Disclaimer: JK Rowling and assorted publishers own Harry Potter.

This is a work of fanfiction: no money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.


Chapter 52

Breakfast just wasn't the same. Not without Harry, and not without Ron.

Padma and Cho were back at their own House table this time - not that Hermione minded them joining the Gryffindors on occasion, but, well, they were sorted into Houses for a reason, and it was good, from time to time, to remember that.

The rest of the Away Team were, however, seated around her - well, technically they were all grouped to her left, since she'd taken the absolute top of the table, nearest the high table that was reserved for the staff.

Dean, Ginny, Seamus, Lavender and Parvati were all engaged in some obviously ridiculous game that seemed to require frequent giggles from the girls, and snorts of laughter from the boys. Neville was opposite, frantically trying to read the chapter Professor McGonagall had set for the next lesson - it was difficult, at times, not to take pity on Neville; he really, really tried so hard.

But without Ron, and without Harry, the Great Hall seemed empty, and the sense of wonderment had vanished with them. Now she was no longer embarking on a collective adventure with her two best friends. Yes, they'd faced dangers, and shared horrors. Yes, they'd taken outrageous risks, had flagrantly disregarded rules, and, genuinely lived their school-lives at Hogwarts.

But it hadn't all been danger, and threat and menace.

The three of them, virtually inseparable since Halloween in that first year at Hogwarts (give or take the odd falling out or two), the three of them had had more than their fair share of fun at Hogwarts. And with Harry and Ron both banished, Hermione somehow felt that the joyful memories of her schooldays had been wrested from her too.

Gone was the feeling that her entire time at Hogwarts would be a genuinely magical voyage of discovery; the Trio naturally sharing triumphs together, rushing headlong towards seventh-year, eighteen and the Real World. Hogwarts without the Trio wasn't her Hogwarts anymore. It had become something else - something impersonal, something cold, and, certainly, something less fun.


The morning's post had not brought good news: Captured! screamed the headline, in violently flickering script, desperate to grab the reader's attention. Hermione read the first couple of breathless sentences: In a bold and daring move, Ministry Officials risked their lives in the dramatic capture of the Dark Mage Harry Potter, best known as The Boy Who Lived. Describing the operation as a complete success, Ministry Official Percival Theodore Weasel explained, during an exclusive interview with the Prophet, how the Ministry managed to convince the most dangerous criminal of modern times to surrender....

With a snarl, she ripped the paper in half. And then she ripped those halves into halves themselves, and continued subdividing the worthless rag until her toast was covered in newsprint confetti.

Ginny looked at her with understanding. "Don't worry, Hermione," she urged, laying a hand on her forearm, "no-one believes the rubbish they write anyway..."

They both knew, however, that Ginny's optimism was not particularly well founded, and, judging by the laughs and jeers from the other tables, there were at least a few students taking delight from the Prophet's scoop.

"Oh this is impossible!" protested Neville, slumping back in his chair, the Transfiguration textbook in front of him.

"It's not impossible," responded Dean, reassuringly, winning a smile of relief from Neville, until he added, with wide-eyed sincerity, "I used to bullseye womp rats in my T-16 back home, and they can't have been much more than two metres..."

Taking pity on the look of sheer horror that had now painted itself upon Neville's face, Hermione took the opportunity to set the record straight, "Don't worry, Neville, it's just a film..."

Dean opened his mouth as if to protest, but before he could get any words out, the dreadlocked wizard appeared to succumb to massive cardiac arrest. Hermione weathered the theatrics with an arch look, and rather wished that Ginny wouldn't look quite so proud of her boyfriend at moments like these.

Eventually recovering, Dean managed to stammer, weakly, tone knee-deep in disbelief, "Just a film?" He turned to address the Hufflepuffs: "Oi, Fletch!" Miraculously, Dean's full vocal power had returned by this point, "Hermione here," Dean flicked his dreadlocks in her direction, "says that Star Wars is, and I quote, 'just a film.'"

Justin Finch-Fletchley, seemingly equally scandalised, slowly rose from the Hufflepuff table, and, with measured paces, approached the Gryffindors to address the skeleton Away Team, or, more accurately, Hermione; "Do not," he advised in a deep tone suffused with gravitas, jabbing his index finger warningly, "underestimate... the power... of the Force."

