Chapter Twenty-Five
1 No more solo acts. No more disobedience. Following the plan was important. It would guarantee success. It would bring safety. It would heal this world. The boss knew what he was doing. It was important to remember this at all times. Lying never got a person anywhere – being blind didn't, either. But Josh supposed that that was a form of lying, too. He'd been lying to himself for so many years, for most of his life. Deep down, he'd known what his mom had been. She'd turned her back on those unnatural, perverted tendencies of hers when she'd met his dad, yeah. She'd chosen a different lifestyle after so many years of horror. But the past caught up to her – to all of them. Because she had chosen to be an unnatural thing for years and years, the entire family was dead.
Because Josh had let himself be blindsided by the truth, he'd lost control. Due to his lack of control, Maisie Huang – his friend, who had been planning to get her family over, who'd had plans for the future, a future she would never have – was dead. Mary's brother was dead. Others had died – so many, at the hands of those monsters. Because their captain had been weak. Because he'd lied to himself. Because he'd refused to see the truth about himself.
Because he was a coward.
Still, the boss wasn't mad. No, his reaction was that of a man who felt sympathy, who was forgiving. He was so much better than all of them deserved, and he was going to rid the world of those repulsive things and their unspeakable powers. No more children would have to pay the price. Everything would be better. There would be peace. Humanity would enter a golden age.
Before that, though, they needed to trap the ones that had gotten away. They needed to outfox them, lure them in, pry all their dirty little secrets from their infected brains.
For that reason, the boss has called him to Windsor Castle yet again, to talk strategy.
This time, he would not, under any circumstances, let his personal shortcomings get in the way of justice. Every single one of the witches would die, even if he had to kill them single-handedly.
2 Narcissa had obviously been cured by magic. Otherwise, there would be bandages, and there would be bags of liquid hooked to her arms. This wasn't puzzling anymore, now that she knew more about the weasel, but it was hypocritical. Here he was, destroying everything in his path on a supposed quest to rid the world of magic and save Muggles everywhere from evil or something of that ilk. But when someone he wanted to live got fatally injured, what did he do? Rely on magic to save her. Coward. He had no real stakes in this. Having planned his ill-begotten little enterprise years in advance, he knew exactly what he was doing and, therefore, wasn't risking anything.
That made him despicable, yes, but it also made him much more dangerous than Voldemort – or at least Voldemort after his resurrection. Voldemort with only a fragment of his soul: stupider, unhinged, lacking intuition and foresight, lacking the charm and wittiness that had once drawn so many Purebloods to his cause.
The fact that they had still followed him after he'd changed so drastically did not reflect well on anyone. Perhaps they would not find themselves in their current predicament if they had used common sense instead of relying on their love for tradition and blood purity.
Narcissa still believed that magical heritage needed to be protected, yes, and that the way Muggle-borns and their families had been handled had been misguided and naïve. Still, over the past few years, she'd had a lot of time to think – endless time to ruminate, to try to find the cause, the root of all evil, to determine the error of their ways. After all, what good was time if one was not willing to self-reflect? Narcissa had, over the course of her life, made many mistakes – many of them highly unintelligent, many of them motivated by her most crippling character flaw: snobbery. Of course, her own mistakes did not excuse the crimes of the weasel, nor did she feel any sympathy for him.
However.
However.
Maybe, just maybe, if both Dumbledore's lackeys and her side had actually tried to compromise, vengeful squibs would not have become an issue.
Oh, how she hated that line of thought! But ideas were like dragon pox: once they took root, they spread and were almost impossible to eradicate. Even if cured, something always lingered.
Still, she refused to feel sympathy for the weasel.
He could die in a thousand fires for a million years, as far as she was concerned.
Lucius was still alive. He needed to stay that way.
The weasel would never believe her if she suddenly treated him in a friendly manner – too friendly, at least. He wasn't an idiot, sadly, and he would be suspicious of her if she suddenly changed her attitude toward him.
No, she needed to be smart about this. Being fully antagonistic and staying stuck in this blasted castle would help no-one. She had fully intended to sacrifice herself for her beloved Draco, to die so that he could live. That did not mean she was suicidal. Her life had not been taken. She didn't derive some higher meaning from that, but she was alive. She intended to use that fact to her advantage – to everyone's advantage. Waste not, want not.
