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So far... The reborn Hermione launched the secret Cathesis League to fight Ministry corruption and Black Arc members, and Crest defensive training at Hogwarts where she is now in her second year. Hermione and Ron have set out to rescue Padma who is the captive of the butcher Macnair. Now read on...
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Chapter 63
Death And Life
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Incident at Interiartcraft
By anyone's standards, the Floo path detection spell was simple – intentionally so – and Ron cast it on first attempt after careful instruction from Hermione. The difficulty, they knew, would be for them both to cast the charm at the same exact time, but in different locations: Ron here at the Arcanist-run decorators' shop in Knockturn Alley, and Hermione at the Ministry Floo Registry.
"Aculus, your part is to summon me as Ron is about to cast the spell. As I feel that inner pull, I will perform the same spell on the Master Floo at the Ministry."
Ron shook his head. "There'll be staff working nearby even this late, Hermione – Aurors and such."
"And I'll be immaterial and invisible."
"They'll hear Macnair's voice echo the location."
"The slime-ball is soft-spoken." She shuddered at the memory of how he taunted Charlie while he died. "Anyway, I'll cast a local muffling charm first. Unless someone is standing right near the fire they won't notice amidst the general background noise."
He nodded, then silently went through the ritual one more time to reassure himself.
Hermione smiled. "You'll be fine, Ron."
"It's not me we have to worry about. I just don't want to mess up while you take all the risks for nothing."
A handheld torch passed by in the street, but, through the high, tinted windows, its flickering light only faintly illuminated the beamed ceiling. Ron's eyes swept around the almost empty chamber. Dark, wood-panelled walls and polished boards underfoot were relieved by only a single table against the wall opposite the mantel. "And they pass this off as an interior decorator for the posh?" he scoffed.
"INTERIARTCRAFT it says on the door, by appointment only – yet no obvious way to make one. Ron, this is Knockturn Alley, nobody cares." Hermione glanced at her watch. "I'd better rush. Midnight close as possible, remember?"
"Yep." For want of a chair, he crossed the room and launched his backside onto the table; the sturdy wooden legs didn't even creak. Aculus fluttered his wings but remained perched securely on Ron's left shoulder. Hermione was gone when they looked across.
Ron remained silent, wondering how one is supposed to have a sensible conversation with a little bird. His wristwatch told him they had ten minutes to kill. Then nine...
The whispered warning from Aculus was not needed; Ron had heard the soft pops of Apparition in the front shop and slid down onto the floor, wand out and eyes widening with fear. He could dash into the Floo but that would destroy any hope of discovering Macnair's address.
Light burst in. "IT'S JUST A KID! how'd you–?"
The wizard's eyes darted up to the locked window. Ron's instinctive Reductor curse smashed the man's wand arm, spinning down the light midst splinters of bone, but the resulting scream of pain masked a disarming spell that flung Ron's wand across the floor and brought him down to his knees. A witch stepped into the eery, upward light, staring at the boy. "A Weasley? Here?"
"Adney..." groaned the man.
"Shut up a minute, can't you?"
She strode directly to Ron, her wand aimed right down between his eyes, rage in her own and another, more deadly, curse on her lips. Ron spluttered some words, fumbled for the Zabini knife, lost it. Yet the blade swerved up into the thigh of the witch and her intended curse ended in a shriek of pain and fury. Ron headbutted her stomach and leapt up at her, fists lashing out, thinking of Charlie. "Oooofff!" Invisible beak and talons tore at her eyes, spraying blood over Ron's hair. Without air, down she silently stumbled, staggered, fell, clutching at her face. Wafting wings flew Ron's wand back to his hand. He rose up numbly, pointing it with a shaking hand at the two intruders; one writhing and squealing breathlessly on the floor beside the lighted wand, the other staring dumb-struck, clutching his shattered arm, seemingly unaware that the wand was not far off amidst small spattered chunks of his forearm.
"Back off!" howled Ron frenziedly, but Hermione's incessant training voice shouted in his head: Don't talk! Don't wait! Act!
"Stupefy! Stupefy! Stupefy! Stupefy!" Ron was crying and snivelling at the end, shocked by what he'd done, and how easily they might have died instead of simply crumpling.
"That's more than enough," murmured Aculus, visible once more.
The sound made Ron whip around. "Aaaagh!" In a panic, he struggled to read the dial on his watch, blood filling one eye, tears in the other.
"There's time. Clean yourself," said the raven.
"Yeah..." Ron pulled out a soiled hankie and began mopping his eyes as he danced in a panic towards the fireplace.
"A spell?" suggested the bird.
"Oh, yeah..."
Water sploshed from Ron's wand. Messy, but it helped. He blinked at his watch. Tapped it. "Can't be..." Less than sixty seconds had passed.
He looked back at the fallen. "Could there be more of them?"
"I wouldn't know," said Aculus. "Better be ready."
Ron couldn't bear to pull the knife from the woman's leg, but took their wands, astonished at how different were the results of the Reductor curse on living flesh compared with test dummies, then extinguished the light. He tried to compose himself but couldn't sit down, choosing instead to stand near the fireplace, sharing his attention between wristwatch, doorway, and bodies.
"They won't stir much before Christmas after what you poured into them," said the raven.
"No..."
The lower part of his thumb began to ache a little from when his wand had been twisted away. He massaged it clumsily but didn't put away the wand.
"Four minutes..." he murmured.
Thoughts of the action in which he'd just been involved were spiralling around in his head. "Uumm... Aculus, about... what you did... Erm... thanks."
"I serve my mistress's plans... and her friends."
Three minutes...
As the hour approached, Aculus cautioned, "Better prepare."
Mind still racing, Ron braced himself, wand pointing at the hearth.
The bird cocked his head on one side. "Floo powder?"
"Oh, yeah..." Ron scooped up a handful from the tub beside the fireplace. A cloud of it fluttered down from his fist as he bunched it over to check the wristwatch once more. "Ten seconds..."
Aculus could see his lips counting down.
"INDICALOCUS! Aaghh!" He suddenly remembered to throw the powder – much of it remaining stuck to his clammy hand – then repeated more carefully, "Indicalocus!"
Green flames flared up briefly, then all was dark again.
Waiting for Hermione was worse than waiting to cast the spell had been.
"I mistimed it, didn't I?"
"I summoned Mistress twice. She'd have cast the spell again at her end."
