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So far... The reborn Hermione launched the secret Cathesis League to fight corruption. Now at Hogwarts, she formed CREST from the trusted members of the old D.A. Over Christmas 1991, Harry's hag bodyguard was imprisoned in Devil's Deep for trying to kill Draco, and Zabini was cleared. Harry's miniature portrait of Lily Potter was restored and he learns his adoptive mother, Hestia, is expecting a baby. Now read on...

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Chapter 45

Bitten


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The House Debt

In the new year, after the youngsters had journeyed north to meet the winter night, they found Hogwarts smoothly cloaked in snow, glistening like sugar crystals in the flickering torch lights around the castle. The mysterious lake, normally blackened by its peaty sediments, now presented only a pale sheet of ice over which a mist, faint and seemingly lost, gently drifted.

Neville, who had stayed at Hogwarts through Christmas, greeted them cheerily enough amongst the crowds in the Entrance Hall, bombarding everyone with questions about their holidays. Ron, who once again had almost missed the train after a last-minute return from France, handed the bewildered boy a secondhand copy of Herbes Mystérieuses Illustrées (hastily-wrapped in what appeared to be previously-used gift paper) saying it was mostly pictures anyway so he could work out the language. Most surprisingly, Daphne Greengrass also thrust a book-shaped package – this one into Hermione's hands – and, with an averted and possibly-embarrassed glare, swept back into the rivulet of Slytherins heading for the opening feast.

"What is it, Hermione?" frowned Harry.

"Don't open it!" was Ron's immediate remark. "It's probably cursed."

Puzzled, and with a sombre expression, Hermione slipped it into her beaded bag. "I'll check it later, but I doubt she'd openly give me a cursed object... would she?"

But the lull in their chatter was soon lifted by the mood in the still-festively-decorated Great Hall, bright and warm with a new term full of promise. Potential dark dangers were soon forgotten. Harry pointed out that Draco Malfoy was still absent. Ron mouthed something like "The less of 'em the merrier." through the first mouthful of English food he'd eaten in a while. The greatest excitement was clustered around the return of Blaise Zabini who was being congratulated from all sides of the Slytherin table.

So plentiful were the many fresh exchanges and observations that Hermione quite forgot her belated Christmas present until, up in the girls' dorm and after Lavender, Sally-Anne, Parvati, and Fay had all bid her goodnight and appeared to be drowsily settled – if not yet asleep – she silently scanned Daphne's package for dark magic.

Nothing. The gift, whatever it might turn out to be, was not triggering any response in her wand. As an extra precaution, she took out her Sneakoscope and placed it on the bed beside her before opening the slim parcel.

Within was a thin, dark-red leather presentation case, about the size of a modest foolscap atlas. The Sneakoscope remained silent. To be certain, she backed off along her bed then opened the single brass catch with the tips of her fingers and with the case pointing away from her.

Nothing. No nasty surprises leapt at her helpless pillow.

As she slowly turned the case upon her eiderdown, shiny metal flashed from within. An assassin's dagger?

The display interior boasted the Zabini house crest in gold with a magnificent curved knife of polished metal mounted below it. The weapon reminded Hermione of a Bowie type with its broad blade and wickedly-hooked point. The addition of saw teeth on the back edge completed the implement as an all-round survival tool that was large enough to hack, fine enough to winkle, and formidable enough to threaten most foes.

A cream parchment, neatly folded in four, had lain pinched within the flat surfaces, and Hermione opened it to softly murmur the red-inked script:

The House of Zabini
offer their gratitude,
and will remember...

This was not a noble house debt paid, but a token of one due – that much Hermione recognised – yet it named no recipient. Was it aimed at House Potter? Or to the Granger Muggles? A weapon definitely symbolised a willingness to defend and not merely monies owed. Many were the traditions of the ancient magical houses, and Hermione screwed up her forehead in concentration trying to remember what was relevant. A sign such as this would always indicate the beneficiary – unless there were no such magical house! Rarely indeed did a Pure-Blood line acknowledge a debt to a non-magical family, but then the Zabinis did acknowledge Muggles as respectable inferiors even while they regarded Magicals as so much more; the Greengrasses held a similar view, she recalled.

But what of their assumed debt to the Potter family line? Had Zabini passed a similar gift to Harry? No, he would have said so. Perhaps this was another indication of their indirectness, to convey an implicit debt without direct connection? The Zabinis had always presented a neutral facade while occasionally taking sides behind the scenes.

