Huh? Buh? GUH!? What happened?? Why are there cobwebs all over my keyboard? Sorry I took so long. I'll do better next time, everybody!

Chapter 21: Absolute Power

The next few days drifted by, with great spurts of time disappearing, only to melt into interminable classes. Hours became decades, and then sped up until they were only seconds. And these seconds usually came when Harry was in the Room of Requirement with his friends and his teachers; and soon even these two became intermingled. Donovan Quinn was more of a leader than Harry thought he could ever be; a true leader, willing to sacrifice all for his troops. And his troops were willing to follow him to the grave (or rather, to the sunlight). He was tireless in giving advice, making helpful suggestions, and above all, instilling confidence.

Raven Lafitte proved herself wise beyond the youth she resembled, both in tactics and in history (albeit, Hermione was quick to point out, a little America-centric). In one of the many discussions that the group began to have after their practices ­­­­­­­– sitting around the Room of Requirement, drinking celebratory Butterbeer – Harry discovered that Raven's mother, after the Alaskan Apparation debacle, had ended up in Louisiana and liked it so much she decided to stay there. She took the name Marie Laveau, and set up shop as a witch doctor, helping those who came to her when all other doors were closed. One of the men who came seeking her assistance was a young seafarer from New Orleans by the name of Jean Lafitte. He was a handsome man, and the two fell quickly in love (some say with a little 'encouragement' from Marie's supply of love tonics). But soon the young man had become a dashing Captain, and a pirate, one of the greatest to walk the dark streets of the French Quarter. And the Captain had a daughter; a girl he loved fiercely, teaching her all he knew of swords, while his wife trained the daughter in the ways of her homeland; of sorcery and of the spirits of the great Northern lands. Soon Crow and Eagle were her friend, and the invading British in 1812 became her greatest foe. "Of course," Raven enjoyed telling and retelling the group, "it was some little French chap who turned me into the lovely little vampire I am today."

Even Mosquito had redeeming qualities after a week of training. Yes, he was still a complete braggart, and a bit of a dandy, but Harry realized that all of his threats against Quinn were just empty talk, a cover. In truth, Harry would have to say that he was the most dedicated of The Revenge. He took Draco in hand, feigning disgust all the way, but Harry got the feeling that De La Vega was enjoying himself immensely. Malfoy would complain, or insult him, allowing de La Vega to go into a long-winded and piteous tirade about the quality of today's students, their lack of respect for their elders, their ignorance of history, and for the duty they no longer showed to those of noble birth. "The day of the gentleman has passed!" he would moan frequently, whenever Malfoy gave him a retort that was particularly barbed. It became a metronome with which they could follow the course of the knife training going on. Attack, attack, frustrated comment, witty jibe, "The day of the gentleman has passed!" The two were a double act, and their timing was flawless.

And as the Revenge got to know the DA, the DA soon became better acquainted with their own abilities as never before. The Revenge could be friendly, even jovial, but were quick to show their anger if one of their charges were giving any less than their all during training. Ron discovered this during their second lesson.

"Stop!" cried Quinn, who had been showing Ron the proper defense for an upward thrust with his staff. "What are your feet doing right now?!"

"Standing on the ground!" said Ron, sweat pouring from his face. But his reddening ears gave him away. Ron had suddenly remembered that he had been given "homework" last class; he needed to practice his footwork, so they could move on to more important things the next class. Unfortunately, he filed this homework along with all other homework he was given in school, under "Later." Most of the time "Later" became "Straight to the Dustbin."

"That's funny, Ron. It'll be even more funny when a Death Eater trips you up and kills you without even losing his breath!" Quinn swept around, his long coat disorientating Ron, and tripped him again with his long staff. Ron flinched as his head cracked against the ground, and Quinn stood over him.

"Another stupid wizard," he said. "You think you've got magic, so you're bloody untouchable. But magic isn't the only way people fight in the world. Muggles, Muggles like I used to be, live and die every day without magic. They kill each other just as easily with their bare damn hands as with a wand. And a wizard with both a wand and a deadly weapon in his hand has become more than dangerous. He has become an act of God, a thunderbolt from the sky, and the enemy had better watch out. So, when I tell you to practice your footwork, I expect you to do it. Otherwise, I might as well be teaching martial arts to Benny Hill!"

