have wasted any time transfiguring their spells, or casting a protection charm. He would have just stopped their light.

Harry Looked, his magic whipping out from him in a ripple to highlight the physical presences of the room, its four walls, the now distinct outline of a door and window, Robard standing on one side, arms crossed, the witch and wizard who fought him circling like sharks with wands held ready.

Harry dropped the shield, and left himself open for their magic to come for him, locking his gaze on the witch his mind dubbed Blue, her entire form now green with his power, dressed in long flowing robes, her hair tightly braided against her head.

He wasn't an expert by any means on ethnicity, but he figured she might have asian descent. A thought; was the color of a soul influenced by race? It didn't seem to fluctuate based on gender.

The woman stood frozen, wand uplifted, eyes narrowed. Harry knew seconds had passed, and wondered what the two were waiting for. Lavender stood to the side, the man's wand lowered, posture guarded.

Robard's voice seemed to echo in the large room.

"Is this a trap, or merely an intimidation tactic?"

Harry frowned at the question, but did not look away from the two aurors to face their Head.

"What?"

Robard snorted. "Take him down already."

Harry blinked as the witch and wizard gathered themselves, exchanging brief glances.

This feels pointless.

"What do you want from me?" He called out, withdrawing his energy, the world returning to its unique pulsing colors. No answer came, and the next few spells to approach him were turned to mist.

Frustration rose. "Just tell me!" Harry demanded, gesturing sharply as he turned his back on Blue and Lavender, facing the Head Auror. He saw their colors swirling to strike, and did not waste any mental capacity bothering to wonder how it was possible to see behind one's own head. He heard the splash of water as Lavender approached rapidly.

Robard's pattern, gleaming with an orange and red tint, was silent.

A hand of pale purple reached out for his shoulders, wand poised to press into his lower back, the classic restraining move of any auror, where any spell cast would have instant effect.

Harry took the human pattern of the wizard's hands and turned it to stone. The wand clattered to the floor as the man fell, arms suddenly too heavy to lift, curses spilling from his mouth.

He did not scream with pain, however. Stone has no nerve endings after all.

Harry stepped away from the wizard, Blue hurrying over to wash her partner's hands with deep blue light.

"Well?" Harry repeated. "Do you want me to be proven weak? Are you testing my ability to defend myself? Or do you want to find out how far I will go?"

Suspicion lay under the surface. The Ministry would surely love to confirm the rumors from the Prophet.

Robard's voice was soft. "How far you will go, Mr. Potter? Not how far you can?"

Harry tried not to hiss his mounting frustration.

"If I could be easily disabled I would be dead three times over already. That is not what this is about."

"No, I suppose it's not." Robard straightened, walking closer, salmon light flickering with life. "A wizard who could survive attack by several dark wizards has little to prove to me. But your team will not really trust you unless they prove your mettle themselves."

Harry turned from glaring fiercely at the Head Auror's light when Blue spoke, her voice authoritative.

"I am H.W. Aethonan of the Winged Horse. My partner is H.W. Granian of the same."

Robard's light dipped in a nod.

"The auror department divides several of its more… politically delicate Hit Wizard squads into groups, all of which are given a common symbol. Squads who do work that might lead to retaliation, or can better work under anonymity. Winged Horse is usually a quartet, until two of the members were killed in an ambush three months ago. The names are inherited positions, true identities kept under wraps for their, and their families, protection. We are not as good at it as the Unspeakables however. Mistakes happen."

Blue's, Aethonan's, voice was firm.

"We do not take unbreakable vows either, sir. We have free choice to leave."

The wizard made some motion Harry could not follow in response.

"Some question the intelligence of that. I have, on occasion. But I do not force my workers into lifetime servitude. There are some oaths of loyalty, of course, for Hit Wizards. I would require them of every auror as well if the Wizengamot had not ruled centuries ago that they were undignified." The disgust in the man's voice was palpable. "No doubt to keep their ears and eyes in my department."

Harry shifted his weight, looking between the two, making his own conclusions.

"You want me to join Winged Horse."

The witch scoffed. Robard made a negative movement.

"No. Two replacement members have already been chosen and are completing their training now. If they agree, you will work with them all, here, until you understand their style of action. When your presence is required, they will enter any situation with you."

Aethonan answered the implied question.

"I'm convinced he won't get us killed. We will work with him." She paused, continued. "But I need you to be honest with us, Mr. Potter, regarding your capabilities. We need to know your weaknesses and your strengths, or else we, or you, might make an avoidable mistake."