Hermione sighed, put away the more-than-ceremonial knife into her beaded bag, and sank back onto her pillow, tucking her legs under the bedclothes and pulling the covering up to her chin. One day, Blaise would inherit his place on the Wizengamot, and this indebtedness might then prove most useful; she'd have to discuss it with Jop Gair one day. For now, she let tiredness take over and drifted off into a pleasant sleep.

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The Achilles Heel

The first week back at Hogwarts passed peacefully with no dramatic or alarming incidents. Harry had now joined Hermione's Potions class and was elated by the friendly, creative atmosphere in which they worked. Neville was chirpy. Ron's studies continued to thrive through the use of his Tutomee.

The first Crest meeting took place with Harry now finally the clear leader. Hermione found time to contact the Cathesis League by owl, and particularly Jop Gair, to whom she conveyed she had the potential favour of the Zabini vote should they need it, and perhaps, when most needed, he should cautiously sound out the matriarch of that family while mentioning the name 'Granger'.

In the second week, Fred and George Weasley exulted to Ron that the Slytherin Quidditch team had lost one of their Chasers. Apparently they'd witnessed Adrian Pucey being carried to the Hospital Wing after being bitten on the ankle by a Mandrake.

"But re-potting Mandrakes is second-year," protested Hermione when she overhead Ron telling Harry at lunch on the Wednesday.

Ron shrugged. "I dunno. Fred said they were munching the seed trays in the lower dungeon or something."

"Mulching." Hermione rolled her eyes. "And seeds don't bite."

"I dunno. Ask 'em."

Hermione thought for a while as she finished her cucumber sandwich and washed it down with apple juice. "Probably a leftover from the previous season," she mused to herself.

"Yeah, that's what old Sprout said."

"Thanks, Ron," grumbled Hermione, reaching for another sandwich, "for forgetting to mention that."

"Yeah, septic. They're down a Chaser is the main thing." He dropped his well-gnawed chicken wing back on its plate then rubbed his greasy hands together gleefully.

Harry grinned at Hermione. She frowned at Ron. "The wound's infected?"

Neville said, to anyone listening, "Is it Charms test first lesson this afternoon? Not sure I quite finished revising."

"No excuse," said Hermione. "You must have had loads of time over Christmas here on your own. Did Seamus stop too?"

"No, but Christmas dinner was good. There were only about a dozen or so of us, even including some of the teachers. Harry, can I borrow your Charms notes for a few minutes?"

Harry, who was contemplating several puddings, reached down to his bag. "Here, knock yourself out."

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No Stingers Please

The coldest weather struck at the beginning of February.

"I swear there's frost on the walls outside our common room," complained Ernie, as the Crest members assembled in Room 4J. "Hannah slipped over and banged her elbow so she might be a bit late."

"Don't exaggerate. It's not that cold down there," smirked Susan. "Hannah just tripped over an upturned floor slab."

Ernie went over and poked the fire for a bit, faking a few shudders and grumbling that the stonework outside the Hufflepuff common room had always been fine.

Harry walked over to the alcove, opened up the Room of Requirement, then surveyed the faces behind him. "Do you think she'll be long, Susan? Shall we start our training or wait for her?"

There was a chorus of impatient noises. Susan said, "She won't mind joining in a bit later."

But the practice session was half over before Hannah showed, nursing her left arm. "It's nothing – just a little sore." She shrugged dismissively, after she was overly-showered with concern from her friends. "That Slytherin was raving feverish though. Reckons he was bitten by a gremlin."

"It was just a Mandrake," said Ron. "Come on, Hann, join our team – we're a man down and they're using Stingers." He gestured disparagingly at Padma's team.

"No Stingers on my bad arm then," said Hannah, pulling out her wand.

Padma sniggered. "So now it is a bad arm, eh? Okay no Stingers on my nose because I scratched it."

Ron guffawed. "And none on my foot – I've got a bruise on my toe."

"Hey! What about my paper cut!" laughed Hermione, getting into the spirit of the banter. "Reading can be a dangerous occupation."

With Daggard gone and Harry free, the atmosphere was light. Things were looking up for the Crestors.

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The Black Hole

As the school term progressed, Professor Quirrell introduced the first of his non-theoretical Defence lessons. He began with protection against physical attack.