Being a Black, she knew how to act. But what wouldn't tip the weasel off?
He was a squib; that much was a fact. He must be someone from a Pureblood family, obviously – not from hers, but from a family old and influential and wealthy. He-
Oh. Oh, dear.
The Selwyns.
How very ridiculous. How very humbling.
It really was that obvious, and yet, she had been way too busy with herself to think objectively about the weasel. Well, better late than never. There was a lesson to be learned, here. Their entire society had been self-absorbed to the point of extinction. Narcissa, her family and her friends had been so worried about blood purity and tradition that they hadn't seen it coming; they hadn't seen the weasel worming his way into the heart of their world and killing it.
It was time to step up. It was time to shoulder some responsibility for this mess.
What was the weasel's name again? He had a sister, Callidora – a good woman. One of theirs.
Narcissa had seen him a few times before, but not enough to remember him. To be fair, someone like him was not a person that she would bother noticing – until now.
That was what he wanted, wasn't it? Being noticed. Being respected. Being admired.
Being loved.
It was so basic.
She knew from experience that he was not going to do anything untoward, nor was she inclined to indulge possible overtures. No, that kind of tactic was not her cup of tea. She didn't judge those who chose that road, but it was not for her.
The weasel would never fall for it, anyway.
What she could do, however, was be less hostile – with a good excuse: above all else, she wanted Lucius and Draco to live. That was the truth. The truth could be used to cement a lie.
He might fall for that.
Perseus. That was his name. Of course. There'd been that incident at Callidora's birthday party, so many years ago. How could she have forgotten about that?
He would like that. He would like it that she remembered him, now.
Right on cue, someone unlocked the door to her bedchamber – her prison cell. There were four black-clad guards. So self-important, weren't they? So convinced of their imposing presence, of their innate impressiveness.
Narcissa didn't even try to suppress a smile. She rose to her feet and smoothed out some wrinkles from her dress. "Is it time for another audience with His Majesty? I feel so privileged."
The guards knew better than to respond, but they made way for her.
She knew where to go. Better than that, even: she knew now what to do.
3 Most of her time, Narcissa spent in the room assigned to her – a suite, actually: bedroom and living room in one, plus a very nice bathroom. Being the man in charge had its perks. Not that Nox himself was overly interested in luxuries, but he knew that she was – that she had standards. He remembered all the pomp and circumstance that his family – and all the other Pureblood families – had always been so very concerned about, that they all fussed over like it actually mattered. It didn't. What mattered were a person's actions, not the window dressing.
He himself preferred the outdoors, anyway. Not much hiking cross-country to be done at the moment, though. Nope, there was too much work ahead of him.
As usual, the guards brought Narcissa into the Crimson Drawing Room and then vamoosed, as the vernacular went.
She was beautiful and regal as always, but the nauseated look she liked to display whenever they were in the same room was gone.
Huh.
That was odd.
She looked…curious. Okay, then.
"Mrs Malfoy," he said, bowing his head slightly. "Would you like to take a seat?"
"Depends on how long this conversation is going to last," she said, crossing her arms below her chest.
"Not too long. I plan to take you out on a walk, if you would like to be outside a bit." He broke off eye-contact, shrugged, and chuckled, feeling a little like a child. It was ridiculous, but still quite unavoidable. "I get antsy when cooped up for too long."
"Try being cooped up for years," she said, and sneered. And there it was. Both lovely and hurtful. "But since my circumstances have been reduced and I find myself forced to rely on morsels of kindness, I accept this offer. I will even promise not to cause trouble, if that puts your mind at rest."
This made him lock eyes with her again. He couldn't help but smirk. "Not really, but I'm willing to take that chance. You know me; I'm a bit of a sucker for your approval."
"Not an assessment I can disagree with," she said, coming across as a tad amused, "and I do remember you; you're right." After a no-doubt planned dramatic pause, she tilted her head a little to the side, and added, "You're Perseus Selwyn, Callidora Selwyn's brother. I saw you a number of times at your family's ancestral home."
His face felt a little warm. Awesome, as the Americans would put it. Just his fucking luck. "Yeah. Birthdays were always a little awkward at our place. They never knew what to give me."