Harry did not speak right away, and the witch continued.

"We need to know the extent of any visual impairment you have, and how quickly you tire from magical exhaustion. We need to know if your transfiguration abilities are the only way you can defend yourself, or if you have knowledge of advanced defensive and offensive spells. It would also be nice if you could fix Granian's arms."

Harry twisted the pattern back to human with a glance, watching the lines and angles reform in a single blink. The wizard sighed, moving to his feet.

"Thanks." His voice only held relief, no undertone of authority or anger like the woman's. If anything, the man sounded tired.

"Trust is imperative." Aethonan repeated.

Harry didn't doubt it was. Unfortunately, he did not trust the Ministry or anyone who worked for it.

But he did have to work with them, and some token of trust would have to be given.

"Prolonged use of fiendfyre can be tiring." Harry spoke slowly. "As are large transfigurations, ones more than five by five meters, especially if I give them any semblance of life."

"Like the dragon." Aethonan stated. "I saw it from what remained of the stands."

Harry nodded, debating what else to share. "I know many spells. I have listened to many books on spell theory and development in my own studies. I am confident I can replicate most if needed, and recognize many by… sight." He hesitated to use the word.

The witch caught the pause. "How well do you see?"

"Well enough." Harry returned, and ignored her slight sound of annoyance. "I won't hurt one of you by mistake."

"So noted." Granian muttered.

Robard spoke into the silence that fell. "It is settled then. You will be given a portkey to attend regular training sessions until Aethonan and myself are confident in your abilities."

Harry wondered just how often regular was. "You said no one would know my identity. How do you plan on hiding it?"

Granian moved closer. "A standard uniform. It is not unusual for Hit Wizards to chose to wear armor over their faces, and one would cover those scars of yours nicely. Dragonhide or, better, Graphorn skin to cover any areas prone to be targets, which can also change your body's general shape. We will give you a name. Nothing fancy. That staff will have to go, it's too noticeable. How necessary is it?"

Unbidden, his hand tightened around the wood. Harry had not had it out of his presence for years.

But the man was right.

"I can use another staff." He reluctantly spoke, and lavender light jerked in a decisive nod.

"Get one made."

Harry looked between the three pillars of light, each distinct and unique, and felt abruptly out of his depth.

Just what in Merlin's name had he gotten himself into.

It seemed regular meant daily.

Harry was more aggravated to be missing valuable research time than having to use a portkey, but he could acknowledge that he was at least learning something.

The worst part, however, was that he hadn't been able to see Hermione. They both attended classes in the morning; and hers went on into the afternoon, when Harry was already gone for the Auror Department.

He knew the training was only to last until he was deemed appropriately ready; but it was hard to remember that when he found himself sitting in yet another chair in another interrogation room, being drilled for hours on spell combinations, typical containment techniques, and the long lists of regulations and laws.

He was lucky his memory was perfect. He listened every night to the multiple books he had been given on the policies of the Auror Department and the Hit Wizard division, laying under his cloak to stare into nothing as a generic voice read lists of rights and penalties for violating them.

The first week passed in a routine of paperwork, questions, and study.

That Saturday morning he escaped to the Grangers to bask in blue-violet light for the first time in days, much to Hermione's amusement. She chided him as he lay across her bed, staring over at her.

"I'm fine. I do have my own work too, you know. I think I'm close to something."

It annoyed him that he did not even know what her current research problem was. In previous years they had done everything together.

But she hadn't wanted to share, and Harry, remembering his own experiments into souls and how he had longed to keep them secret, did not push. She would have a good reason for keeping whatever it was to herself; and he trusted she would come to him if she needed his input.

Then he had the entire day of Sunday to himself at Grimmauld place, Hermione off with her mother and aunt to attend the pre-wedding festivities of a cousin.

He spent that time locked in his laboratory, pacing, stewing on the odd event of death.

Death was what truly released a soul. Harry could change one, could kill one. But he relied entirely on sight. He could not transfigure something he could not see.

Death. Souls went somewhere after death. They faded but did not disintegrate. He knew in his gut that they traveled, somehow, out of the physical realm.

Dementors could destroy souls. They sucked them free and dismantled them, using the essence of consciousness to form their own bodies to go on stealing more, leaving trails of empty husks to slowly die and decay.

It was too bad that the foul creatures would take his own soul along with whatever remained of Voldemort.