Ron got to his feet, a little wobblier than he was moments before. As Quinn walked away, preparing the training ground again, he pulled Harry close.

"Who the hell is Benny Hill?"

But even more than that, Harry was surprised to see how much his friends had changed, even in the course of a few days. Neville especially had become a shining beacon of what could be achieved through concentration and determination. Whenever he came upon a problem these days, Neville would attack it with a single-minded ferocity; soon, he was becoming quite deadly with his weapon of choice. But still, Harry worried. There were days when the determination in his friend's eye took on a manic glint. There were nights when Harry could almost hear his feet above him in the tower, going through the stances that Donovan had taught him, practicing well into the morning. There were times when Harry's newfound power gave him a glint into Neville's mind; no longer than it would take to remove a speck of sand from his eye, but long enough to see an imagination run amok. Inside his head, Neville was a warrior – a king of men – a throwback to the old days of man, when an enemy was to be destroyed utterly and taught to fear you. He saw Neville, sitting on a throne, and Voldemort's head on a pike on front of him.

Neville stopped swinging his mace, turned to face Harry, and smiled.

The belt full of potions seemed to fit Luna's talents better than Harry could ever have expected. He realized now how much he had always underestimated the girl's power. She had been his friend, yes; quietly and in her own way, one of the most devoted allies he had ever been fortunate enough to meet. But she had other qualities, qualities that could easily be overlooked due to her bizarre personality. For a mind to be that fanciful, it also had to be inventive. And, he thought upon reflection, the Sorting Hat knew what it was doing when she was put into Ravenclaw, because Luna became cleverer every passing day. Raven had quite a bit of experience with potions, thanks in no small part to her mother's tutelage. But Luna would take potions and combine them in ways that were ingenious, and incredibly powerful. Living fire mixed with fluid ice; a vial of potion that could allow the drinker into the dreams of a sleeping friend, and a dangerous concoction that first covered an enemy in water, then shot them through with electricity.

"Shocking, isn't it?" said Quinn, in his best deadpan voice. "Full marks for you, Ms. Lovegood. I always knew you would do great things."

"Why?" said Luna.

"It's in the hair," replied Quinn, twisting one of his own blonde locks lazily with a finger.

Of course, Hermione had surprised Harry most of all. If there was one thing he would never get used to, it was how much there still was to learn about her. And each time he thought that he had discovered all there was to know about some aspect of her life, another piece of the puzzle, a piece he never knew even existed, fell into place. She could be dedicated but caring, disdainful of foolishness during times of work, but able to captivate the entire assembled crowd with a story. And, Harry discovered, she could be deadly, both in word and in deed. Once, only once, did Mosquito make a disparaging remark about Hermione's aim with her miniature crossbow. She had been distracted by a sudden explosion from Luna's potion-making table, and her arrow flew into the training dummy's shoulder. De La Vega gave a disdainful snort.

"Perchance the girl needs a less dangerous weapon, Raven," he called from across the room. "I could supply her with a shield if the girl so requires…" His words were cut short by the quick, successive thuds of three arrows finding their mark on the dummy: One between the eyes, one through the heart, and one through the crotch. Hermione cocked back her crossbow once more and fired a final bolt across the room, where it landed in the wall next to Mosquito's ear.

"The day of the gentle woman has passed as well, Mosquito," said Hermione.

With all of the change happening around him, Harry found his thoughts traveling inward, as they so often did. Whenever anything or anyone around him changed, for better or for worse, Harry inevitably began to compare himself to them. And now, looking at his friends becoming warriors, seeing Hermione grow stronger, more sure of herself, he began to wonder about his own talents and abilities. The practice sessions would last long into the night, but still Harry felt a twinge of fear that he was being left far behind. During one particular moment of concern, Harry felt a shiver run up his spine, and saw that Hermione had turned to face him. She wore an expression of concern, mingled with disbelief. Hermione walked over to Quinn, who eyed Harry with the same disbelief.