"And yet, they did what they could to help you," she said, her brow creasing a little.
"Help me," he echoed, trying so hard not to feel like a lost teenager again. "Poor little Perseus Selwyn, the loser who can't do magic. Let's all either ignore him or feel sorry for him. Nobody ever thought that maybe I wasn't the problem." A pity-party. Wonderful.
She didn't seem overly impressed, either. "I thought you'd be pleased once I deduced your true identity."
"I would no longer call that my true identity," he said, and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. "I am, though, in a sense. I can't ignore the fact that it took you years to even indulge the rumination, when reaching a conclusion took less than a day."
She arched her eyebrows. "Well, what did you expect? I hate you. Still, I tried. I still am. Take it or leave, boy."
He rubbed at his eyes with his curled fists and exhaled heavily. "At least you're talking to me. No-one ever talked to me back in the day, except for my sister and my parents."
"Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?"
Since she wasn't supposed to witness any loss of control from his part, he crossed his arms behind his back so he could dig his fingernails into his palms without her seeing. It stung, but it helped. Didn't sting as much as that question, no, but it distracted from that particular pain. "No. No, you're not. But you shouldn't be in any way surprised that I did what I did – not in any way surprised." He wasn't Josh. He didn't cave people's skulls in when he got mad, but still: sometimes, it was hard not to give into the impulse to smash something.
Something. Not a person. Least of all her.
"I'm not," she said. "Not anymore. Now that I know who you are, it makes sense."
"You don't know who I am, and I'm pretty sure you have no intention of finding out." Wow. He really needed to keep the venom in. The temptation to let it all out, though…oh, it was almost too much to take. "You don't even know that a wizard-born who cannot perform magic is not the same thing as a Muggle. I can use magic passively. I can't cast spells, but I can get into magical places just fine. I can even make and use potions, because there's no spell-casting required for that. All you need is the gene for magic, as I like to call it. Did you know that?"
"No."
"Well, of course you didn't." He snorted disdainfully and waved off. "You fucking people." So much for keeping his composure. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "I apologise."
"I am not a fragile flower who shall wilt in abject horror at the sound of profanity," she said, sounding so exasperated, it was almost comical. "You're quite correct, Perseus: I don't know anything about you, your life, or others like you. I never cared. I never even noticed." She drew a deep breath. "I played a part in what followed. I can no longer pretend that I didn't."
The fact that this admission and the lack of vitriol made him feel lighter was pretty pathetic, but what to do? There was no changing one's feelings. "That's the closest thing I'll ever get to an apology, so yes, I shall take it. Just don't call me boy again."
"I would dearly like to know what your masterplan is," she said. "If you simply wanted to eradicate magic, then you'd just kill the lot of us. You haven't. That tells me that you have something else in mind – that and your little trip to the Ministry of Magic, of course."
"Don't remind me of your suicidal little stunt."
"Who cured me?"
He smiled a little. "A story for another day. But I believe you were asking me about my nefarious masterplan."
Her eyebrows wandered up again. "You'll actually tell me?"
"Why not? It's something that will benefit everyone, including you." He motioned toward the door. "How about that walk outside?"
"How many of your entourage shall be accompanying us?"
He shook his head. "Nobody. It'll be just the two of us. I promise I'll be on my best behaviour…and that I will answer your questions truthfully."
She frowned again but didn't sneer. That was good. "I have great trouble understanding your motivations."
"I know, but I'll explain everything to you. Maybe then you'll stop hating me so much."
"We'll see." Making a face and looking amusingly put-upon, she said, "As a show of good faith, you may take my arm. Be a gentleman for once and don't let me stumble through the streets of Muggle London."
It was very obvious that she was just trying to ingratiate herself to a certain extent. It was also obvious that she was never going to return his feelings. She wasn't going to pretend, either, because she wasn't an idiot and knew perfectly well that he would never buy the act.
He didn't want an act, anyway, nor would he ever take advantage of such a power imbalance. Others might develop a taste for abuse, but he liked to think of himself as civilised.
No. This was an attempt at getting him to drop his guard by offering the illusion of polite behaviour.
Still, he was going to take what he could get without coming across as a creep.