"Think she's okay?"
Aculus remained silent.
Ron looked gloomily over the two figures on the floor. "She'll be furious at me when she sees this."
As the minutes ticked by he tried to bring to mind all the many instructions she'd given her friends during training. "I should search them, you think? For other wands and stuff?" He waited a few moments but heard no reply. "Yeah, I should..."
The wizard, he searched first, running his hands thoroughly over the body, arms and legs just like he'd been instructed, searching for hidden pockets or any bulge that might conceal something important. All that he found of interest was an ornate stabbing implement that might have belonged to any decorator for all he knew. After a while he decided it was a tobacco pipe reamer of unusual design.
Reluctantly, he turned to the woman. Her torn features were hard but under the robes the body was soft and slim except for a bulging blouse which he carefully avoided to concentrate on sides, arms, and back. A hip bag contained only cosmetic appliances, hair comb, and other knick-knacks, as well as a few Galleons in a little money purse. There'd been no identification on either of them.
A gasp of surprise behind him caused Ron to leap to his feet and spin round.
"Sheesh, Ron, you alright? My God! What happened?" Hermione was reaching to touch the side of his wet, bloody head.
"It's not my blood." He pointed at the woman's face.
Hermione strode forward, paused to scan the bodies with her wand, then moved into the shop but came quickly back when she was satisfied nobody else was in the building. "My Goodness, Ron, you did this?"
"Well, Aculus..."
"Anything on them?"
"Just these..." He held out the man's spike tool and the woman's bag. "Nothing of special interest far as I can see."
"And you searched them thoroughly how I've shown you?"
"Yeah, sure... well..."
"The woman?" Hermione slowly shook her head at his silence. "Ron, your life might depend on it. Mine too."
"I did take her shoes off but her legs are bare and there's that..." He grimaced at the knife still embedded in the woman's thigh. "Sorry..."
"Don't be. She might have bled to death if you'd pulled it out." Hermione summoned the blade, then, as blood began to flow copiously, she quickly cauterised the wound with a singeing charm. "Now just run your hands over her legs to make sure there's no fakery or stick-on stuff."
Ron crouched down again and smoothed his hands up on either side quickly, his face reddening.
"Right to the top. Properly, Ron, like you've all been shown."
"She's not a test dummy, Hermione!" The boy was breathing heavily as his hand ran around the woman's thighs. "Is this really necessary?"
"You looked inside her blouse?"
"Hermione!"
"Ron, didn't it occur to you that she's abnormally large compared to the rest of her figure? What does that suggest?"
He didn't answer, but squatted there unmoving.
"Ron, I know it's difficult, but–"
"Okay, okay!"
The garment was cut in a Victorian style and the buttons were many. Ron's hands were unsteady by the time he reached the top and exposed a generous cleavage held by a tightly-laced, silk half-camisole. "There! Happy now?"
"No. Do they feel normal?"
"How am I supposed to know what they–!"
"–Use your common sense, Ron! Do you want her to pull out a demi-wand when your back is turned? Want her to blast a hole in my face so you can learn the hard way like I had to?"
Face scarlet, he sighed and reached forward and began to roughly feel around the witch's bosom. "There is... there is something..."
"What? Careful. Perhaps I'd better..."
"No, a rustling sound... like parchment."
"Get it out."
"How am I supposed to–?"
"–the central laces, Ron."
"Oh, Merlin..."
One pull was enough, then he parted the garment easily and crouched there motionless, staring, holding his breath.
Hermione said, "Engorgement charm – I knew it. They don't hang naturally. I read about it in a Witch's Weekly omnibus edition. It's a combination of special types of hover and extender spells. Totally false-looking if you ask me."
Ron didn't move.
"Well? Seen enough?" sighed Hermione. "Where's the document? Pull it out"
"I..." breathed Ron.
"What? Can't you move?"
"Uuh..."
"Oh, for Goodness' sake, Ron! What's got into you?"
"Don't see how to reach... without..."
"Honestly..." Hermione let out a long sigh. "Just hold it aside. They won't bite you."
Closing his eyes tightly, he did as she bid then thrust his other hand down the gap between her side and left arm, bunching up the loosened camisole. "Inside a sort of... stitched hem thing in the..."
"Work it out with your fingertips."
"I am doing, Hermione!" groaned Ron.
Sweating profusely now, he had to fumble for several minutes. "Got it!"
With triumphant relief, he held it up twixt thumb and forefinger from where Hermione snatched it and moved to the least gloomy area of the chamber near the window above.
The scrawl was tiny, smudged and very difficult to read; Hermione visualised the possibilities: shifts 3-8 or 9? then 9-3 alt. weeks Feb to Apr or Aug? Report best something... more? best... more what? Or one word?
"Ron, what word begins with best and ends with–"
"–This is all wrong, Hermione."
She could see he'd carefully buttoned up the woman's clothing again but was still crouched over her, looking guilty.
"I know it is, Ron. I'm sorry. We're often faced with a choice of evils. I want you to know that your mum..." She tailed off and turned away. "Sorry."
Ron was on his feet now. "What about her? What about my mum, Hermione?"
She shook her head but told him anyway. "Four of us. We'd stunned and killed several Death Eaters. I was embarrassed in front of the others about searching one of the wizards who was particularly... big and... hairy..."
"What about my mum, Hermione!"
"I thought it unlikely he'd have anything on him that mattered – mostly they don't. I faked it, made out I'd done a thorough job. "
"And...?"
"Your mother and father needed to question the foul wizard. Your dad Enervated him..." There were tears in Hermione's eyes when she raised her head to continue. "He had a runic cord concealed in his pants – just a one-shot. He cursed your mother, Ron, cursed her bad. Took her days to die. ... Ron, I'm sorry..."
He stared at her. "Did you... make him pay?"
"Your dad separated him."
"From what?"
"I meant into several parts."
"NO! Not Dad! He wouldn't–"
"YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'D DO! Your father was – is – ferociously in love with your mother. The Death Eater was taunting her as she was consumed by the curse. Your dad was already broken anyway. This was after Charlie. And Percy. And..." Hermione paused. "Was your father wrong? Probably. But there was no reliable Ministry to properly deal with dark wizards. No justice there. He couldn't release the man. Unthinkable." She cleansed the Zabini knife and handed it back to Ron. "Sometimes it's not simply a choice of right from wrong but wrong from worse."