"As we have discussed, if an assailant threatens you with a curse from a distance then, as youngsters, your best hope is a combination of dodging and running. However, if the enemy closes in or even seizes you or a friend then you should act quickly to separate them from the danger."

He moved into the space he had separated between the desks before continuing, "For this we use a simple but effective spell called the Revulsion Jinx which will force apart virtually any human or creature from its victim, and can even break chains and shackles if your magic is powerful enough."

He flicked his wand. "Relashio!" Fiery purple sparks shot across the classroom. Ron, who had been leaning over to closely whisper in Neville's ear that Eloise Midgen's acne was her very own Revulsion Jinx, found himself flung sideways onto the floor.

"Ah! A volunteer who already knows the spell and doesn't feel the need to listen! Thank you, Weasley," said Quirrell. There were sniggers all round, especially from the Slytherins on the left.

"Now, would anyone like to attack Weasley? Twist his arm? Grab him round the throat? Throttle him? That sort of thing?"

Almost everyone's hand shot up as Ron rose to his feet and dusted himself off.

"Mmm... what it is to be popular, eh, Weasley?" smiled Quirrell. "Well... size makes no difference to this spell... Crabbe, how about you? Yes, come forward. See if you can pull Weasley to the ground."

Ron was tall for his age but Crabbe was built like a gorilla – with a brain to match – and the red-haired youth eyed him warily, drawing out his wand as he took a defensive stance.

Quirrell said, "Remember the wand movement? And the invocation, 'Relashio', Weasley?"

Ron nodded. "Yes sir. Think so, sir."

Crabbe charged like a bull as Ron instinctively braced himself, but the Slytherin never even made contact. Ron's wand thrust forward with his rapidly-barked incantation, and the over-large youth appeared to bounce backwards off it, banging the back of his head as he hit the floor heavily midst a shower of purple flashes.

There were several moments of astonishment both from the students and Quirrell himself before he smiled warmly. "Excellent! Five points to Gryffindor, Mr Weasley. It appears you were paying attention after all." But a puzzled frown creased his brow before he continued, "Very well, everyone into the centre and form pairs. I'll show you the spell once more."

Thirty minutes was needed for most of the class to begin to even weakly produce the spell – the exceptions being Ron, Harry, Neville, Dean, and Hermione. Understanding dawned in Quirrell's expression and he asked the students to resume their seats. "Mr Potter, I've heard that you run a self-help study group for Gryffindors?"

"Not just Gryffindors, sir, trusted friends from any house."

"And the group practise Defence spells?"

"We help each other with all the subjects we're taught at Hogwarts, Professor, and some we're not."

"Well done for your initiative, Potter."

"It's not just me, Herm–" spluttered Harry, but Hermione tugged at the sleeve of his robe.

"You lead the group though, Potter?"

"Uuh... yes, sir."

"Very good. Feel free to consult with me on Defence matters."

Harry felt Hermione's elbow gently nudging his ribs. "Erm... thank you, Professor."

"For homework, I want you all to read Section 7 of your handbook and pay particular attention to the description of the many situations in which the Revulsion Jinx might be used. I want twenty inches of parchment paraphrasing the information by next week. Any questions? Anything at all?"

Hermione raised her hand. What prompted her to commence a reckless inquiry she would never know, but the girl was finding it increasingly difficult to believe Quirrell was anything but genuine. If he had turned dark, why would he be now encouraging defence against his own interests? "Professor, could you tell us something about your recent journeys? Did you discover any organised dark forces?"

Professor Quirrell paused. "I'm not sure that my travel experiences are suitable material for a first-year class, Miss Granger."

"But were there even any signs of the Black Arc for instance?"

Quirrell frowned, then sighed. "I suppose you should be told. I found no evidence whatsoever of any such group but–"

There was a collective sigh of relief, mainly from the Gryffindors, and a lot of murmuring amongst the Slytherins.

"But..." persisted Quirrell, "that fact in itself is an astonishing sign."

Harry raised his hand. "Why's that, Professor?"

"Because it is known such an organisation carried out random attacks in the recent past, mostly against Muggles, and their sign of a dark rainbow has been seen more than once. How then could my very thorough investigations discover only silence where normally there are whispers, and denials where rumours usually thrive?"

Hermione frowned. "You think they've somehow made the gossips and story-spreaders forgetful of them?"

"Exactly. And inadvertently created an empty space where one should not be."

Harry took a deep breath. "So they're planning something big?"