"Alright, Scoobies!" Quinn called, waving the group toward him, "That'll be it for tonight. Good work, all of you. Now get some rest! Tomorrow, you've got to start training the rest of the DA."

The group groaned together as one (except for Luna, who looked ready to cheer) and began to pack up their belongings.

"Harry, you stay a second. Help an old man close down for the night."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Old man?"

"I'm older than I look!"

Harry heard the door slam behind them, and knew from the silence that they were alone in the Room of Requirement.

"Take a seat, Harry."

Harry sat.

"Hermione caught a mental whiff from you during the end of practice there. Some rubbish about you not feeling up to the task?"

Harry bristled at being tattled on. "Then maybe Hermione should have talked to me herself."

"Reckon she would have," said Quinn. "Matter of fact, reckon she has. Matter of absolute fact, I bet she needed a break from smacking the back of your head whenever you get the heebie-jeebies that you're not measuring up. Her hand's bloody raw, mate." Quinn sighed, looking frustrated.

"Never met the like of you, son. You crawl into this world, and within a year, you've taken down a Dark Lord. You've done it more times now than I can count on one hand, plus you're the head of a clandestine group of warrior students, PLUS you've got some kind of mystical mumbo-jumbo connection with Hermione that makes you more dangerous than a dose of the plague. And still you can't go a night without being wracked by self-doubt. Pardon me for saying, but isn't it possible you might just need some cookies and a bedtime story?"

"Some…what?" This wasn't where Harry thought the conversation was headed.

"You know," continued Quinn, "Need to get into your jammies, get tucked in all nice and cozy? I can get someone to fetch you a warm milk!" Harry wasn't finding this all as amusing as Quinn was.

"Look, I don't know what you're trying to do here, but…"

"You're acting like a bloody baby here, Harry! You've been handed the greatest power ever handed to a human being, and you're still simpering back and forth about whether or not you're a good leader? If that's true, then you might as well go right off to bed, because you are five bloody years old!"

"Just because I have this new…ability doesn't mean I'm a good leader!" said Harry, his temper flaring. The candles flickered in their holders.

"Nope, sure doesn't! What does that is your experience, your courage, your heart, and your willingness to sack up when the going gets tough!"

"Sack up?" said Harry.

"Yup. You could be an amazing leader, one of the greats. You just need to get out of your head, and do it."

"But…what if I can't?" said Harry. "What if we all come in here tomorrow, and no one listens, even if I'm shouting at the top of my voice?"

"A real leader doesn't have to shout, Harry. A leader whispers, and the world stops to listen. A real leader will start, and his friends will follow. Now I know you've done this before. You just need to do it now. You're their leader, whether you think you can or not, you are. So, tomorrow, you'd better make sure you're acting like one." Quinn picked up the Gryffindor sword and tossed it to Harry.

"Lesson's over, now bugger off."

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Just concentrate.

Harry breathed in deeply, letting the rest of the world disappear around him. One of the many books on the Common Room's shelf had taught relaxation methods, ways to clear the mind. The methods always reminded him of the steaming days spent in Professor Trelawney's fire-lit tower, trying to clear his mind before discerning the shrunken and shriveled messages of tea-leaves. His mind did just as good a job applying the ideas in the Common Room.

You're not concentrating.

Harry rolled his eyes so Hermione could see him do it. She had her hand in his, straining to keep their link, mustering all her mental might (which, Harry conceded, was quite substantial) to keep Harry on task. Harry appreciated this, but sometimes he couldn't help it. Hermione's mind had doors; doors that could be shut tight, compartmentalized. Harry's mind was more like a gladiatorial arena, where ideas battled each other for supremacy, and occasionally one victorious conclusion slaughtered all the competition.

Harry, you're dropping him!

His head jerked up in time to see the mound of fur that was Crookshanks topple to the ground with an unceremonious THUMP. He felt Hermione's hand jerk out of his.

Well, he said, Thank goodness they land on their feet.

Crookshanks decided that this would be the opportune moment to leave Harry and Hermione to their own devices, hissing his displeasure at Harry on the way out the door. Harry hoped that Hermione's temper was not as…feline.