After staring for a few moments at the two on the floor, Hermione asked, "Did they say anything, do you remember?"
"Said it's just a kid – that one." Ron pointed at the man. "Didn't take me seriously enough so I had time to smash his arm."
"Those were his words? 'It's just a kid'? Not 'There's a kid here?' So this wasn't chance; they were expecting to find an intruder. We must have triggered an alarm. Drat! I did check everything was clear, but that was years ago. ... I should have tested again." She sighed and glanced again at the parchment. "These are probably the shifts they work on watch duty. Did they use any names?"
"Uumm... he called her Aggie – no, Addy or Adney."
"Wigget Adney – a former low level Death Eater in my time. Never met her and don't know anything about her except I don't think she ever carried the mark." She frowned at the wizard on the floor. "Don't recognise his face at all."
"What do we do?" said Ron, morosely.
"We're in a fix – can't leave them nor can we take them with us to Macnair's."
"I'm sorry, Hermione, I messed up – should have been more alert."
Hermione turned to her friend. "Sorry? Sorry, you say? Ron, you behaved wonderfully – amazingly! You downed two Arcanists, and did it brilliantly by the looks of things."
"Me? Knee-jerk responses and just got lucky. Aculus saved me else I'd have–"
The raven shrilled softly as it flew to Hermione's shoulder. "I merely distracted one of them – unnecessarily as it turned out – and retrieved your wand for you."
"Developing the instinctive responses is what our training was for, Ron," said Hermione. "You deserve a medal. As it is, you can't tell anyone – you know that, don't you?"
"No way I would! Mum'd kill me if she knew!"
Hermione looked from bodies to Floo then back to the bodies. "I have an idea..." She used the Floo to contact Barty Crouch then poked her head through the flames.
"Rosie! You're early!" said Crouch. "I'm ready for you though."
"Something came up first, Barty. I have two stunned and injured Arcanists for trial. Can I push them through and we'll deal with them when I get Macnair?"
Crouch took a deep breath and Hermione saw him casting a locking charm on his study door. "Do it."
Hermione backed out of the fire, then banished the two bodies through before thanking Crouch. "The woman is Wigget Adney but I don't know the other."
"I'll give them Living Death till we can process them," said Crouch. "Have you located Macnair yet?"
"Only his Floo address. I'm going there now."
Crouch growled inwardly. "Floos can be trapped. Be careful, Rosie."
"I will."
She pulled out of the flames and she and Ron thoroughly cleaned up the blood and gore, then, as they both stood in the hearth, Hermione conjured a light mist of house dust to settle on where they'd been.
Satisfied there were no obvious signs of anyone having been present, she said, "Ron, you must follow me without delay, keep low, wand out. I have to be solid to use the Floo but I'll be invisible, so remain silent and trust that I'm right before you. The destination's Homeward Bound would you believe! So friendly and normal. I suppose it was stupid to have expected something horrible like–" She looked him over; his lips were clamped stiffly and the boy was visibly agitated. She put a hand on his shoulder. "Will you be alright?"
Ron did his best to appear in control of himself, even forcing a tight smile. "Huh? Sure. Sure I will."
"Remember, we must..." A puzzled frown touched her forehead and she dug into her bag to examine her planner and pull out the packet that Farrimond had returned to Harry.
"Take this, Ron."
"Who's it for?"
"Uumm... Modesty. Er... yes, Modesty and Sue... Thing. Remember that."
Fondly, she stroked the feathers of the raven. "Aculus, you stick with Ron."
With that, Hermione was gone in the flames.
Slightly reassured now the raven was gripping his shoulder like an extended hand of Hermione, Ron cast Floo powder and with wand pointing forward, crouched down into the green flames whispering hoarsely as he did so, "Home Wood Bound,"
A moment later the shop in Knockturn was empty once more save for the silent cloud of Floo powder slowly descending onto the hearth.
.
Death of a Great Witch
The gloomy outline of household paraphernalia stacked and wedged between dust-sheeted furniture caused Ron to squint and frown as he moved very cautiously out of the fireplace on his arrival. He ached to call out to Hermione but forced himself to remain silent and watchful.
The faint whisper in his ear startled him. "Mistress is not here."
"What?" Ron's murmur trembled a little, and he reached out, probing the air before him with his free left hand. "Hermione?" he said softly.
"We are not where she is. I sense dread peril has befallen her. How can we not be at the same place? Speak quickly! What happens if a wizard declares a Floo location incorrectly?"
Ron rose and stepped anxiously forward, picking his way around a low table and other clutter. "I didn't. I said it exactly the same as Hermione did. ... That is, I'm sure I... I think I did."
"This is not a lived-in home," said the raven, who had flown up to a grime-soiled window set in a wall of stout wooden timbers. "It is, perhaps, an outhouse. Are we even in the same town? The same country?"
Ron joined him to stare out at an overgrown garden full of weeds and tangles of wild trees untrimmed and uncared for. "We must be close. If anyone says the address a bit wrong then the Floo just sends them to the uumm... nearest to erm... what sounds uuh... nearest."
"Then we may be in a garden, and that house yonder may be where my Mistress currently is. Let me out that I might locate her."
Ron tore his gaze from the dark silhouette of the building obscured by the rampant foliage and stumbled around, trying to find a door. Reluctant to light his wand, he felt along the first wall he bumped into then, his hand falling upon a latch, he tilted and pulled.
"Can't see a damned thing!"
He took a couple of steps forward into utter blackness. "I'll have to risk it..." He cast the smallest light he could, then blinked at the wooden corridor in which he found himself. Four heavy iron doors hung high along its windowless length; greased levers and chains appeared to be the means to slide them down sturdy metal guide rails. At the end was a simple wooden door.
"A bolt hole!" cried the astute raven. "Keep your wand prepared, young Weasley! If the villain were to run, I believe he will rush in at the far end, striking the levers as he passes and causing the iron doors to fall behind him, thus cutting off pursuit while he reaches this alternate Floo escape – the one in which we arrived!"
Aghast, Ron pointed his wand down the tunnel. "What if Hermione's close behind him with one of those dropping on her head!"
He dashed forward, oblivious of any danger to himself, with Aculus flying after him. The wooden door burst inward as he reached it, hitting him aside, but not before he'd sent a curse into the night.
"No one there..." said Ron, rubbing his forehead. "Must be charmed for when he's in a hurry. Come on!"
