.

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 will soon begin her third year. But during the summer holidays a mini-mart was destroyed by The Black Arc, and there was a vicious barrage of motorway trucks hurled at the Weasley home.. Now read on...

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Chapter 68

House Arrest


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The Collector

"I don't believe this, Harry. Tell us again," said Hermione.

At the first opportunity following the strange bombardment on The Burrow, the children had crammed into Ron's bedroom to discuss what to do. There were seven of them now: Ron no longer had room to sprawl, and sat glumly on his bed next to Luna and Neville; Harry, equally long-faced, was sandwiched between Hermione and Ginny on the makeshift bunk set up for his stay; Olive perched on a chair near the door, looking uncomfortable.

"Well?" Hermione nudged an elbow sideways.

Harry sighed. "Theo Nott claims he had nothing to do with the attack but was on his way to see me. He'd overheard Gemma Farley arguing with her dad and that she was hoping to join Crest secretly. So now Nott wants to do the same. He was practically begging me! He sounded sincere – even desperate. I didn't buy it at the time, but now I just don't know."

"His father supported Voldemort!" sniffed Hermione. "We fought and injured him in my other life. And don't you remember? Theo Nott was the Slytherin who helped Umbridge demonstrate her nonsense in that silly Defence class: 'Just fall over if attacked!' What utter bilge!"

Harry stirred next to her. "You said yourself not all the apples turn rotten."

"Bad or good, there's no way he could signal that far," said Neville, supportively.

Hermione bristled. "There are other methods. Portraits can visit other paintings of themselves at a distance, and then there's the Protean charm on our Crest Galleons."

Ron said, "Yeah, but the Aurors searched Nott and insisted there were no magical objects on him."

"Birdies..." Luna was gazing out the window.

Hermione groaned inwardly, and began to wonder if she'd been wrong to assign Luna the task of finding the forward observer. "What made you zero in on Nott, anyway, Luna?"

The girl murmured absently, "Mmm...?"

"What if there'd been a spotter elsewhere? Why'd you particularly locate Nott and nobody anywhere else?"

"Well... they wouldn't put a watcher downhill or beyond the trees, would they? He had to be up the slope."

Ginny said, "We had our brooms to hand. Found the stupid prat really quick and put him down hard!" She rubbed her hands together, relishing the memory.

"Waving. He was waving his net at the sky," Luna said dreamily.

Suppressing a sarcastic shake of her head, Hermione ground her teeth and muttered under her breath, "He was catching ruddy butterflies."

Olive said tentatively, "Still, waving about like that made him very visible, which is why we found him so easily."

"Too easy, perhaps," said Hermione. "You'd think – I mean, tracking someone who's..."

"What? What is it, Hermione?" said Harry.

The girl had jumped up, and was casting detection spells upon herself.

Harry stood too. "What's...?"

"It was a short hop to the motorway so we Apparated fairly quietly and at height over the road, then quickly descended under cover behind the Arcanists, yet Lucius Malfoy – I'm almost sure it was him – turned round immediately. He knew I was there! How?"

She slumped back down and Harry did too. Hermione searched his expression thoughtfully. "You said Farley knew you were hiding in the room off the Entrance Hall? That day we were going to the thorn dome?"

"Yeah, so...?"

"We're both clear of tracking charms, so what if the Black Arc have the means to detect anyone, anytime, without even needing to put a tracker spell on them?"

"Impossible," said Neville.

"It's not," said Hermione. "What about Harry's map? He can watch anyone anywhere in Hogwarts."

There were gasps all round. Olive's face went scarlet, and she clutched her arms about herself.

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" cried Hermione. "He can't actually see you in the bath! Just a mark on his map."

"Stop it, Hermione!" cried Ron. "Leave my... leave my sister alone."

Hermione gaped at him, then relented. "Sorry, Olive."

"Jezebel," Luna said softly.

"What!" snarled Ron, turning to the girl wedged between himself and Neville.

"There are no Painted Jezebels in Devon." Luna turned to gaze out of the window again. "Not living at any rate."

"The butterfly Nott had in his jar?" said Harry. "I saw it – well not clearly. Well, hardly at all, really. But I'm sure it was–"

"–dead," said Luna. "Quite dead. They lie differently when they're Immobulised, you see. I had a good close look when the Auror fetched it."

Ron scoffed, "You think he went off to catch it somewhere else, then brought it all the way here?"