"No, Mr Potter, I think they are waiting for something – something or... someone."

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Sneaking

At the evening meal, Harry, Ron, and Hermione discussed Quirrell's remarks.

"Maybe it's a good thing," said Ron. "I mean, if the Black Arc have gone into hiding then nobody need worry about them for now – perhaps forever."

"But, Ron, we don't know what they're plotting," said Harry.

"Or waiting for," added Hermione. "You heard Professor Quirrell."

"Not our concern," said Ron, offhandedly. "We're just kids learning to defend ourselves if trouble comes our way; we're not vigilantes out to save the world."

Hermione stifled a wince and took another spoonful of sponge pudding which she tried to steady in her hand. She knew as a Cathesis founder that she was exactly that: a vigilante, but as a member of Crest, her fervent wish was to protect those she had lost in her former life – all of them: Harry, Ron... She looked around. "Where's Neville?"

"Finishing off his Transfiguration homework in the reading room, I think," said Harry. "Said he'd get sandwiches from the kitchen."

A suspicion began to gnaw in the back of Hermione's mind. Pushing away the remains of her dessert, she stared upwards, waiting impatiently for the others to finish. The bewitched ceiling displayed an almost cloudless, starry sky, indicating an even harder frost overnight. Her puzzled frown had evolved into an annoyed expression by the time Ron had wolfed his last cupcake and they made their way back to the common room.

"So where is he?" said Hermione as they passed the empty reading room.

Harry shrugged. "Perhaps he meant one of the other reading rooms."

One glance around the near-empty common room and Hermione stalked up to the boys' dorm. Harry and Ron exchanged glances and followed her.

"What's got into you, Hermione?" said Ron, then added as an afterthought, "You know, sometimes you act just like a mother hen."

Harry grinned and made a few clucking noises as he sat on his bed. Hermione huffed at him and stomped off downstairs.

"You know, I reckon she's serious," said Ron. "It's all this Black Arc talk – she thinks Neville's been kidnapped for ransom or something."

But abduction was not on Hermione's mind at all – though rescue was. She searched a few other reading rooms and finally the library where she remained distractedly writing out her own Charms homework until almost curfew when Madam Pince turfed everyone out.

When Neville sneaked carefully back to the darkened common room later that night, he was surprised to see a steady fire still glowing in the hearth – a fresh log or two upon it. He paused on stockinged feet. No one was about. He tiptoed towards the boys' stairs...

"You've been seeing her again, haven't you? The girl in the painting?"

Neville dropped one of his shoes in surprise and winced as it bounced off his toe. "Who's there?"

"How many people could it be? And Daggard's not here for sure."

"Hermione?"

Her half-silhouetted, half-glowing face peered around the edge of one of the high-backed chairs gathered around the fireplace. Sparks crackled as she snapped, "I thought we had an understanding?"

"But... but I never..." spluttered Neville, then, in a raised whisper, "Anyway, it was you that asked me to speak to her again!"

For a moment, Hermione was flummoxed as she tried to remember what she'd said. "Uumm... that's right, I did, didn't I?" Then she recovered. "But that was only to confirm you'd never really kissed her!"

Hermione stood up and came around from her chair to face him. "Neville, this has to stop." She shook her head. "Or what will become of you?"

Neville stood dumbfounded for several seconds. Pressure seemed to be building. "It's none of your business what I do!"

"Look, if you don't stop, I'll–"

"Do what? There's nothing you can do to stop me so keep out of my life!" He spun on his heels rather awkwardly in his socks then stumbled off again towards the dorm stairs.

Hermione stared after him – then at his shoe lying on the floor; colour on the edge of one sole suggested paint. She had one recourse... but she dreaded the thought.

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The Fear Of Being Hated

For the rest of the week, Hermione stewed over Neville's problem, battling with herself over what she felt she must do. The boy had been somewhat cold towards her and any action could only make their relationship worse. And seeing Zabini using his memory journal at mealtimes kept nagging her that she still did not know for sure why Daggard had attacked Draco.

Harry sensed her preoccupation at breakfast on the Saturday morning. "What's wrong, Hermione?"

Ron and Neville were discussing Hufflepuff's prospects in their coming Quidditch match against Ravenclaw and not particularly paying her any attention. Crest would be meeting later in the morning but Hermione wasn't necessarily needed. She came to a decision, two decisions actually. "Harry, I need to do some things, go places. Will you cover for me?"