But Aculus had sank to the weedy turf beyond the threshold, his unfurled wings spread limply aside.
Ron skidded to a halt and twisted around. "Come on! What is it?" He stepped back, fearing the bird had succumbed to a hidden trap meant for himself. Gently, he lifted up the raven and cradled it to his chest
"I fear... that is, I know... we are too late," said the raven in a manner so wretched that Ron gasped.
"No, you're wrong! Not Hermione..." He gaped at the bird disbelievingly, then turned about and sprinted away.
The rough path was narrow and twisted savagely about through trees, posts, and tall shrubs – grievously so for one in a hurry, and if Ron could have torn out the imaginings in his head of a manic, razor-wielding wizard gloating over the body of a helplessly petrified Hermione, then he'd have recognised that the route he ran was a blocking shield for friend and foe alike.
And so he arrived at the house unobserved and crouch-clambered up a filth midden sloping up to what he supposed to be the kitchen window with its low slanting roof and stove chimney. Only glimmers of light escaped its dingy panes. Cautiously he peered in.
Hermione hung out from the fireplace transfixed, crucified by several long spits of sooted iron. Every limb was pierced right through, and so was her body. A single vertical spike raked up by her neck and jaw, holding her tortured features almost erect. Though her eyes remained open, they stared blindly, nor did she cry out.
"Must need her dying wish," sighed the raven. "Take me hence."
But Ron's shocked face had turned to a menacing figure crossing the kitchen from the right, and brandishing what appeared to be a carving knife.
"MACNAIR!" screamed Ron, and hurled himself through the glass, a blasting curse on his lips. The force of the spell hit the dark wizard's left side only moments before the boy crashed into him. Down they both went, Macnair squealing with surprise, Ron on top shrieking only his worst magic as both fists flailed wildly at the man's face and his wand jabbed an eye. The sound of bone snapping caused Ron to back off and rise up, his wand firmly pointing at the wizard howling beneath him.
"Ron..." The murmur came from his left. His head started to turn. Macnair's blade was feebly rising... NEVER take your eyes off the enemy – Hermione's instructor voice in Ron's head. One stride and Ron's foot stamped down furiously on the man's hand, again and again, until the fingers were surely smashed. He kicked away the knife and ran to Hermione.
"Wand..." she breathed, and her eyes flicked towards Macnair.
Horrified, Ron spun about and sent another blasting curse at the man on the floor, sending him crashing and crumpling against the far wall where he lay still, one hand still within a pocket of his robes.
"WHY DON'T YOU JUST DIE!" yelled Ron, as he retrieved and broke the wizard's wand.
Back he dashed. "Hermione! Hold on! How... how do I get you out of..." He gaped to one side of the chimney breast where a vertical capstan was set connected to a heavy anvil hung from a chain. He thrust his wand into a pocket and lunged for the capstan, putting all his weight onto it.
"No, young Weasley, do you wish to watch my mistress lose her lifeblood more quickly?"
The raven had limped and fluttered weakly to Hermione. She appeared lifeless, but a low moan and an inaudible whisper drew Ron to kneel with an ear turned to catch her words.
"Tell ... Harry ... ... I did love him... I do..."
The final breath was not enough for her to finish. ... There was no movement. ... She did not sag nor did her eyes close, but Ron knew Hermione was really dead. Perhaps time ended ... and possibly the Earth had stopped turning. ... For many minutes he stared numbly at his friend – she made still by death, he frozen in heart and soul – then, at the faint sound of her killer – conscious now and trying to crawl – a terrible fury arose within Ron Weasley. He turned. And saw. Despite a fractured limb, and squinting through a swollen eye, Macnair was leering triumphantly at him. In his left hand he clutched another wand. It was pointing directly at Ron.
Swift as Ron was to draw his own wand, fleet as he was to sidestep and dive, he knew the green radiance flaring towards him was his own death – sure as day would follow night without him. There was an explosion of feathers in the air shocking both man and boy. Aculus was no more. Ron, pointing his own wand, stared venom and hatred at Macnair, daring him, willing him to make a move. Wide-eyed with fright, the wizard gawped back for a moment at the certainty of Ron's intent, then, whimpering, he dropped his wand. "Don't hurt me..."
Ron blasted the wood to splinters then felt the Zabini knife in his grip before striding purposefully to the terrified Arcanist. Forward plunged the blade into the butcher's black heart straight and true. "For Hermione," snarled Ron.
.
Ron's Ordeal
Unable to turn, Ron stood emptied and in shock for a long minute before he began to cry. When eventually he did return to Hermione's corpse he was shuddering with emotion. "I'll t–tell him, Hermione. I'll tell Harry, I promise."
Despairingly he examined the sharp lances that skewered his friend like a common fly in the corner of a wire web, then he put his shoulder to the capstan. Slowly, the greased iron chain wound the anvil higher, a lock latch clicking metallically in each cog. He dare not look behind him but when he heard Hermione's body slump to the ground, he knew the spikes had withdrawn below the hearth. Gradually, with a huge effort of will, he turned...
So much blood. It pooled darkly about her soaked robes. Her features were ivory and the lips were losing colour too. He stooped, stroked one cheek of the familiar but contorted face, then, sniffling and blubbering, knelt before her and wrapped one cold hand in both of his. "S–should've been m–me. Wish... wish I'd gone f–first."
For several minutes he remained silent, begging Something Higher to exchange his life for hers and wanting – oh how he desired to say a prayer for her departing spirit, yet he knew not one! That thought of her soul's flight drove home to him her complete and everlasting absence and how reliant he and his friends had been on the girl. "What do we do without you, Hermione? How can we possibly go on? How can I...?"
Ron let go her hand and stood up, vividly aware of his own plight. He'd murdered a Ministry employee in cold blood. The man had thrown down his wand. Was this how Dad felt when he killed the Death Eater who cursed Mum? Hermione had explained there'd been no other justice available; was now any different?
He forced himself to look over towards his victim, half-wishing he wasn't dead. But then what? Where would...? Forget that! What about now!
What was he to do? Where to go? He couldn't leave Hermione, nor could he stay. He could never face his family and friends ever again. How to explain what happened? How to tell Harry? Oh, Merlin... He closed his eyes tight as he recalled Olive's reaction to Hermione's killing curse in the Forest, and knew then her friendship was lost to him forever. Ron was in the very worst fix of his life and he knew it.