He liked problems. Better, he liked solving them. Having no good hypothesis on removing what was inside him nagged under his skin like a disease. Having no concrete avenue of research to follow, no theory to pursue.

Perhaps it was good that he had the Ministry training to keep him busy.

He needed to move on. Perhaps he should delve into research dealing with restoring optical function, or begin developing his plans to form a private company to begin funding medical research, one that would eventually host Hermione's own endeavors. It would have to be legitimate.

Better yet, perhaps buy one already established in the muggle world.

Harry sat, staring blankly at the rows of metal tables, their surfaces clear of debris. If he knew Hermione, the medical field would only be the start. She had a fire burning in her to fix the world's problems. He loved her for it.

Harry only wanted to discover what made things work the way they did, and if she wanted to use that knowledge to help both worlds, it was fine by him.

He leaned back, observing the wooden crates of notebooks and glass containers, potion ingredients both magical and mundane, all stored neatly under his tables and waiting for use, and suddenly thought of his old advisor from the London school.

"What do you want to do, Harry? With your life?"

He had money, enough he never had to work. He had abilities that could save many people, if they would believe him when he diagnosed problems, if he could make a few million copies of himself. He could heal people, he could bring the recently deceased back to life.

He could kill people who needed killing. He could potentially kill hundreds at a time.

He could break wards and repair them. He could transfigure any pattern to any other pattern save the Impossible one. The Ministry had plans for him, to do that and who knew what else.

But the only thing he enjoyed doing was experimenting and inventing. Just because he could do something, did that mean he had to?

Harry sighed, the world seemed too bright, too close all of a sudden. There was no escape from the constant moving light except in sleep, and under the Cloak. More and more he relied on the silken cloth to hide from his own reality. He was certain his psychology books would love the analogy, a man with too much power hiding under a sheet to avoid responsibility.

But he pulled the Cloak off his shoulders anyway and draped the black light over his face, falling into its pattern with relief.

Here, something he could not change. Another challenge, like the horcrux, that had no easy answer.

But.

Who made the Cloak? Who made the Stone?

New purpose welled inside him. If he could not solve the horcrux dilemma right away, perhaps he could research more into the history of the items he now had. Surely they were special, for he had seen nothing like them anywhere. There might be rumors or information about such artifacts in the circles that dealt in such things.

Harry abruptly pulled the cloak free and stood, sudden purpose filling him.

He might just go into Diagon Alley today.

Hermione stomped one foot on the dirty stone.

"I'm going down there."

Fergus Fallon, the second ex-Auror whom Harry had hired as personal security, glared back at her. The Irish wizard was just old enough to be her grandfather, and treated her much the same. The fact that the man had often mentioned the exploits of his five children and seven rowdy grandchildren probably gave him the right to, most of the time.

But not now. Fallon had agreed to help her in her search for the Mirror of Erised, and even agreed to keep their search secret from Harry. She wanted it to be a surprise.

"No." His voice was firm, and betrayed barely a hint of his heritage. Blue eyes didn't falter at her mutinous expression. "Knockturn Alley is no place for you."

Hermione lifted her chin.

"We've already been to every store in Diagon that sells artifacts of that caliber. They all mostly know of it, but not who has it. It's not a particularly useful thing, just odd, so no one seems to care where it is, either. My only conclusion is that it's either sitting dusty in someone's manor or vault, or that it's been sold illegally. The only way to discover that is down there."

She pointed down the dark entrance to Knockturn, ignoring the eyes watching them from both Alleys.

She hadn't liked the fact that she was treated nearly as much like a celebrity as Harry was, simply because the two of them were often seen together. While Witch Weekly hadn't yet labeled them a couple, it was well-known that she was his best friend. As such, she wasn't as invisible as she liked to be, and no doubt some gossiping witch was currently reporting her whereabouts to the Harry Potter watchline that the popular wizarding rag had running.

Good thing Harry couldn't read.

Fallon folded his arms. He didn't look his age; but then again, wizards typically lived twice as long as their mundane counterparts. His hair was as black as Harry's, and nearly as wild, white only just beginning to creep into the long strands.

"Listen here, missy. It's my job to keep you out of trouble, and that's what I'm doing."

"Ha!" Hermione exclaimed. "It most certainly is not! It's your job to keep some criminal from trying to kidnap me to get at Harry!"

He threw his hands up in the air.

"Exactly what I'm doing!"