"Sorry about your cat," he said, preempting any scolding that may have been on its way. "I can only stay focused for so long before I lose control. Of course, that's the way it'll be out there, too. There are too many Death Eaters, and they won't all wait their turn for me to use these powers against them."

Hermione came behind him, laid her head on his shoulder, and wrapped her arms around his waist. Her touch calmed him, as it always did.

"Maybe there's a book to help you; one we haven't found yet…"

"I'm not sure there's a book in existence that you haven't found yet," said Harry, holding his hands against hers. The lights glowed stronger. "And besides, a book can't tell me how to control my powers, or how to be a good leader, or how to keep everyone safe." He squeezed her hands, and felt a tingle, a rush of happiness. The fire in the Common Room burst merrily into flame.

"Hold that feeling," said Hermione. "Concentrate. Concentrate on the fire." She was whispering in his ear, softly, calmly, reassuring him. Harry nodded, and concentrated on keeping the fire lit. His magic had done it, he controlled the magic, therefore the fire would be alive as long as he wished. He pushed the thought in his mind, thinking of nothing but the fire. Harry felt his hands trembling as his fervent concentration fought to keep the fire alive.

"I can keep the fire going," said Harry. "I'm in control…" He gritted his teeth, straining to fight and keep the magic flowing. He didn't know what this power was; he just knew that it was an asset, and he had to keep it, and control it, and make sure that no one else but he was hurt by it.

"Don't worry about the rest of us," whispered Hermione. She had removed her hands from his, and was gently stringing her fingers up and down his arms. Shock of electric blue lights trailed down from his shoulders to his hands. Harry felt her power join his. "Don't worry about us; don't worry about anything. Don't fight the magic. The magic doesn't want you to control it. It wants to help you. Let it help you, Harry. Let us help you."

Harry released the tension in his hands, and felt the power surge through his body. Hermione gasped as she felt the power increase as well. She felt him let go. Harry let the fire drift lazily through his thoughts, while paying more attention to Hermione. With the light graze of her fingertips, he felt the power surge again. Hermione moaned softly.

"Does it hurt you?" he asked quietly.

"No…" said Hermione breathlessly. "Oh, God no. It's…it's amazing."

The fire dropped from his mind. All he knew was that he was somehow making Hermione feel happiness, joy…pleasure… through this magic. He concentrated on her fingers. He felt them through his shirt sleeves, jolting him with bolts of pleasure. He focused on the way they made him feel, as they traveled down his hands, then rebounded up his arms, into his chest, and up and down his body until his brain was infused with the magical fire. Harry spun on the spot, grabbing Hermione, pulling her body tight against him, letting the waves of pleasure rebound between the two of them. His mind was panicking. Random flashes of passion blinked in front of him, like someone had made a movie of the romantic possibilities between he and Hermione, then set them in front of a strobe light. Mentally, inside his head, he felt her touch, her skin. He kissed the moisture off her lips, saw her gasping for breath as waves of pleasure rocked them both until they were trembling from the release. He tasted the sweat on her body, and grasped at the sweat-drenched curls of her hair as he felt Hermione's nails digging into his back, and smelled her sweet scent, felt her hot breath on his ear as she whispered his name, then moaned it, then screamed it. The power…the passion. He felt it envelop them both.

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The fire was burning brightly when Hermione came back to herself. Harry had backed them to the wall, and they were slumped against the door to her room, fully clothed and soaked in sweat. Harry's glasses were askew, his hair even more wildly unkempt than usual. The magic that they shared had caused the room to go ballistic, though. There were books littering the floor; all the furniture was still spinning lazily in the air, turning in happy pirouettes. Crookshanks floated near the chandelier, unhappy but seemingly resigned to his fate as the world's first airborne feline. Harry stirred against her shoulder, groaning slightly as he shook his hair away from his bleary eyes.

"I should train with you more often," said Hermione. Harry started, doing a quick check of all his clothes, to make sure they were where they were supposed to be. Apparently, thought Hermione, he was not so quick to catch on to the difference between what had just happened in the room and in their minds. After a moment, the waking panic drifted from Harry's eyes.