"I wish we'd never come here just to...!" His cry left him baffled and sick with worry. What had been the point! Why had Hermione brought him here? It had all been for nothing!
She'd told him nothing. Given him nothing – no, wait... He reached for his bag then cursed when his fingers smeared Hermione's blood upon it. He rolled his sleeves high up his arms then washed at the kitchen sink before returning to his bag to retrieve the potion bottles. He pulled one out. The Draught of Living Death! Why would she expect him to drink that? Frantically he scrabbled further, found the other potions, poultices and packet, and a faint tendril of memory touched his thoughts: Someone needs these...
The packet she'd given him was marked only 'For Miss Hermione Granger' but there was a discreet Z motif in one corner. Cautiously, he opened it. "What th–?"
Ron had pulled out pale gossamer so light and silky-smooth he seemed to be juggling vapour. Indeed, the delicate yellow fabric almost slipped from his grasp until he recognised it as a splendid witch's robe and both arms of the garment he slid over one of his – then swung it round his neck. Held there, it cascaded down almost to his shoes, for the inner lining was completely frictionless and intangible.
The garment was familiar: the angel had worn something like this when she visited him in Hogwarts' hospital wing, he remembered. What was her name? Imogene? Was she the one in trouble? Surely they'd not come here simply to return her...
Captive! Imogene must be captive here!
Out came his wand and he glared over towards Macnair's lifeless body. His eyes settled on Hermione's knife still embedded in the man's chest. With fierce determination, he went over, gripped the hilt, then looked away as he yanked upwards. The blade came out quite smoothly, and after cleansing it with his wand, he reattached it to his belt, then set off in search of Imogene.
.
The Thing in the Attic
Macnair's house was not large, and the only locked door Ron found led down to a dingy basement. A second, unlocked door at the foot of the stairs looked much more rugged than the one above, but like the chains and mechanisms that Macnair seemed so fond of oiling, this door, and its hinges, must have been expertly hung and maintained, for, despite its thickness, the door swung silently open at the touch of his fingers...
Within, a small spider ran across the low ceiling to escape the young wizard's wand light. The boy shuddered, but, apart from that creepy-crawly, there was no other movement. The chamber was empty save for a broken chair, a brick chute grimy from its residue of old coal, and a great heap of chopped logs in which was embedded an axe with a long polished handle and a gleaming, polished blade. He shivered again. Macnair's priorities were evident.
He clambered up the sloping trough, slipping and skidding and crunching on the sparkling black dust, then forced open the hatch and clambered out. Clearly no room in the house was secure enough to confine a witch of Imogene's abilities, so he hurried around the extensive garden searching for outbuildings. The outhouse he already knew could never imprison anyone so long as there was Floo powder. Where then? No other large structure was evident.
Disappointed, he began slowly walking back to the house. What would Hermione have done? Work it out, Ron, said the girl's bossy, tutorial voice in his head. You can only work with what you're given.
He studied the filmy saffron robe wafting aside in the lightly-moving air. Perhaps if he waved the colourful fabric aloft then Imogene might see it from the window of a hidden room! But the potions... He sighed. He already knew one of them was the potion that would render anyone unnoticed. He slapped his head in disgust, remembering it was for himself, and the poultices were the antidotes. Imogene must, therefore, already be under the influence and needed...
Abruptly, he stopped in mid-step on the path. Imogene couldn't be unnoticeable else he wouldn't even remember her. Who then? And how was he to...? A long low growl of annoyance rumbled in his throat. Obviously he must drink the potion then he would be able to find her – or him, whichever they might be.
First, Ron went around the entire house making sure all the doors were left wide open before preparing himself. Even so, he spent a lot of time pondering that he'd only have one chance at this. He stared at the items Hermione had entrusted to his care, worked it out in his head then, grimacing, he swallowed the potion before quickly taking up the folded poultices in one hand.
He did not have long to wait. In less than a minute he could no longer elbow the nearest door, even his kick simply skidded off. Satisfied, he headed upstairs.
His new search began in the bedrooms and then the attic. As before, the loft space was cluttered with household junk, old furniture and a couple of suitcases. A Gladstone bag stood on a low cabinet beside which was a large travel chest. Ron tried to imagine a young Macnair lugging it to Hogwarts. He stared at it. The twins had locked Ron in a similar trunk belonging to Charlie the summer before his brother started at the school. He'd cried for what seemed like hours but in retrospect had only been ten minutes before they let him out. Was there a boy curled up in this one right before him!
"Hello!" He felt a fool but had to try. "Anyone in there? I've come to... I'm here to help you."
He listened but the only sound was the breeze soughing through a broken slate. Suddenly he knew; he just knew someone was trapped, petrified or stunned within the chest. Frantically he scrabbled and clawed at the latch. Whether it was locked or not he could not tell, for his hands, of course, slipped over the clasp so easily that it made no difference.
"I'll help you, I promise! I won't leave you!"
How many hours – even days! – had the lad been trapped within, terrified and alone? Help! He had to get help no matter what the cost!
But naturally, he couldn't. There was no help. No one would be able to see or hear him, and if he used a counter-potion poultice on himself then he would forget about the chest.
He sat in the dust. There in a dead man's attic he sat on the floor and struggled within himself. What would Hermione do? She'd written notes to herself! Could he do that? What if he set a poultice on his arm, wrote a note as soon as he was able, kept it in hand...? How far could he get? And at what risk? No, he'd promised the boy he wouldn't leave him. Ron knew the terror of being utterly confined for a few minutes. What must the child be feeling after many days! No, he must smash open the chest here and now. But how? With what?
Hadn't he seen an axe in the cellar? That was it! Take himself down there. Use the poultice. Write a big note and never put it down. Get the axe. Run upstairs again. Smash open the lock then... and then he remembered he had no second potion. All he could do was open the chest and hope the boy would gain some comfort while he fetched help. Perhaps he might climb out? Ron would not be able to tell. But he could place the other poultice in plain sight along with another big note instructing the child how to apply it!
Down the steps sprinted Ron. The cold dead stone in his heart partly obscured now by tense action and eager hope – even if it was only the chance he might complete Hermione's mission for her! Hermione!