She was going to have an actual conversation with him involving only small amounts of disgust and hatred.
The thought alone made his stomach do somersaults. This was patently ridiculous. A teenage crush stopped being cute once the afflicted party was no longer a teenager. Oh, well. Couldn't be helped. He looked down at his trainers like a total moron and cleared his throat. "Have you ever taken a stroll through Muggle London?"
"I can't say that I have."
"Here's to hoping that you'll approve." His heart almost jumping out of his throat, he offered her his arm. Josh was due to show up in an hour, but that still gave them plenty of time to chat and enjoy the scenery. "Come on."
Lo and behold, she took his arm. "You will be on your best behaviour, as promised, yes?"
"I would never even get close to you without your consent, and we both know you don't want anything like that," he said, and started heading toward the door. "It's never gonna happen. I never had any expectations of the sort, either." How odd. Here he was, explaining to her in euphemisms that he was, in fact, not a rapist. Droll. Amusing. Weird. Awkward.
She gracefully inclined her head. "Good. Then we are in agreement."
"We are." He opened the door and signalled to his guards to not follow. "Just don't make me regret this, please. I don't want to hurt you again – not by accident, not on purpose."
4 "You said that you remember me," the weasel was telling her, as they leisurely strolled through a rather nice-looking if somewhat cramped part of town. Right outside the castle, there were old houses, shops, pubs, and droves of Muggles. "Not that you know who I am, but that you remember me. Where from, exactly?"
Maybe she should stop calling him a weasel in her thoughts. He was supposed to start trusting her more. That kind of inner monologue did nothing to improve her attitude. She didn't want to use his melodramatic pen name, either (although it was a little bit clever, especially considering the circumstances). Perhaps he would respond best if addressed by his real name. That would create a bridge to the past and show that she was willing to acknowledge him as a person.
With her gaze, she followed a group of schoolchildren who were standing close by, looking into flat little machines in their hands, overlooked by a couple of adult caretakers. She'd never been around so many Muggles at once. It was…odd, to say the least. Her skin itched faintly. Magic was being suppressed. On most days, she hardly noticed this off-putting sensation anymore. She said, "It was Callidora's fifteenth birthday. You were around, but clearly uncomfortable. Lucius said something unkind. I told him to stop ruining the mood."
There were black-clad Malleus guards everywhere. Even if not: attempting an escape right now would be pointless and stupid.
She had no doubt that the wea…that Perseus would kill her husband if she backstabbed him in such a clumsy manner.
"Not bad," he said, leading her through the cobblestone-paved streets as if he owned the place. Well, technically, he did. How infuriating. "Do you remember what he said? Because I do."
Yes, she remembered. She remembered because Callidora had heard Lucius's remark and had cracked the champagne glass in his hand in an angry burst of uncontrolled magic. "He said that the Selwyns probably found you in the bin because you were a useless squib who didn't even have the decency to look like your own twin sister."
He looked to the side, nodded at one of the guards who clearly recognised him, and then said, "Yes. That's exactly what he said. I remember fantasising about caving his skull in, but when I spoke to him again a while back, he didn't know who I was. It's like suddenly, I am a person worthy of being noticed." He cast her a furtive glance. "You don't know what that's like."
She barely refrained from asking him again whether he expected sympathy. It was weird, being this close to him, but at least he smelled clean. Briefly, she raised her face to the sun. There wasn't much warmth in the light, but the sensation was elating, to say the least. "He can be a terrible person."
"He is a terrible person, and you married him. What does that say about you?"
Curiously, she didn't even feel like clawing the skin off his face. Being outside was too nice for that – being in the sunshine, even with that ghastly itch beneath her skin, in her blood. "Do you feel it?"
"Feel what? The itch caused by the magic suppressors? Yeah, I feel it."
"Didn't you once tell me that you don't have an ounce of magic in your blood?"
That made him laugh softly. "I was being hyperbolic. I can feel it. I can experience it. I just can't perform it."
"I'm sure there's a metaphor in there somewhere."
This time, he didn't just laugh, he guffawed. It was an odd, out-of-place merry sound that didn't match the circumstances at all. "A sex joke coming from a stuck-up Pureblood. Nice."