Seeing her worried expression, Harry hesitated for a while, then nodded. "Yes, of course. I'll say you've been up in that reading room at the far end where nobody ever goes. I'll go there myself to make sure. How long will you be?"

"Only a couple of hours or so... probably not that long."

"Is it... bad?"

"Harry, if I had to do something... you wouldn't hate me, would you?"

An eyebrow lifted. "Never! You know that."

But as Hermione slipped away, he began to fret. What could his best friend possibly do that she'd think he might hate her?

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The Dying Mind

Painfully, Hermione stood before her head of house, betraying Neville's obsession only that she might ultimately help him – that did not ease her conscience. At least she toned down his curious fixation:

"So, effectively, it's like he's substituting for not having a really close friend," she finished.

Professor McGonagall shook her head. "This won't do at all."

"Please don't tell anyone, Professor," pleaded Hermione. "Not the Headmaster, not his parents – he'll suffer enough."

McGonagall's lips pinched whitely. "I'll see to it all first, have it removed, then have a quiet word with Longbottom. You say you've already explained to him that there can be no true relationship with a magical half-life form? That's it's not truly sentient?"

Hermione nodded. "That's his problem. He knows she's not truly alive when he stops to think about it, yet feels she represents someone real to his... to his heart, I suppose."

McGonagall sighed. "Leave it to me. Neither part of this will be easy for any of us."

Hermione hurried away, hoping distance would cut her off from the guilt she felt within – in vain. She turned her mind to the other task of the morning, and made her way outside.

There was very little snow left on the outer walls of Hogwarts as Hermione glided invisibly through the stone. Once free of the wards, she braced herself for the long Apparition to the little German village where stood the bell tower. Ice had not reached this far south at all this winter but the sky was as grim as her heart. She stood breathing in the fresh morning air, gazing out over the scenery as she prepared for the second leg of her journey, and pondering how she might persuade Daggard to explain why she'd tried to murder Draco.

After a while she took a deep breath and continued on her way to Devil's Deep.

Cautious as ever, Hermione remained unseeable and immaterial on her arrival in the cavern which imprisoned the half-hag. Listening, she heard nothing; watching, she saw no one. Silently she moved forward.

A huddled figure lay near, but not upon, the bed provided. Even through the torn robes, Hermione could tell the body was contorted, the arms extended, the hands still clawing weakly at the air. But it was the terror in the crone's facial expression that startled Hermione the most. The eyes were open, barely flickering, staring straight through the invisible Hermione to an unknown horror.

Though still virtually untouchable, instinct cause Hermione to spin around, searching... Swiftly she flew high around the copious spaces of the cave, afraid to remain on the ground. In vain she searched, until, her magic depleting, she had to rest from her protective spells, and descend to reveal herself.

Daggard saw her now, but whether the half-hag recognised Hermione or not, she could not tell for there was only madness to be seen in her gaze. "Please..." The voice was no more than a faintly-whimpered prayer.

The tiny bite wounds upon the protruding flesh looked to be cursed or infected. "Who or what did this to you?" Hermione had to be sure. If the crone had successfully summoned a demon it must have presumably turned on the hag-witch – but had it then returned whence it came?

"Please..."

Hermione shook her head. Does she think that begging for death will ease her suffering? A pact with evil can have only one end. "Why? Why'd you try to kill Draco?" She wanted to know but expected no sane answer from the stricken hag.

A long groan was the only response.

Hermione turned away. A new fear began to grip her. To enter a broken mind risked her own sanity. At best it would be a horror show. The little girl stood alone in the great cave summoning up all her courage, drawing on her elderly experience, trying to cushion herself with the sensation of her former mature self. She took the plunge.

Suffering beyond suffering! A shoreless ocean of misery! Waves of vivid torments washed over her. Deeper! Deeper! Back! Back! Back to Daggard's memories of Draco. But there was only confusion. both must drink from the same chalice... a suspicious connection... Harry Black... And then finally:

Darkness comes. The beast shall be its only sign. On a high place, the cursed shall be set against...

Hermione screamed. She ran and screamed again before leaning forward against a cold, uncaring wall, breathless until she recovered. Had Daggard overheard part of the new prophecy from the Divination teacher when the hag was with Harry that time? Or had the crone invaded Draco's mind to retrieve his memory? She suspected the latter because it ended with Draco flung away into space when Daggard was compelled to...