"Nott never caught a butterfly in his life or he'd know that the Painted Jezebel is never seen in the wild – not in this country."

Harry cried, "But he's got a big collection of butterflies! Must have. The Aurors–"

"–For show. Neville's home has a fine collection of portraits but none of the Longbottoms was an artist." Luna reminded them how Hermione had transfigured underage-obscuring rings into their Crest Galleons but there had not been enough to go round for everyone later. "Theo Nott could not have used any underage magic, or he'd have been detected like the twins and Olive were."

"But the casting of Immobulus spells was detected on his wand!" cried Ron.

"Oh, that must have been prepared beforehand, don't you think?" suggested Luna. "Probably at home with his father around. The Ministry underage detection spells don't alert officials if there's a responsible adult Magical nearby."

"Holy Cricket!" cried Hermione, realising that once again, she'd underestimated the former Ravenclaw. "Tell us about the... uumm... birdies, Luna."

"No, they'd definitely be butterflies."

"Not the collection! You said something about him waving at the birds. Why would he do that?"

"I don't know. Perhaps he loves birds and wanted to drive them away from the flying lorries." Then, seeing Hermione's disappointment in her, Luna added, "I was distracted."

"Well, we were rather busy Stupefying the enemy, Hermione!" cried Neville in defence of his girlfriend.

Hermione pouted. She'd hoped Luna might have been able to explain how–

"–Nott did say he'd made up the butterfly hunt as an excuse to visit me," said Harry. "He's a Slytherin. Likely he's just a bighead and the Immobulus ruse is something he uses to pretend he's a great collector." Harry shrugged his shoulders. "I mean, if he couldn't use magic to signal, then maybe there really was another watcher?"

"We don't want him in Crest, that's for sure!" growled Ron. "I'd hex the arse off him!"

Hermione mused, "It is said, 'Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer.' Possibly we can turn this to our advantage. The training program for the Slytherins would be private anyway. The Weasleys are too personally involved – Ron and Ginny would skin him – I suggest you, Harry, and Neville, be the only ones to train Nott. Maybe Luna and me too. Keep it simple; tell him nothing; observe and report."

"Keep your eyes on all of them Slytherins, I say," growled Ron.

The bedroom door burst open, almost tumbling poor Olive off her seat.

"HOME! NOW! FOREVER!" It was Sirius. "You're coming with me, Harry, and you're not going anywhere ever again till you return to Hogwarts."

"Aw... Dad!"

"TWO DAYS!" stormed Sirius. "In the space of just TWO days! People are being killed anywhere near you!"

Hermione cringed. The last thing Harry needed was a guilt trip. But it was Ron and Ginny's faces that concerned her as well. For the first time, everyone had been made aware that likely this latest outrage had never been an attack on the Weasley home at all!

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An Enchanting Tale

Ron lay on his back, broken and dispirited. With Harry gone, Hermione had soon left, and Neville and Luna had departed for the Lovegood home without explanation. A call from downstairs had drawn the remaining two girls to Ginny's room to prepare for Olive's welcoming celebration. But Ron wasn't hungry – well, he was, but his feelings were in denial.

He sighed up at the ceiling. Olive was now his sister. How was one supposed to get one's head around that? He groaned. Then he sighed again and rolled over to stare at the lonely bedroom. How could life be so unfair?

Something small and colourful was on Harry's bed, and Ron's unfocused eyes were drawn to it. It seemed his friend had left one of his comics behind, probably some stupid pirate adventure. He tried to turn away but the skewed, out-of-range image on the top cover nagged his mind to be identified. A buccaneer headbutting his captive? Hardly. Thrusting him through with a sabre? No, they were wrestling, squirming. Not pirates? Was that a girl?

Ron cursed and turned right over to face the wall, staring hard at the Chudley Cannons poster above his bed. Somehow, even his favourite Quidditch team could not distract him from his ... interest in the...

With another groan of resignation, he rolled, swung his legs out of bed and went over to relieve his itch of curiosity. He laughed breathily. What was Harry doing reading Witch Weekly! Two teenagers – a girl and a boy – were kissing each other passionately. As he watched, a tear of joy trickled down the face of the witch as the lover stroked her hair.

An angry growl escaped Ron's lips and he went back to his own bed. Had Harry left the magazine there to annoy him? A sudden thought occurred to him: had the twins cast an obsession spell, a 'Notice-me' charm on the paper to compel him to turn the pages? Then they'd come running in with everyone and poke fun that he was reading a girly magazine? Well, he wouldn't fall for that one. No sir.