"Hermione…did we…I mean." He paused, trying to come up with the proper terminology. "You know," he continued, apparently giving up on trying to name what just happened, "Did we just…have sex!?" His last two words were whispered, with eyebrows raised so high as to cause them to disappear into his hairline. Hermione waggled her fingers near the sides of her face, and put on a decidedly Professor Trelawney-ish voice.

"Miiiiiind Seeeeex, Mr. Potter, Mind Sex. A most uncommon side-effect of combining incredible god-like powers, stress, and two people in need of a good long snog."

"I did rather need a snog. I just had trouble figuring out where the snogging stopped and the…" Harry imitated Hermione's finger-waggle, "You know, where that began."

"Don't worry. You didn't do anything to sully my virtue." Harry looked relieved. She felt his arms curl around her shoulders as Crookshanks did another victory lap around the room...two feet above the floor.

"And was I your first?" Harry asked tentatively. Hermione had the feeling he didn't want to know the answer, a thought validated by the flashes of Viktor Krum appearing in his subconscious.

"Judging by the fact that this situation is virtually unheard of, I'd say the chances are good that you were my first mind-shag."

"No, I mean-"

"I know what you meant," laughed Hermione. "And yes," she whispered with her mouth tickling the corner of his ear, "You were my first."

Harry closed his eyes lazily. "You were my first too."

"You're kidding. Never expected that…"

"Shut up, you're ruining the moment."

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The euphoria of that night lasted all the way into the Room of Requirement the next night. Harry had expected that things couldn't possibly go wrong, not after all the speeches, not after last night, not with Ron, Hermione, and even Draco there with him, to help him.

But as he so often found, the best laid plans of men and wizards so often go astray. And as things so often did, things went astray due to Zacharias Smith. Harry had hoped that tonight would be a proper send-off to all his students before the Christmas Vacation (even though most would be staying in the safety of the castle, Hermione felt that it was important to give their charges some time off) and Harry had prepared appropriately. Each student had been given a small gift, a token of regard from their teachers in the DA, thoughtfully donated by Fred and George; but to get their gifts, everyone had to earn them. Harry and the rest of the DA had been pleased with the results: all of their students had performed admirably, and were now enjoying the fruits of their labors. Seamus was playing a low tune on an ocarina that was changing his hair color depending on the speed of the song. Right now it was electric blue and pulsing. Even Blaise Zabini had gotten a small rubber ball that seemed to be drawn magnetically to his hand, even if he were to toss it across the room. Which was just what he did. One particularly forceful throw had taken the ball on a few loops of the room, and right onto the waiting skull of Zacharias, who was looking sulky. Harry had been telling him to practice for ages, but nothing seemed to penetrate. Smith would just say over and over that he had tried to learn, but every time he said this, Harry caught mental glimpses of him lying on his bed, reading dirty magazines. Harry was becoming frustrated when, after Zacharias's third unsuccessful attempt to disarm him, he heard Hermione's voice in his head.

Stay calm, we're all here.

Harry turned to look at her, and in that brief moment of distraction, he heard the ball make contact with the back of Smith's head.

"WHOSE BALL!?" he heard him shout. "WHO HIT ME!?"

The DA went quiet; there was no need to answer. The ball traveled back to Zabini's hand.

"Oh, sorry!" Blaise said, stifling a laugh. "Didn't mean to. Guess the little guy has stamina." Zacharias was finding the whole situation less funny.

"Hand… the ball…over."

Blaise's smile vanished. A few third years took a hesitant step back.

"Look, I said I was sorry. Now you'd best get your nose out of my face before I lose my Christmas cheer." Harry was quietly walking towards the fracas; he could still hear Hermione in his mind. Stay…calm. You're the leader.

"Hand it over!' said Smith, sounding like a petulant child. He took a small but deliberate step toward Blaise.

Caaaaaaaalm.

Seamus, his hair now a mossy shade of green overlayed with orange, stepped between them. "No need for theatrics, boys. It was just an accident." Harry took the moment to admire his fellow Gryffindor sticking up for Zabini. A month ago, Seamus would have watched it all happen, and let the chips (and Zabini) fall as they may. Smith, however, was having none of it.