Upon this warning, Seamus, who was sitting next to Neville, had urgently grabbed his fellow Gryffindor by the shoulders, locking eyes; "Mind what you have learned, Neville. Help you, it can."

Rolling her eyes, Hermione took her turn to address the now completely terrified Neville. "As you can see," she observed, smugly, "the Force can have a powerful effect on the weak-minded."


To Hermione's surprise, Parvati had chosen to sit with Neville in Transfiguration, obviously deciding to leave Seamus and Lavender to their couply things. Which meant that Hermione's partner for the lesson would be Dean (cross-House partnerships were rare, even in lessons with the Hufflepuffs).

Dean. Dean as in the Animagus.

Schoolwork had got to the point where neither she nor Draco had been able to put much effort into their Animagus research. Well, certainly, she'd had other things occupying her mind, and Draco hadn't mentioned that he'd found anything of note. For a brief moment, Hermione considered the possibility that Draco might have found out something useful, but dismissed the notion.

The old Draco, certainly, might have kept such knowledge to himself, but the new, post-Potions Draco wouldn't. She was pretty sure of that.

Still, here she was, in Transfiguration, sitting next to Dean. And not that it had really bothered her, but there was still something slightly irksome about Dean, of all people, having beaten her to transforming. Although, she reminded herself, he had had special instruction from McGonagall.

Hermione's previously sky-high opinion of her Head of House had taken something of a knock in the fifth year to date - obviously the whole business with Harry hadn't exactly endeared her to the Away Team. But it had hardly escaped Hermione's attention that McGonagall had chosen to tutor Dean, who, previously, hadn't exactly had a track record of academic brilliance, rather than selecting the top student in her year for every class bar Potions.

And everyone knew that the only reason she wasn't top in Potions was because she wasn't a Slytherin.

Looking about the class, Hermione noticed Neville look across from the desk he was sharing with Parvati. He'd been like that at breakfast too - as though constantly on the verge of telling her something. Remembering what had happened the last time Neville had failed to mention what he'd assumed was an idle observation, Hermione made a mental note to ask him what was up.

As was customary, McGonagall was peppering the class with questions based on the reading assignment set from the previous lesson. Having answered the first couple of questions to prove that she had read the chapters, Hermione let her mind wander; McGonagall wouldn't bother her again until the lesson strayed into the practical stuff once more. "Dean?"

"Mmm?" replied her partner, who was busy drawing an over-elaborate representation of a demented Thresher mauling some poor unfortunate in the margin of his parchment.

"Being an Animage... y'know, I was wondering..." Hermione kept her tone deliberately light. Casual even. "How's it, um, different to ordinary Transfiguration?"

Dean's attention seemed entirely focused on his sketch as he absently responded, "Well it's all in the focus, y'know? With wand transfiguration, you're aiming the Will at the object," Dean paused to spin the parchment around so that he could apparently draw the severed limb's arc a little better (the struggle had clearly broken beyond the confines of the margin), "whereas with the transformation, um, well, you kind of don't aim the Will at all..."

Pausing from his sketch, Dean looked at her, "You just... do," he explained, with a shrug.

Ding! A light bulb had lit up inside Hermione's head - that had been the thing she'd been doing wrong! Of course, none of the books had been much help, but, now that she thought about it, nothing she'd read had mentioned focusing the Will at all. It had become so ingrained, that they'd both simply assumed that you had to focus. Dean's rough explanation might well have been the final piece of the jigsaw. "Oh," replied Hermione, before adopting her scholarly pout, "but in Rewman, didn't he say in, oh, was it Chapter 13? Didn't he say that..."

"Hermione," interrupted Dean, "I have no idea who, or what you're talking about..."

Hermione allowed herself an inner-smile. One of the more useful weapons in her armoury was to change the subject by actually talking about the subject in a greater depth than the other person could comprehend... Invariably they switched off, putting it all down to her simply being an incurable bookworm.

Making sure that Dean was still engrossed in his sketch, Hermione casually rested her left hand on her lap, and scanned the class. Neville had glanced her way, half anxiously; he kept on doing that, she noticed, but his attention was back upon McGonagall once more.