Ron lay on his back staring at the cracks and stains in the ceiling again. Ever since he was tiny, he'd always thought one dull splodge looked like Madagascar with a giant squirrel tail on its side. Funny how... Harry's bunk bed was creeping up the wall. No, it wasn't! Unconsciously, he'd rolled over again and his eyes had been drawn downwards! Damn your hexes, George! Merlin take you, Fred!

Perhaps he could hide the magazine under his bedclothes? They'd never see him reading – no wait! He went over to the door and wedged Olive's chair – her chair – under the doorknob. That would delay anything but a charging Manticore getting in. Somehow Witch's Weekly was in Ron's sweaty hands and the boy was sitting in her chair, doorknob pressing into the back of his shoulder, thumbing through the start of a serialised story: Rite Fully Yours...

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If The Hissy Fits

Harry was fuming. He sat in his room at Grimmauld Place wondering how life could be so unfair. It wasn't his fault that people had died, was it? Maybe partly, said a tiny voice in his head. For once, it wasn't Hermione's reprimand; it was his own.

Soft footsteps. His mother's faint words came through the closed door. "I'm leaving a tray here for you in case you change your mind, Harry, dear."

"STILL NOT HUNGRY!" he snapped. He was, of course. Minutes passed. Ten. Maybe an hour he hoped. But nothing, absolutely nothing, would persuade him to ever eat again. Ever! He'd starve to death first – then they'd be sorry!

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Weasleys Together

"MEN!" pouted little Ginny Weasley, as she carefully wiped her face in the mirror with a cleansing charm. "Always spoiling absolutely everything! It's all so unfair on everybody!"

"How do you do that?" said Olive.

"This spell? Oh, we learned it at Beauxbatons in first year. They've got their priorities right over there. It's just a variation of Tergeo and Aguamenti only it seeps cleanser and moisturiser from your wand onto your skin where it binds grime and grease so the wand can absorb it back. You can clean your fingernails with it too plus a trimming spell. Here, I'll show you."

"Thanks, Ginny."

Ginny grinned at her. "Sisters, eh?"

Olive laughed softly. "I meant what I said. This really is... was the happiest day of my life. Only..."

"He'll come round. Boys are prats."

For some time, Ginny explained eye-brightening and lip-reddening spells. The smell of freshly-baked cherry cake began to pervade the house until they could not endure the temptation any longer.

"Come on. Dad should be back soon. The twins will be here, and Mum, of course. We'll be all Weasleys together. Not sure about Percy. Dad repaired his room but..."

They walked out onto the landing, their flowery fragrances mingling with the downstairs aroma. Ginny paused as they passed Ron's door.

"You coming, or what?" she barked.

The door sprang open. Ron stood there beaming. "Of course! Wouldn't miss my new sister's welcoming celebration for anything!" He reached out for Olive's hand and Ginny watched gobsmacked as the couple descended the steps side by side ahead of her. She followed in a daze. "Who are you and what have done with my brother, Ron Weasley?"

"Hermione! Super! How are you!" Ron called out cheerfully as they entered the parlour. "Thought you'd gone."

Mrs Weasley was taking off her apron. "Came down here to help, didn't you, dear? Busy, busy, busy keeps your mind off the tizzy."

"Where'd you read that crock, Mum?" smirked Ginny at Hermione who was looking slightly flustered with the heat from the stove.

"In Witch We–never you mind where! – Ah, that must be your dad."

There was a whoosh of sparks and ash from the kitchen and Mr Weasley came to the living room doorway, papers in hand. "All fixed, Olive! Signed, sealed, and now... delivered." He handed them over to her.

"Oh!" squealed Olive, "Thank you so much, Mr... I mean, father."

"Now, now, no more tears. Time to rejoice!"

"The cake's so big it's still very warm so we've done some hot sweet sauce with ice-cream for contrast as well," said Hermione, physically placing dishes and spoons around the posh extendable dining table they'd dragged out from the wall.

Ron's eyes bulged as the cake was brought in. Mrs Weasley had done herself proud; it was big enough to feed an army.

Fred and George thundered down the stairs and burst into the parlour.

"Eating in here, are we then? Must be Christmas, Fred!"

"No, George, Somebody's birthday."

"Now, now, you two!" smiled their mother. "You know full well..."