"Keep out of this you Irish prick!"

The crowd gasped as a collective. Nothing good ever came of insulting Seamus Finnegan's Irish heritage. Hermione voice still echoed in Harry's ear. Don't let the anger…

Hermione, please, be quiet…

Seamus, to his credit, didn't beat the living pulp out of Zacharias, but a flash of anger burned across his usually friendly features. Dean Thomas, who was standing close by, put a hand on Seamus's shoulder, holding him back. Seamus sneered, looking down at Smith, who stood a good head shorter than him.

"What," he said, never taking his eyes off Smith, "You think I'm gonna do something?" He glanced quickly at his best mate, "Nah, this one's not worth it." He turned away. Harry felt the urge to severely injure Zacharias. Don't do it! Cried Hermione.

Hermione, PLEASE!

Seamus couldn't resist, apparently, getting one parting shot in. He called derisively over his shoulder as he walked away, "Irish Prick. Do you kiss your mother with that mouth, Smith?"

Smith seemed ready, prepared with his retort. "No, and I can't kiss yours either."

What little restraint Seamus had left was now gone. Smith had brought up his mother. Harry saw flashes of her dead body, the Dark Mark, her funeral. His anger swelled inside him like a balloon. Until, with that, it burst.

DON'T, Harry!

Shut up, Hermione!

The crowd had exploded around them. Draco was trying to keep Seamus, Dean, and half a dozen other students from attacking; Zabini was actually holding Ron back. Everywhere was noise and confusion. With all the shouting, scraping, and general anger, no one noticed the candles on the wall begin to burn brighter. No one saw the wax melt, until there was nothing but pillars of flame. Only Hermione saw it, and pressed even harder into Harry's subconscious, trying to send calming messages to Harry. But Smith's words, Harry knew, had been meant for him as well. Smith knew they would hurt him, and now, Smith was going to get his wish. If he wanted Harry, he could have him. Harry felt the anger mixing with the magic inside him, pulsing like a drumbeat. A vein was throbbing on the side of his head. He had nearly reached the center of the students when he found Luna blocking his path.

"I get it," she said dreamily-

Harry! NO!

"Because he doesn't have a mother…"

The shouting…

HARRY!

"Because she's DEAD!" Luna concluded, triumphantly.

HARRY, PLEASE!

"LUNA, SHUT UP!"

The candles burnt out, and the crowd went silent as the room was plunged into sudden darkness. No one moved, not even Zacharias Smith. Then from the corner:

"What we really need now are candles!" came Hermione's voice.

The room responded beautifully, and the DA were suddenly bathed in the glow of hundreds of floating candles.

"Harry?" called Hermione.

"LUNA!" cried Ron.

"Smith," hissed Draco, and backhanded the offending Hufflepuff. Zacharias Smith fell to the ground, his nose spurting blood. But Hermione and Ron hadn't noticed. They were bending over their friends.

Harry's eyes were wide open, but unseeing; unfocused. Hermione shook his shoulder, but nothing happened. She tried to call to him mentally, but got no response. She put her ear to Harry's mouth, and was greeted by the faintest whisper of a breath.

"Harry, love, talk to me! Say something!" But there was no response. Harry was absolutely still.

Next to her, Ron was having no better luck trying to get Luna to talk. She was awake, Ron knew that much.

"Luna! Luna! Oh, bollocks! What've we done? Look, Luna, can you tell me what day it is?" Luna opened her mouth, but nothing happened. She smiled, then shrugged.

Ron raised four of his fingers. "Can you see how fingers I'm holding up?" Luna merely nodded, her eyes still wide. For all the world, she looked more confused than frightened. Ron looked frightened enough for the both of them.

"What's that Snacklebolt you were telling us about earlier? What's it look like, Luna? Luna?" asked Ron, a hint of desperation now creeping into his voice. Luna opened her mouth again, shrugged, then pointed at her throat.

Silence filled the Room of Requirement.

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I've begun the next chapter! It will be FINISHED!!