It was painful - rather like peeling skin away from her fingers, but, as she carefully spread the feathers apart under the cover of the desk, Hermione allowed herself a small smile of triumph, and brought her fingers back.

Got it.


"Right, you can put away your textbooks," announced Professor Lupin to the assembled Gryffindors and Ravenclaws as he entered the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom. He still wore the heavily worn robes that he'd had in the third year - or, Hermione mused, he'd somehow managed to acquire an equally threadbare set, it being entirely conceivable that the originals had expired in the intervening years.

Whether they were new 'old' robes, or the original ones, however, really didn't matter; none of Lupin's engaging teaching style had left him, and his reputation as everyone's favourite teacher was soon established following his return to Hogwarts.

Well, Slytherins excepted, of course, but then, they didn't count. Most of them didn't, anyway.

Lupin perched himself on the edge of the desk, and ran his fingers through his long hair, light streaks of grey flickering here and there betraying the wolf within. Perhaps. Looking at the former Marauder, in his threadbare robes, his eyes bright with knowledge, and his poise somehow managing to be both approachable and yet respectable, it was hard to believe that, for three nights a month, he turned into a crazed, bloodthirsty animal.

All because of a bite when he was a child. And now, Hermione reminded herself, the same fate afflicted Seamus, too; it was interesting to see how much more attentive Seamus was in DADA these days. Everyone respected Lupin, but Seamus, having been through the werewolf transformation himself now, seemed to regard their teacher with an ever deeper respect. Those two had an understanding that the others couldn't grasp - nor, suspected Hermione, would they ever want to.

"This," announced Lupin, lightly, almost conversationally, "is war."

He paused, as the reaction to the incongruous presentation kicked in. What was war? Where? How? The puzzlement remained subvocal, yet tangible, and everyone waited for the explanation. As Hermione scanned her classmates, Neville caught her eye once more, but quickly looked away again.

"Now, I realise it doesn't seem much like war from where we sit," continued Lupin, "but let's take a moment to reflect on what's happened in the world since the summer." Back on his feet, Lupin unravelled the large scroll he'd brought in, which turned out to be a large map of Europe, big enough to completely cover the blackboard.

With a casual flick of his wand, the map was mounted on the wall, and Lupin continued, "As we all know - though some choose to dispute - but, as we all know, Voldemort has risen again."

Most of the class still flinched at Voldemort's name. Coming from a Muggle background, this reaction had initially seemed a tad overblown to Hermione, but, as she acclimatised herself to a world where words conveyed real, actual power, the fear actually started to look rational.

Inscribing a glowing circle, deep red, on the map with his wand tip, Lupin indicated Beauxbatons' location, somewhere in the Loire Valley. He then drew another circle, Tempus Blue, about Durmstrang.

"There have been attacks... territorial gains, in the jargon," continued Lupin, as he started adding further red and blue circles across the map, indicating the two sides' respective gains. Paris was red, and most of Northern France along with it. About Durmstrang, the blue was creeping across Eastern and Central Europe, and Lupin provided a running commentary on the attacks as he worked.

"It all looks so simple, doesn't it?", he enquired, having finished marking the latest known gains for the two powers, and turning from his map to face the class once more. "It's just a map, with pretty colours on..."

Lupin shrugged lightly, and twirled his wand about his fingers, "But it's more than that. For every red mark on that map, someone died. For every section of blue territory, people are enslaved under the Mark of Tempus. That's not a map, it's a story - a history, even, of battles fought, and lives lost."

When viewed from that perspective, the map suddenly took on a much more sinister air. Hermione could almost sense the red and the blue, seeping across the pastel colours of the different countries. She could almost see the masked Death Eaters sending up Dark Marks, with the cry of Mosmordre! And people, dead.

"So," continued Lupin, running his hand through his hair once more as he perched himself on the desk, "what do we do?"

Lisa Turpin was first to speak, "Well, in the case of... of You-Know-Who, given that the French Ministry has been dissolved, doesn't governance now devolve to the Warlocks' Council? So, in a sense, don't we follow their lead?"