Eyes misting with tears again, he slowed to a stop on the bottom step, feeling guilty at the slight elevation of his mood, and sniffling wetly for a while. A cobweb fluttered on the stair wall and in the air was a foul odour he'd not noticed before, reminding him of a dead rat he'd once tumbled upon at the bottom of the Weasley's garden while still quite young. He shuddered at the bizarre thought of Macnair's rotting cadaver, eyes gleaming manically, carving knife in hand, staggering down the dark stairs behind him, seeking retribution – his pound of flesh! A shiver went up Ron's spine and, screwing up his courage, he stepped forward to open the final door...
The basement door closed? He knew he'd opened it. Closed again? How? By whom? Was Macnair's half-living corpse yet lying in wait beyond it? And what was he to–?
–No, the door was only almost closed and the wafting slide of the gossamer across his shoulder together with the fluttering cobweb above told him even a light draught could have blown the sturdy, free-swinging door from its open position.
However, whereas on his first visit, a single finger had been enough to push the door open, now, all the heaving, slipping, and sliding of his best shoulder scarcely moved it. Yes, the tiny gap might have increased a fraction of an inch after many minutes of his attempted bumping and pushing and skidding – but could he be sure? After a long while of striving then peering through the crack, he imagined he saw a tiny thread of... starlight?
The coal hatch! He'd left the hatch open! That's where the draught had come from and that was his way in!
His long legs carried him up to the ground floor once more only to curse himself for not opening the exterior doors, neither front or back! If he'd expected sympathy, then the low moan of despair he uttered was wasted; as far as the world knew, he no longer existed. Right now, everyone at school all his friends and family – none of them remembered him, not even Olive.
A great temptation came to him then. Awful though his condition of non-interaction was, it was far better than Azkaban, and infinitely superior to his imagined accusation from a shocked, finger-pointing Olive: "Villain! Murderer!"
Tentatively he walked towards the kitchen. If somehow he could return Hermione's body to her family – or at least a message – might he simply disappear from the world? For good?
Her lifeless form was even more disturbing on his return. Ron's initial terror and shock had been eroded somewhat by distractions. Now the reality was sinking in, and the boy felt ill. Crazy, confused thoughts filled his mind. What could he say to the Grangers? And Harry...?
He shook his head. This would never do. And yet... he might carry her poor body out through the window he'd blasted. How far might he walk with her in his arms? No – dragging her on the bloody hearthrug? What did it matter should it take months or years? He no longer had a real life. He... The window was smashed! Finally it had dawned on him.
Groaning at his own stupidity he leapt onto the draining board and out the broken window. Swiftly he raced around to the coal hatch and jumped in, knowing he could not hurt himself. There in the darkness! The gleam of the axe blade! It was his for the taking!
But first the poultice. And remember the note to yourself, Ron! cautioned the voice of Hermione in his head. And instructions for the boy in the trunk! Don't forget: big, BIG notes!
Mind whirling, he braced himself, wishing he had a light then remembering he could use his wand once he'd recovered from the potion, and slapping his forehead. "Dolt! Why would I need a ruddy axe to unlock the chest!"
Cautiously he probed one of the folded poultices, attempting to peel it open with his other hand, then winced. Jam! It's as tacky as glue to me now! How can I...?
He'd suck on it, he told himself. He'd sucked on food for hours in this condition before – he could do this! It simply needed lots of patience and time.
Squinting in the gloom, he walked across towards the broken chair, confident that, in his current state, it did not matter that it was cracked and twisted, as it could not give way beneath him even if he tried.
"T'uh!" In the dark, he'd bumped the side of his knee past a low shelf or something. It couldn't actually hurt him as he slid past, but it was annoying – and rather scary – to feel pushed aside unexpectedly in the black void, and the odour he'd smelt earlier was far stronger in this corner too, which didn't help his mood one bit. Ron wrinkled up his nose. Was Macnair using the coolness of this basement as a larder? Ron wondered then if he'd brushed by some over-hung pheasant."Wrong time of year," he grumbled loudly, for there was no way he might be overheard.
Weary now, he sat down, wondering how he'd not noticed the food on his previous visit and squinting back out of curiosity. Vaguely he discerned the outline of a half-collapsed iron bedstead standing against the wall, and strewn across its springs was not pheasant but what might be one or two legs of mutton or pork. Ron leaned forward for a closer look...
Wailing and recoiling in horror, the boy's head skidded along the wall behind him. Not pork, but surely human legs, red and scabby, lay there! How many dead had the butcher hidden around his property? Stomach churning, Ron forced himself to edge past, grateful now that the cellar was too dark to see any detail – and then... an arm was lolling out towards him with palm upturned and delicate fingers feathered past his knee.
His terrified scream led to Ron dry-heaving and staggering away, bent over and clutching his stomach. He'd faintly glimpsed a face now, and one glimpse had been enough. Soft brown eyes, half-closed and looking out from a pretty face framed by long dark hair: Padma Patil! All the memories were already there; he'd simply not been thinking of her until jolted by this revolting experience.
Gasping for enough air, Ron backed away to the coal chute where the fresh breeze was draughting down, and took several large breaths to compose himself.
"Padma?" He wasn't sure if she was dead or alive. "Padma, are you alright?" Of course she's not! That's why you're here!
Hesitantly, Ron inched forward, wishing he had a light. His eyes had adjusted somewhat but all he could discern was a pale impression of a naked form.
Modesty and... soothing, came a voice in his head – Hermione's.
Ron floated the delicate saffron robe over Padma then wrapped it around the girl best he could. Her body was warm which was encouraging, though the eyes stared lifelessly ahead.
"Padma, it's Ron – Ron Weasley. I think you're stunned, but if not, if you can hear me, I'm going to put a poultice on your arm so..." Ron hesitated, gently closing her eyes with the tip of his finger while he considered how to warn her about the agony she'd endure once the antidote had taken effect and before he could persuade her to drink the Living Death. "...then get you out of here," he finished lamely.
After puzzling how he could possibly open the poultice, he decided to suck on the other one himself until it began to counter the potion. He'd have to be quick then to apply the other to Padma before he no longer noticed her.
As he slowly consumed the antidote, Ron kept attempting to open up the other poultice, but it defied all his efforts. Only when he found himself wondering what he was doing and why, did it finally peel apart. He stared at it, vaguely aware of someone lying before him needing help. Without thinking, Ron stooped down and pressed the poultice on Padma's arm.
Puzzled, he wondered why he'd come down into the empty cellar again. He lit his wand and looked around then took up the axe and nodded to himself – but what next? Didn't he have to write a note to himself? A big, big note about something? Or was that for later? The chest in the attic!