"It is not!"

"Hermione?"

For a moment, the sound of her name didn't register. Only the very, very recognizable voice.

She turned, dread beginning to roll in her stomach, to see Harry.

What was Harry doing in Diagon Alley?

He stood, dressed in simple black trousers and a green button-down shirt his aunt had given him for christmas the month before, though she doubted he was even aware of that fact. The silvery fabric of the inactive invisibility cloak lay draped back from his shoulders like a fancy cloak, no doubt making him stand out even more from all the others in the Alley with their dark robes.

Vaughn stood just behind him, eyes narrowed at Fallon.

"Good." The older wizard said firmly. "You can talk some sense into her. I am done."

Hermione fumed at Fallon's quick betrayal.

"Traitor." She hissed, shifting uncomfortably as she looked at Harry's face, trying to read his expression.

His eyes weren't looking at her. They seemed to be peering into the Alley beyond her. He was frowning, mouth strained.

"I thought you were with your mum." His voice was not accusing, and that somehow made her feel worse.

"The shower was just this morning." She mumbled, stepping closer to him.

"Oh." He said simply. "I didn't know that."

He didn't know because she hadn't told him, that was obvious.

As the silence grew, Vaughn coughed slightly.

"How about I, ah… just wait over there." The man gestured behind him, and Fallon followed his partner, casting her a slightly sympathetic look.

But only slightly. He was still annoyed.

Hermione rolled her eyes, then shook her head and closed the distance between them, giving her friend a quick kiss, one hand reaching to twine with his own.

"This is supposed to be secret." She stated, and saw his lips twist in a smile.

"I concluded that."

Hermione bit her lip.

"I would kind of still like it to be a secret."

Harry raised a brow. "Kind of?"

"Yes. I would."

"Alright." He said, and she couldn't miss the sound of his amusement.

She narrowed her eyes in suspicion.

"Just like that?"

He shrugged, causing the cloak at his shoulders to gleam in the rare late afternoon sun that had struck the Alley.

"Can you tell me why you need to go into Knockturn? I'm assuming that's why Fallon was agitated."

She sniffed.

"I need to speak to some of the proprietors. About something."

"Can it be done by owl?"

Hermione frowned. Then she sighed.

"I guess so. I think I would get more information in person, though. I've been told money talks better down there than words."

"That, and intimidation." Harry said simply. "Use my name in your correspondence. I doubt there is a wizard or witch in Britain who wouldn't know it by this point, as well as the fact that the Potter family is loaded."

"Oh." Hermione brightened immediately. "Yes, that's perfect."

Harry lifted lips in a smile, one hand coming up to carefully brush her cheek, his eyes brightening with energy as he Looked at her. She shivered with the touch of his magic against her, before leaning into a proper kiss.

She saw the flash of a camera, and knew that Witch Weekly would be updating the relationship status of its most sought-after bachelor sooner than they realized.

Harry either didn't notice the attention, or wasn't concerned, as he pulled away, gesturing slightly towards Vaughn and Fallon.

"I can see you tonight after all, then? A late dinner?"

Hermione nodded quickly, then frowned as he began to move away, as if he was actually going to leave her there in Diagon with Fallon.

"Wait! Why are you here?"

His head did not turn back to her, but she felt his gaze like a caress nonetheless. His voice echoed back over his shoulder, amused.

"It's a secret."

She sucked in a breath; then released it with reluctant laughter, watching him wander off down the Alley, Vaughn at his side, the guards posture alert.

"I deserved that." She said, smiling, and Fallon grunted agreement.

"A cloak, you say?" The proprietor of the third magical artifact shop Harry had stopped in spoke softly to himself, frowning into the distance.

The man was blind. Harry knew this not because he could see it, but because the man's great grandson had whispered it to him when bringing him into the back office.

"If anyone knows if something exists, it's great-grandda. He might be blind now, but he has the memory of a kneazle!"

The younger man had assumed Harry was looking for a indestructable invisibility cloak, not in possession of one, just as the last two owners had assumed.

Invisibility cloaks, it seemed, were notoriously short lived, and very fragile. No one who knew anything at all would believe different. But it was easier to speak of looking for the origin of an impossible invisibility cloak than looking for a black octahedron stone set in a ring that may or may not do anything at all.

"Yes. An invisibility cloak, but one that is indestructible."