"Clearly, you find it amusing."
"That's because this is one area my lack of ability does not apply to, but I'm sure you didn't want to know that."
She gave him an icy sideways look. "Do not delve into the subject."
They took a corner. The air smelled like fried potatoes. The scent was wafting out of a pub further down the narrow street. It was mouth-watering.
Probably thinking the same thing, he took a deep breath. "Hm. You know, I used to date a Muggle-born witch, but she moved to Ecuador. She always had a fascination with the Galapagos Islands."
That caught her at unawares, for some reason. "A source of great heartbreak, I suppose?"
Again, he laughed, though it was more of a snicker this time. "Because I'm in love with you, I could never have any other meaningful relationship, you mean? Those two happenstances are not mutually exclusive, but that's just the stuck-up Pureblood in you."
"You're a Pureblood, too, even if you can't…perform."
"You're a horrible person," he said, still snickering. "Anyway. I believe you had questions for me."
She wanted to tell him that he was in no position to judge anyone's character but held her tongue. "Oh. Yes. Tell me what you were looking for in the Ministry."
"That's not a question; that's a demand." He carefully steered her around a brownish puddle she'd overlooked. "But fine. Have it your way. I was looking for Ginny Weasley."
Somehow, she couldn't quite believe that this was the whole truth. "Why?"
"Because she's the one most likely to come up with a solution to the seal cutting off Hogwarts from the rest of the world. I may be mistaken, but a person that young does not ascend the career letter this quickly if she is not uniquely qualified to solve hitherto unsolvable mysteries."
The sun vanished behind a grey cloud.
She shivered. "What do you want from them, Perseus? The people inside the seal."
"I want to save them," he said, and patted her hand on his arm. His skin was warm, almost feverish. "I want to save all of us…and I want you to witness it."
Nearly stopping, nearly losing her composure, nearly pulling her hand from his arm, she said, in a quiet tone, "You're insane if you really believe that."
"Your husband said the same thing. He was wrong about me when we were kids. You're both wrong about me now." He stopped walking, grabbed her by her shoulders, turned her so she would face him, and then took her hands into his. There was an unhealthy sheen in his huge blue eyes – blue like his father's – and heat baked off his skin like an infection. There was a flush of colour on his otherwise pasty face, too. "Very soon, your son and Hermione Granger and all their little friends will attempt to trick me. They'll use what information I gave about myself to distract me, and then they'll try to trap me in amber. It won't work."
Narcissa's mouth was dry. "You seem awfully sure of yourself, if you don't mind me saying."
"I have every reason to. I'm not crazy, nor am I stupid. I know what I'm doing, and there is no way in hell that I'm gonna lose this war." Smiling a little, he added in what was little more than a whisper, "I will get what I want one way or another, so you might as well cooperate, dear, because I don't think you'll like the alternative."
All she wanted to do was spit in this cretin's face, swirl around, and march off – seeing as torture and murder were not feasible at the moment. "Threatening me is the best you can do? You promised you'd be on your best behaviour. So much for that."
The smile turned wry. "I'm not threatening you. I'm being candid. You don't know" – He leaned in a little, just a little – "You don't know how bad things can get, how truly horrifying. That's not who I am. I'm not the bad guy, here. You have nothing to fear from me. I'm not like your late sister used to be. I'm not a sadist."
Then why say such disturbing things, in the first place? "As long as I do as I'm told, right?"
"The only thing I will take from you without your consent is your freedom. But you can have that back, too. You can have everything you want. All I want is to fix what's broken in our world. Don't you understand?"
Her response was quick and cold: "No."
"Yes, you do," he said, and slowly reached out to brush a wayward strand of her fair hair behind her ear. "You know that better than most. I'll give you a chance to help me, and if you do, everything will be right as rain."
She felt a little sick to her stomach but remained outwardly calm, said, "Tell me what you're planning," and sneered – couldn't help herself, neither did she want to. "Dear."
5 "Sending people halfway through sounds odd," Harry said, and shrugged, "but crazy enough to work. I'll do it."
"Of course you will. Saint Potter stumbles blindly to the rescue. Never mind the consequences." Draco yawned heartily, got to his feet, and stretched. "I've got enough soul-searching and plotting to overthrow our evil squib overlord for the moment. I need some fresh air. Excuse me." Without another word, he walked out of the room and headed outside.