After bounding to the door, Ron paused. Why had he used Hermione's poultice, and where had be put the other one? He glanced back to see if he'd dropped it. A figure in shimmering saffron lay upon an old iron bedstead and finally Ron understood and remembered everything.
Grateful that Padma remained unconscious and that he need not use the draught of Living Death for now, he threw down the axe, then gently lifted the girl and carried her upstairs to the kitchen Floo and laid her on the table.
Ron knew he was finished, in both senses of the word. He'd resigned himself to fate, disgrace, shame, and imprisonment. All he cared about now was to take Hermione and Padma to – where?
St. Mungo's was the obvious choice, though he didn't know if even they would be able to heal Padma's monumental injury, so extensive was the wound, but speed was essential to prevent further infection. The Aurors would be called and he would be interrogated and confess everything.
Ron was firm about one thing: he'd carry Hermione's body through last; there was no way he was going to push her through and leave her while her fetched the others. Then there was Aculus...
He found the dead bird bedraggled but intact on the kitchen floor. Ron found a lidless shoe box on a shelf, tipped out its contents of shoe brushes and polish, and, after placing the raven reverently within, laid the box beside Hermione so he could carry them together. It was fitting a witch remain with her familiar, and many were buried side by side.
Padma he could pass to someone at St. Mungo's and explain her condition. But first he had to attract attention, and no way better than by pushing Macnair through. Ron didn't care two hoots what became of him and 'dead' didn't need any detailed explaining on first delivery. He grabbed the corpse by the collar, dragged him across the floor, then, rather than move the foul wizard close by Hermione, he employed Mobilicorpus to lift him above the hearth. There the man dangled upright like a macabre marionette, slowly rotating until his drooping head – still showing the same cowardly expression – came gradually around to face Ron as if in accusation.
"Ugh!" Ron's concentration failed and with it his hovering spell. Macnair fell like a rag doll. CLANG! Up shot the spikes which Ron had unintentionally reset when he wound up the anvil. The boy stared in horror. Macnair was grotesquely impaled by his own devilish device, and how was Ron to explain this?
Anxiety was curiously mixed with relief when it occurred to him that Macnair looked as if he'd just come through the Floo and triggered his own trap. In those few astonished seconds Ron came to a rapid decision. Leaving Macnair, he carried Padma and Aculus to the other Floo in the outbuilding, laying them down on the low table while he returned for Hermione's body. After careful casting of a cleaning charm to remove most of the blood, he gently lifted her and removed his friend from the awful scene of her macabre death and to the outhouse.
Finally, he returned to more thoroughly clean the kitchen and repair the window. How grateful he was now for all those training sessions from an early age with Hermione! Up in the attic he easily opened the chest with an unlocking charm, only to discover it was packed with nothing more sinister than commonplace blankets and sheets. He remembered to close all the doors then surveyed the kitchen once more. Nothing remained to indicate he and Hermione had ever been there.
But what now? he thought. How could he explain Hermione's and Padma's injuries to the authorities at St. Mungo's? There was no way of getting out of this blameless, but perhaps he might yet evade Azkaban. Ron trudged back up the path to the outhouse wondering, as ever, what Hermione would tell him to do. What had been her plan? Those owl messages had never been explained nor why Harry had been told to ask his parents if she could visit them that evening – did they know something about this?
For the last time – Ron hoped – he walked under the deadly iron doors hanging above him in the outhouse corridor. He stared at the two girls laying side by side on the low table – they might have been asleep if one overlooked the slashes in Hermione's robes, and the dreadfully raw state of Padma's feet.
The fireplace he gazed at for a while before casting in a handful of powder. Green flames rose high and, tensing up with a growing fear, Ron plunged his head into them and choked out, "Twelve ... Grimmauld ... Place!"
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Flight Delayed
"RON!" shrieked Hestia, when his head appeared through the flames at the Blacks' residence. "Are Harry and Hermione with you? It's almost one o'clock! We've been worried sick! Didn't know whether to call Dumbledore. Where are you? Is everything alright?"
The dam of Ron's emotions began to crack, and his already tear-streaked face screwed up in the fight to hold back the flood. "S–sorry, b–but..."
"Ron, you look ill!" She looked back over her shoulder. "Sirius! They're here."
Ron struggled on gamely. "D–did H–Hermione tell you why we were coming?"
Hestia shook her head. "Don't you know? Didn't she say? What's happened? Just tell us."
Sirius had joined her at the hearth looking tired and slightly irritated. Ron bit his lip, wondering whether to pull back and try for St. Mungo's.
"Ron?" said Sirius.
"There's been a t–terrible... accident..."
"Harry's hurt?" cried Hestia. "Then what are you waiting for? Tell him to – can't he walk? ... Say something, Ron! Or is it Hermione?"
Ron battled to get any sensible words out. "G–girl ... hurt b–bad. Real bad." Fresh tears streamed down his face now. "D–don't know wh–"
"–Help her through, Ron – immediately," said Hestia in a take-charge kind of manner. "Kreacher! Fetch my aid bag, would you? The big one."
Still wincing with grief, Ron nodded, and the tortured face briefly withdrew into the green flames. When that blood-matted, red-haired head re-emerged, his upper body pushed out too, and in his arms he held out Padma. Sirius took her from him immediately.
"Careful!" cried Ron. "The legs are..."
Hestia suppressed a gasp when her professional eyes fell upon the state of Padma's feet, but Ron was disturbed to hear her tone of relief when she said, "It's not Hermione," for he knew how fond she was of Harry's closest friend.
"Who is she?" said Sirius, as he waited while Hestia conjured a small wooden trestle-bed for him to lay the girl upon.
"Her name's Padma – Padma Patil."
"How did this–?" began Hestia, but Ron had retreated into the flames once more.
"Raise the bed a little, Sirius," said Hestia. "Kreacher, fetch me more dressings – the whole stock." She shook her head as she began casting healing spells. "All I can do is try to delay the infections but I don't see how even St. Mungo's can save her legs."
"I think she's been stunned," said Sirius. "What have they been up to? I'll kill Harry when he gets here!"
"Probably for the best that's she's out of it until they can treat her for the pain. I'll call them as soon as the Floo – where's...?"
At a sound from behind them, both Sirius and Hestia turned. Ron stood before the hearth, and in his arms he cradled Hermione's body.