The older wizard's pattern showed its age; the light was slower, moving to a different beat. But its color, a vibrant yellow hue nearly as golden as a defensive ward, was as beautiful as that of a newborn child's, pure and strong.

"I see. Are you a glory-seeker, then?"

His voice was hoarse, reedy thin, tired.

Harry frowned.

"I'm sorry?"

Yellow light moved in the air, making a gesture he could not follow.

"It's only a legend, boy." There was kindness in his tone. "You will never find the Cloak of Invisibility. Many have searched, none have found it. There is more truth to the stories of its more powerful brother, the Death Stick, and even it has been lost for decades. And, if I knew where the Cloak was I would never tell you, but keep it for myself and my own children. Alas, it is lost, if it ever was. A simple story for little children."

Harry leaned forward, taking in the words, filing them carefully away. Death.

"Brother?"

The wizard laughed, coughed, sighed, the sounds each following one another like the inevitable flow of a conversation without words, one both familiar and tolerated.

"Don't tell me you haven't heard the story? What has the world come to, that mothers no longer tell their children of the Deathly Hallows? I grew up pretending to be Ignotus, hiding under my father's ragged brown robe and pretending Death was my friend."

Deathly. Death.

Excitement drummed in his veins.

"Tell me the story, then."

"Why would you come to me asking for the Cloak, if you do not know the story?"

It was a very, very good question. Harry wasn't sure how to answer at first.

The wizard's light pulsed it's slow beat in the silence that passed, as Harry tried to work the logic through his mind.

"I am very old, you know." The old man mused. "I dare say Death is my friend, now. It's given me nearly two centuries to watch my family grow. I've told the story to my great-great-grandchildren when they sat on my knees, and my youngest asked me which Hallow I thought the most important. My older brothers, they wanted the Wand, of course. Every witch and wizard wants it, because it makes them powerful. But everyone knows that those who possess it find Death far sooner than they would like."

He coughed again, and Harry saw his light flicker ominously. "No, I wanted the Cloak. I searched for it everywhere. I delved every nook and cranny I could of Godric's Hallow. I spent money traveling the country, tracking the bloodline of the Peverells. I met my wife in Scotland on such a trip, she could trace her family line right back to his second daughter. But they too just thought it a legend. I would give my life to touch it just once."

He sighed, and in the sound Harry heard a lifetime of dreams. "I was not the first to look, nor the last. The Dark Lord Grindelwald himself wore the symbol of the Hallows on his breast. It was rumored for some time he had possession of the Wand, until he was defeated by Albus Dumbledore. It must have been false, for the owner of the Wand can not be defeated in battle, only by trickery."

The man's thoughts were circular, winding, telling his own story as he told the bones of another.

"Few care about the Cloak, but I did. The power to defeat any foe, that is something. The power to bring back the dead, even that horrible thought is valuable to some. But a mere invisibility cloak? Even one that is indestructible? Not worth the bother."

Power to bring back the dead.

Harry's breath hitched, and the wizard heard it.

"Why do you search for the Cloak?"

Harry watched the beat of the old man's heart, and began to draw the Cloak from his shoulders, its soft surface sliding through his fingers.

"I don't."

The wizard sighed, long and heavy, yellow hands reaching out as if the man could see what Harry held.

Maybe he could. Maybe a person knew when something they had searched for an entire lifetime was nearby.

Hallow. Holy, sacred, revered. It seemed an apt description of the white shadows and black stars that made up the elegant pattern of cones and prisms, angles made of darkness and light.

Hallow fit better even than impossible, better than indestructible.

Harry laid the Cloak gently in the man's arms, and repeated his previous request.

"Please tell me the story."

The wizard laughed, pure joy in his voice, frail beams of yellow tracing along the folds of silk in his hands.

"I'll tell it as my mother did, then." His voice was triumphant, lacking it's previous weakness. "I'll give you her warning, too."

Harry smiled, feeling the rapid excitement of discovery at his fingertips, the answer to a question, the testing of a theory.

"My son." The old man began, warmth and warning and acceptance. "Death is jealous and cunning, and comes for all men. Make no mistake..."

A dramatic pause, and Harry could imagine a mother holding a squirming son on her knee, eyes loving, tone chiding, gathering his attention with the silence of an indrawn breath and pure expectation.

"If you try to trick Death, it will only come for you sooner and in more vicious ways…"

~*~ To Be Continued in: White Shadows Among Dark Stars ~*~

Merry Christmas everyone! Hope you all enjoyed this present. :)