The storm had died down, and it was no longer raining.
"What's his problem?" Harry said, after the front door clicked shut.
"He just lost his mother," Hermione said, pushing herself to her feet. Everything felt sore, and her head still ached. "Don't you understand?"
"We're all afraid," Luna said, leaning her head back and closing her eyes. "But this plan will work. It's even better than the last one, Hermione."
"Yes. I believe so, too," Hermione said, not managing to quite sound convinced. Not really looking anyone in the eye, she pressed her hands to the small of her back and stretched. There was some crackling. They'd been sitting there for hours, talking, compromising. "I'll go talk to him." Neither expecting nor wanting a reply, she followed Draco.
He was just a few feet from the house, arms crossed, gusts of cold and clammy wind ruffling his hair. "Here to give me a pep talk?"
She stopped to his left. "Do you want one?"
"No."
"Good. Because I'm truly horrible at those."
He chuckled lowly. "No, you're not. You've done fine so far."
A few seconds went by in silence. The cold was bitter, but the fresh air was still somehow invigorating.
Hugging her arms to her body, she said, "If you don't want to go through with this, I understand. It's crazy. It'll likely get us all killed, in the end."
After mulling this over for a moment, he slowly shook his head. "No. We have two choices: either do nothing and die or try to do something…and probably die. I would rather not waste away, cowering in fear – not anymore. Not after what my mother…" He trailed off, bit his lower lip, looked down at his shoes.
She thought of all those lives lost. Most of her in-laws. Her parents, who were safe, but unreachable. Her friends at the camp. Maybe Ron, too. Her stomach cramped. She bit her tongue, collected herself, stepped in front of him. "We can beat Selwyn, Draco. I know we can. But we need you." Her mouth went dry. "I need you. Just like I needed you back in London. We can only do this together – all of us."
Another few seconds of silence ticked by, but finally, he raised his head and looked at her. His eyes were bloodshot, but he had himself under control. "I think" – He discreetly cleared his throat – "I think it's more the other way around. I'd given up. After Astoria, I just…I couldn't."
It might be immature, but she felt a little bit like running away. "You don't have to-"
"I know." He made an impatient little gesture. "I know. But I want to." Another gust of wind blew his hair into his face. He pressed his lips together, briefly looked up, made a face, and exhaled sharply, before locking eyes with her again. "We've already had the I-was-a-horrible-brat-at-school talk, so I won't go into that again. But all this time, all these years, I just wasted hiding, because it was all oh so difficult." He scoffed. "I don't…I can't change the past, but I can shoulder my share of responsibility. I gave up after Astoria died, and then you showed up and were all determined and strong and brilliant…and I hated that. I hated it because that wasn't me. It's never been me."
"That's not true." It wasn't something she either believed of disbelieved. As a matter of fact, she felt that he was right, but only partially. Still, this was not the time to criticise. Besides, she didn't want him to feel bad about himself. That was more than a little odd, wasn't it? Empathy. Friendship. Good wishes. All of this was odd.
He grimaced. "Yes, it is. And I…I wanted you to shove off and let me feel sorry for myself, but you didn't. If you hadn't shown up, I would never have dared to do anything to fight those Muggles. But you did show up. You didn't give up."
Her face felt a little warm. It was strange to feel for someone she'd always despised, but it was even stranger to be complimented in such a way by that person. "It's not in my nature. I know how obnoxious that can be."
"Yes, but that's not your fault. It's just obnoxious because you hold up a mirror in front of people and force them to see themselves. Maybe I, uh…" – He broke off eye-contact again, if only for a few seconds, and breathed deeply – "Look, I don't know how to say this, so I'll just speak my mind. For the first time in a long, long time I can look at myself and not feel like a rotten coward."
She just stared at him, her knees weirdly rubbery, her stomach feeling like some bottomless pit. What to say to that? What? It was nice and disconcerting and disarming and all kinds of strange and unnameable things, to hear those words. Pride, probably. Who didn't like to be lauded? She inhaled, too, like he had, only her breaths were tremulous and unsure. "I'm nobody's saviour, Draco."