"Well, yes we do," conceded Lupin, before adding, "although the Warlocks' Council's ability to effectively intercede in these matters was undermined during the rise of Grindelwald. It's become more a perk of office to meet in the Council's chambers rather than an actual role of responsibility. No, I was thinking of something more direct, that we, here, now could, and can do..." Lupin raised his bushy eyebrows invitingly, waiting for response. "Yes, Neville?"

Neville had raised his hand, somewhat doubtfully, but nevertheless spoke up, "Well, shouldn't we make a stand? A stand for what's right?"

Lupin pursed his lips, "Yyyeeesssss... Neville, but... well, you have to be careful in situations like these. People can be too eager, as the saying goes, to fight fire with fire. Step back from the battle," he urged, "and consider the war. What is this about?"

A sea of puzzled frowns greeted the professor, not that he seemed daunted; "I teach Defence Against the Dark Arts," he announced, somewhat redundantly, "but there's more to that defence than simply learning that Spell A blocks Spell B, and that Curse C has this effect on Creature A, but that on Creature B. That knowledge, those spells, that information - they're just the tools... the whole Defence Against the Dark Arts is bigger than that. It's bigger, and yet it's simpler..."

The class held their breath, waiting.

"People fall in love with it. They lust after it. People fight and die for it. It blinds the intelligent with stupidity, and inflicts madness upon the brilliant. It promises much, but deceives with trickery and lies. It flatters vanity, and seduces the noble. But beyond all that, remember these two words: power corrupts."

In the silence that followed this speech, Lisa slowly rose her hand once more, "But surely there must be something more to this than just power," she protested, "there must be a reason, there must be some kind of goal..."

"That is an excellent point, Lisa," agreed Lupin, "although what kind of task would warrant such colossal power? I'm not saying that any power is evil - after all, you, I, all of us in this room, we all command incredible power, in the eyes of Muggles. These things are relative.

"No, I'm not saying all power is evil, although history will back me up when I say that it doesn't seem to have been the best judge of character through the ages. No, what I am saying, however, is this; both Voldemort and Tempus, whatever vision they are in pursuit of, that lust for power has corrupted what once was human. Defence Against the Dark Arts is in the curriculum wholly as a bid to prevent that same affliction corrupting you... it's not just here so that Hogwarts can inflict professors upon you who bore you to death." Lupin flashed a warm smile at the self-deprecating statement, but Hermione could tell that he knew that he wasn't boring anyone.

"Absolute power," he mused out loud, "would you trust yourself with it? Because I know I wouldn't."


It was as they were walking to Potions, after lunch, that he finally approached her.

"Um, Hermione?" asked Neville, as he struggled to close his bag whilst keeping pace with Hermione's customarily brisk pace.

"Yes, Neville?" Inwardly she groaned; she'd managed to avoid being partnered with Neville in either Transfiguration or Defence Against the Dark Arts that day, and knew that, by rights, she really ought to take her turn in Potions... but that would mean not partnering Draco. And, well, not that that would be the end of the world, really, but... but what if... Well, once they'd broken the rather odd Slytherin-Gryffindor partnership, it would definitely look deliberate if they reinstated it later. At least, for the time being, they had the excuse (not, she reminded herself, that she needed one) that they were simply partners through momentum.

As her mind raced through these thoughts, she suddenly remembered that Neville was talking.

"...has asked you already," Neville paused, uncertainly, peering at Hermione's face, as though trying to read her expression. Evidently not seeing anything to dissuade him, he ploughed on, "and well, I was wondering if..i if... if you'd like... like to go to the Yule Ball. Like to go to the Yule Ball. With me."

Red faced, and frozen as though in terror, Neville waited for Hermione's response, anxiety pouring off him; "But it's OK if you're already going with someone... or, y'know, if you'd rather go with someone else. Not me...".

Hermione's heart fell. Not that she didn't like Neville, and not that she'd thought about being asked by anyone else... She'd have gone with Ron; should have gone with Ron. He should have been there to do the asking (not that he had a good track record in that regard, but Hermione was pretty sure that, with a little judicious prompting, he'd have managed to ask her somehow).