"Oh, Merlin! Call St. Mungo's, Sirius!" cried Hestia. "I can't give my full attention to both!" Out from her bag she pulled a large bottle of salve, then dug deeper for an additional potion.
Ron shook his head as Sirius tried to edge around him to make the Floo-call while his eyes were still fixed on Hermione's very visible face wound. "Ron, what the hell have you...?"
He stopped. Ron wasn't moving; his agonised face shone wetly. Hestia, hearing the sudden silence, turned.
"Dead..." mumbled Ron. "Hermione's dead."
His legs gave way and Ron sank to his knees. Hestia, despite her long experience working at St. Mungo's, stifled a sob and froze for a moment. Sirius reached for Hermione...
"No..." wailed Ron, unwilling to release what might be a last contact with his beloved friend.
Hestia came forward. "Ron, we have to..." Her eyes scrutinised the slashes in Hermione's robes and her mind snapped back into focus. "On here, Sirius!" With one sweep of her wand, she cleared the long kitchen table and conjured a white cloth upon it. "Lay her out."
But it was Ron who, with great effort, staggered to his feet and, with great care, placed Hermione on the sheet. Hestia cast a diagnostic spell out of habit, but her practised eye could see there was no life to be detected. "Ron, tell me one thing..."
She whirled around. "Is Harry safe?"
Confused by the question for a moment, Ron tried to think. "Yes, he's still at Hogwarts."
"Ron, we need to speak to a lot of people. Can you tell us briefly what happened?" said Sirius. Hestia returned to Padma but her ears were open to what was being said.
Nodding numbly, Ron explained how Hermione had took him to rescue Padma but Hermione was lanced through by a trap of large spikes. He made no mention of Macnair and told them truthfully he had no idea where the house was located. "It was Hermione's plan, you see. You know about the potion that kept me hidden for months? – it was in the Prophet. Harry must have told you?" When they both nodded, he said, "That's what happened to Padma too."
Sirius sighed. "Why on Earth didn't you tell someone instead of going off half-cocked to–"
"BECAUSE NOBODY WOULD REMEMBER ANYTHING THAT HERMIONE SAID!" stormed Ron, then added in a weary tone, "Even I couldn't. She needed me to take the potion again you see, then to apply the antidote to..." He gestured towards Padma then gazed weakly about for somewhere to sit.
Hestia cried, "Help him, Sirius! That chair there. Kreacher! Make us a big pot of tea would you?" She began a series of incantations as her wand moved over Padma's form.
"Yes, Mistress. Kreacher lives to serve..."
"Is this Hermione's?" said Sirius, one hand on the beaded bag hooked around Ron's arm, as he guided the boy down to his seat.
"Aah..." Ron rose uncertainly to his feet once more and stumbled towards the table.
"Ron..." said Sirius, "let me..."
Ron placed the bag beside Hermione's body then took from it the open shoebox which he also positioned delicately next to her.
"A raven?" Sirius said doubtfully.
"Aculus. He was Hermione's familiar." Ron's bottom lip curled up as more tears filled his eyes. "saved my life..." He crept back to his chair.
"Not fly," said a tiny voice from the doorway.
"Cadence!" cried Hestia. "You shouldn't be up darling. Back to bed with you. Kreacher, take Cadence back upstairs please."
"Come along then, young Miss," said the old house-elf.
"Not fly," repeated the toddler. There was a gentle smile on her lips.
Sirius eyes flicked from the shoebox then down to his daughter wondering how she could even see the bird, and if she'd heard him talking. "Baby, you know what a raven is? Say raven."
"Not fly ... yet," said the little child, and lifted her arms – and her eyes – upwards.
Then those eyes closed, shutting out the physical world, and an immensity of magical healing power emanated from Cadence, filling the room. Ron became aware that his thumb was no longer sore. Cuts and abrasions he'd ignored no longer stung at all. Yet he looked across in even greater amazement when a fluttering sound, as of feather against card, was heard from the shoebox.
"By Merlin!" Sirius watched as the bird tried to stretch its wings against its confinement then stood and succeeded.
As the bird flew up to one of the smoke-blackened beams above, and began preening itself, a sigh came from the body on the table. Sirius took a step back, blinking. Hestia stopped her chanting. Ron slowly stood up and turned towards the kitchen table...
Hermione was lifting herself up to a sitting position and gazing around. "Goodness..." was all she said. "Goodness me..."
"Can't be..." murmured Hestia. "Impossible..."
"Ron, were those spikes really as long as you said?" Sirius muttered doubtfully.
But Ron was crying again, and couldn't answer.
Hestia said, "No, I meant... Padma. She's sleeping now and, well, see for yourself."
Padma's skin was intact. There wasn't even a scar. Hestia billowed the yellow robe over her and let her be.
Hermione was working herself off the table, and Sirius held out his arm to support her.
"Ron..." smiled Hermione, "you brave, wonderful man. You did it. You did it all!" She moved forward to give the astonished boy a long hug.
.
—oOo—
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Author's Notes
A long chapter but I couldn't end it with Hermione still dead, could I? And no, Cadence is not the second coming of Christ; she is simply a witch with astonishing instinctive healing powers and insight because she was herself born of an extended love-healing process. As far as the no-resurrection rule, this fic is AU and I'm taking the line that if someone has only very recently died, and if their soul has not yet 'flown' ('gone on' in JKR's words) – perhaps because their earthly task is not yet complete and so it's harder for them to break free – then, with the right healing, they can be returned to life. I see this as a kind of post-death magic equivalent to Lily's blood anchoring Harry to mortal life should he choose to come back.
FreidenSchmi reminded me that Barty Crouch Sr was killed in the original Book 4: Goblet of Fire, yet I have him, Jop and Mike getting together years later in Hermione's former life. I need to address that anomaly. Now, because it is critical that Hermione knew they would cooperate well (despite differences) I can't easily rewrite it. So, since, I already have everyone dying off in the original timeline, I have to extend that AU at least as far back as GoF, and that Barty Sr didn't die. Don't hesitate to point out any errors like this, everyone, because the fic is getting so big that I'm wondering if I can keep track of everything. Yes, I work from notes but not to JKR's professional level. :( Incidentally, this last chapter was really hard to write. I do work on this fic everyday but often in short, drip-feed sessions which then trigger the creative tsunamis.
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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