"No, of course you're not. Don't be silly." He smiled a little. It looked good on him. "Okay, maybe a little bit."
Quite unexpectedly, she found herself smiling, too. "How far we've come, haven't we?"
"Only took the end of the world for you to admit that I am amazing and that I have never, in fact, been a racist ferret."
That made her snicker. "And for you to admit that I am, in fact, brilliant."
He scratched his neck and wrinkled his nose. "I did say that."
"You did. There's no taking it back, either."
"I wasn't planning to."
For a moment, they just looked at each other.
That was when someone opened the cottage's front door. It was Daphne. "We've fixed up something to eat. You should come inside."
"Yes. Sure." Hermione looked away, unsuccessfully tried to clear the frog in her throat, and headed back.
He did the same.
6 Communicating with Hogwarts was only the first step, but it was a vital one. As people could be sent through the seal, but not objects, the only way to try talking to anyone inside – according to Daphne, whose idea it had been, and Ginny, who was the expert – was to use the fireplace. It seemed almost ridiculously easy, didn't it? Until one remembered that what went through the seal could not go back. The fireplace didn't just allow communications to go through. The witch or wizard was in two places at once – in a sense. To be honest, nobody in their little group had ever thought about the logistics of that kind of magic, but it felt right, somehow. The imagine seen was not just a projection. It was the person's voice. It was their magic. It was part of them.
One objection – raised by Rolf – had been that nobody had communicated with Hogwarts in five years. Why should this work now?
Harry had countered that people hadn't known they could Apparate into Hogwarts, either, and that magic was being suppressed all over Britain, anyway.
They'd concluded that it was worth a try.
They decided to attempt this after their meal – dinner, actually. It was already getting dark again.
"What if part of you gets stuck there?" Draco said, as he watched Harry clean the dishes.
Everyone else was around.
Harry had volunteered for this, seeing as he'd been stuck in amber for half a decade and needed to just physically be active. "Then you'll be rid of me. Isn't that what people call a win-win situation?"
"Someone will have to clean up the mess, won't they?"
"Obviously not you." Harry dried his hands on a ratty dishtowel and rolled the sleeves of his jumper down.
"Harry, he's just worried," Hermione said. She was standing by one of the windows, looking out at the sea. Her headache was gone.
"Yeah." Harry harrumphed. "Hermione, can I talk to you for a minute? Before I accidentally kill myself, I mean."
"Don't say that." That was Ginny, who was giving him a black look.
"Sorry." Harry raised his eyebrows at Hermione.
She pushed herself away from the windowsill and followed him into the living room.
The moment they were alone, he said, "What's with you and Malfoy?" His tone of voice was not exactly warm and friendly.
Recoiling a little, she replied, "I don't know what you mean."
"Yeah, you do."
Was this happening? She frowned, tensed up, took a step back. "No, I don't, and even if I did, it would be none of your business."
Deflating somewhat, he wiped some hair from his forehead. "I'm just worried about you."
"So you've told me."
"I know it's been hard, but he doesn't deserve your…friendship. You'll just end up getting hurt, and I don't think we can afford that right now. We need you. We can't do this without you."
She was torn between whacking him upside the head and laughing nervously. "I'll be fine. Trust me. It's not what you think. Why would you even think that?" Her hands were icy, but her face was hot. Her innards were in knots. Were they really having this conversation right now? Honestly.
"You're my friend. I don't know what you've been through all these years, but-"
"You're right. You don't know." She threw up her hands. "What do you want from me? You were asleep for five years. I wasn't. You think everything should be as it was? I do, too, but it's not. I…" She trailed off and covered her burning-hot face for a few seconds. "Harry." She dropped her arms to her sides. "I get that you're worried about Ron, but…don't do this."
"This isn't about him. It's about you. You're both my best friends." He took two steps toward her. "I know what it's like to feel alone…to need people. I do. Believe me. I understand. But if you're not careful, you'll do something you'll regret. I don't want to see you hurting like that."
Her anger evaporated, drained out of her like sand from an hourglass. Damn it. "There's nothing to worry about. I'm fine. You should get ready. We haven't got time to waste." Without waiting for a reply, she turned around and marched back into the kitchen.