Daggard intervened! Hermione realised. The half-hag had not merely attempted to murder Draco and frame Zabini for the crime, but she had also prevented the completion of whatever ritual was taking place that night in the Astronomy Tower! But why? To protect Zabini? Hardly likely.

With a shiver, Hermione walked slowly back to Daggard, cleansing the cold sweat from herself as she did so. She was composed now, knowing she needn't repeat the Legilimens, because Daggard's mind had died while the young girl had been still within its labyrinth of terror. She blew out air and stared down at the corpse. What to do?

Certainly, Barty and Vera ought to be told, after all, the three of them together had tried and convicted the hag, and were the only ones who knew Daggard had tried to summon a demon. It took her quite a while before she could lift her spirits enough to despatch Patronuses explaining the situation then, after thinking of Crouch at the Ministry, she came to a decision about the body. A faint whisper startled Hermione from her contemplations:

"Can you come back quick! He's stormed off to that reading room! The one where you're supposed to be!"

"Harry?" She fumbled for her two-way mirror. "Who?"

"Neville! He's in a right fury! McGonagall upset him and now he's after you! Me an' Ron'll try to stall him..."

Hermione vanished with a sigh.

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Unforgiven

Hogwarts' stones yielded once more to Hermione and, reassuring herself that no one else had yet entered the little reading chamber, she solidified, became visible, took a book – any book – off the nearest shelf, opened it and pretended to read: ... this hex might even divert a charging bull mammoth but it is not recommended that...

"How appropriate," she murmured to herself as the door was flung open with a crash.

"How could you!" bellowed Neville. "Who made you boss over my life! You snitched on me and now McGonagall's vanished Etherea..." Deflating suddenly, he sank down onto the nearest chair, gasping with sobs. "Forever..."

Seeing Ron and Harry approaching along the corridor, she signalled them to stay outside then silently closed the door with a gesture.

"She can't have done it already, surely? She can't just vanish a character from a painting. An expert would need to be called in to paint over her."

"No, she said she'd van– besides, there was no smell of fresh paint."

"You've been up there again?"

"I had to see her! I had to say... I didn't even have the chance to say goodbye. The painting was empty. Just an empty room."

"Oh, Neville, I'm sorry."

She noticed there was still a trace of colour on the edge of his shoe. Neville must have seen where she was looking, saw the odd look in her eye, for he snapped, "That's ink. It's a forgotten storeroom – really old paper and stuff. That's all it is now because of you."

He flung his arms out on the table before him and buried his face there, weeping. "I hate you."

Hermione winced with shame. The older maternal instinct in her longed to comfort him but knew she'd only make matters worse. There was no remorse, no turning back time to undo her actions; what'd been done had been for the best. "I hate myself too."

He looked up. "Then why did you? How could you do that to... I thought we were friends."

"We are. That's what friends do: look out for each other, help guide each other when we're going the wrong way."

"Your just a bossy, interfering... bullying coward!"

"Coward, Mr Longbottom?" He jerked around in his chair, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. Professor McGonagall had silently entered. "I would not say so. Courage is obvious when facing our enemies, but it takes a special kind of bravery to help our friends when they do not recognise the need." There was a faint smile. "Don't let this loss ruin your life, young man. Now it is you who must be brave, brave enough to forgive and move on."

Neville stared at the older woman before saying sadly, "I can't. I was so happy, and now... now there's nothing. I can't forgive." He stood up and they watched him slowly walk out.

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—oOo—

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Author's Notes

Just to repeat what I've said in some earlier notes, probably at the start, I only commit to each Book in this story. What that means is I make a serious effort to complete each book and I've never failed to finish a story yet. I also aim to make each book have a reasonable ending so enjoyable in its own completeness as it were. However, though I hope to finish eight books, I'd be crazy to promise as it will take years and who knows what tomorrow will bring? Anyway, currently I'm getting to fortnightly updates and hope to improve on that if I can get ahead (I have half the next chapter done already but I prefer to be two or three chapters ahead as a buffer.) I've got the essentials of this book in my head and in notes so I know what I have to do. Thank you for your patience. I know how horrible it is when a story one is reading gets abandoned, so I'll never do that frivolously. :)

Many thanks for all comments and reviews. These are most welcome and very encouraging. Let me know of any weaknesses or faults – I'm always trying to improve my writing so feedback is really useful. :)

– Hippothestrowl

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