"Oh, Neville," stalled Hermione, as her mind whirled furiously, and her toes sent panic messages to her brain (Neville did have awfully large feet, she noted, absently). And then, in her mind's eye, she saw the list she'd been drafting during History of Magic: Mandrake Leaves, Yarrow Root, Asphodel (Neville...

It was time, she decided, to embrace her Inner Slytherin; "Neville," she repeated, warmly, "I'd be delighted..."

She was sure that her toes were sending warnings of imminent mutiny, but they simply didn't appreciate the bigger picture.


Another evening, and another congregation of the Away Team in the South West Tower. For once it was a still night, so Cho hadn't been called upon to cast the protection bubble (Hermione reminded herself that she still had to ask the Ravenclaw Seeker how to cast that one, but she was so busy with... other things, that she never seemed to have the time). Nonetheless, it was approaching the winter solstice, so the familiar bluebell flame kept the group warm.

"I think it makes most sense to make some test Portkeys first," observed Padma, closing the volume from which she'd just finished summarising the construction process. "We don't want to waste Hermione's carving on a failed attempt, after all."

Internally, Hermione winced, as she always did at the recollection of the... thing Viktor had given her, "Herm-own-ninny, I haff made this for you," he'd said, handing the object over to her, towards the end of her visit.

Hermione Granger was, of course, a mature, level-headed and scholarly girl. Not prone to fits of giggles, or bouts of immature sniggering. Even so, she still remembered quite clearly even now the fierce burning sensation in her face as she'd thanked Viktor for the kind thought. Still, he'd meant well (although a small voice in the back of her mind insisted that perhaps the whole thing had been an elaborate practical joke, and that somewhere in a tavern deep in Bulgaria, Viktor Krum was regaling delirious team-mates with yet another account of how the straight-laced English student had thanked him for his carving). And besides, it was the only way they were going to get to Durmstrang.

Yes, Hermione reminded herself, needs must and all that. Still, if Seamus said so much as one word, she'd... well, she'd kill him.

"What?" asked Seamus, defensively, evidently having sensed Hermione's accusatory glare.

"Oh, nothing," she replied, chiding herself for being obvious.

Seamus shrugged, before replying, "Hey Hermione, anyway. Your Durmstrang carving thing. How big is it?"

Hermione glared at him suspiciously. He couldn't possibly know - she hadn't even told Harry or Ron. But...

"Hermione?" prompted Seamus, "It's just that, y'know, is it portable? Pocketable, even? Or is it too large for that?"

Breathing a small, discreet sigh of relief, Hermione started to explain the rough dimensions of Viktor's handiwork, thankful that the flickering flames wouldn't give away the embarrassment simply visualising the thing caused in her. It was no use, she thought, resignedly; Seamus was going to have a field day.


"So, we all going to Hogsmeade at the weekend, then?" asked Ginny, from her customary position just short of being completely wrapped in Dean.

It would be the last Hogsmeade weekend of the year, and, with the forthcoming Yule Ball so recently announced, just about everyone in the third year and above would be going to the village to either pick up new robes, or accessories. And of course, noted Hermione, the male of the species would suddenly realise that they ought to do some Christmas shopping.

"Well," started Cho, "I was thinking about going to see Harry..."

Hermione actually felt sorry for Cho - sitting as she was with her knees pressed against her chest, and her Ravenclaw cloak wrapped tightly around against the cold. She looked lonely, lost and, well, sad. And as if the whole Harry thing wasn't bad enough, she reminded herself, Cho had gone through the Cedric thing barely six months earlier.

Not a good year, then.

"Do you think they'd let you?" asked Padma, gently, "I mean, isn't he in, er, solitary?"

"But he's there for life!" protested Cho, "they can't stop people seeing him... they can't... It's not fair." The sixth-year witch closed her eyes tightly, and even in the firelight Hermione could see the knuckles whiten.

Lavender rested a hand on the Ravenclaw's arm, "it's OK," she urged, "really... we could ask Lupin... I'm sure he'd know, um, something... he'll be fine..."

The others all looked warily at each other. The truth was that none of them knew how Harry would be at all, but 'fine' was certainly not top of the list of adjectives they'd have looked to. No, thought Hermione, Harry James Potter would almost certainly not be 'fine' at that moment in time.