"Where's everyone sitting?" said Ginny.

"Well, Olive in the place of honour at the top end with–"

"–with me by her side," said Ron quite assertively, as he plonked himself down, his hand still firmly holding Olive's.

An astonished stillness held the room.

Mr Weasley broke the silence. "Excellent! Now, where's Percy?"

"On his fourth shampoo," grinned Fred. "He'll be slipping down to join us in a minute."

"Then slithering into his seat," smirked George.

"Better make that a bucket seat, Dad," said Fred, as Mr Weasley swung over another chair with his wand. "Or a bath chair."

"Come on, boys, we don't want any more upsets today," said Mr Weasley.

"Dad," said George, "We'll do everything we can to smooth things over, won't we, Fred?"

Molly Weasley sighed at her boys as she began to slice the celebratory dessert on which had been iced: A Loving Welcome to Olive Weasley!

.

Have Your Cake

"Go away! I'm not hungry!"

"Harry, it's me, Hermione."

"What do YOU want?"

"Don't be like that, Harry. Can I come in, please?"

A grumble and a rumble from within later, and the door grudgingly opened. Harry stomped back to his bed and sat down so heavily the bedsprings squeaked like trapped mice.

Hermione entered cautiously and closed the door behind her. She found a couple of chairs then placed a very large steaming dish upon one of them before sitting beside it.

"What's that supposed to be?" growled Harry.

"My slice of the Weasleys' cherry cake with sauce and ice-cream. I cast a tricky spell to keep it both hot and cold for me so I can enjoy the delicious taste to the utmost later – mmm... that aroma!" She risked a glance at Harry who was struggling not to look. "Listen," she continued, "we have a big Cathesis meeting coming up to discuss events and any progress that's been made."

"What's that to do with me? I'm just a starving ruddy prisoner in a dungeon now." He folded his arms so tightly about his middle that the poor boy's stomach growled as darkly as his voice.

"Your mum and dad have been accepted, so they'll be taking you. Anyway, the location is under a Fidelius charm like this one, so it's safe."

"So I don't get anyone killed, you mean," snorted Harry.

"That's right. Those Muggles in the mini-mart and on the motorway were real people, Harry, and all dead because you were there."

"IT WASN'T MY FAULT!"

"Oh, no? Whose fault then, if it wasn't yours?"

"The Black Arc of course! Don't blame me for–!"

"–That's right! Hold on to that feeling, Harry. Keep reminding yourself of the truth. The Black Arc were entirely responsible, and don't you forget it. Mourn the dead, Harry, revenge them if you can, but don't take it out on yourself or your family."

Harry stared at Hermione for a while. "Revenge? You killed them deliberately with that fireball, didn't you?"

"No, I saved the Weasleys – or would you rather they'd all been burnt alive? Because that's where that tanker was being sent until I intervened. Inaction can be murder just as surely as action."

Harry stiffened, his eyes closed tightly in remorse, then gradually, his shoulders relaxed, and he looked guiltily at Hermione. "Sorry."

Neither of them could speak for a while.

"Anyway, Ron came through for Olive," Hermione finally said, trying to sound lighthearted but coming over high-pitched instead. She cleared her throat. "Some idiot left a magazine story on his bed about adopted siblings being able to marry when they come of age. He's holding hands with Olive now. She was so full of joy because Ron had accepted her both as sister and girlfriend. Happiest day of her life, she told him. I've never seen her so radiant."

"Lucky them!" But the atmosphere in the room did begin to thaw a little as Harry thought more about his friends. He took a deep breath. "Want to know what the happiest day of my life was, Hermione? I was only very little but..."

"But what?"

Harry hesitated. "You won't laugh?"

"I promise you, I won't."

He nodded, then his head tilted as he thought back, remembering...

"I must have got up before eight as usual: seven forty-five was regular then. I'd have had porridge oats with syrup for breakfast. I often asked for a sausage on fried bread like Dad had, but... I'm sure it would have been just oats with syrup."

He paused, and Hermione waited for something very special.

Harry continued, "Nine-ten, Mrs Gawtley must have arrived because I always thought why not exactly nine? I was only six and thought things should align with the hours but her arrival never did; every day was normal and predictable."

Hermione inclined her head in understanding.

Harry thought more deeply, and soon eased into a more comfortable position on his bed. "Lunch would have been okay that day – nothing exciting, of course, but tasty, and Mum would chat about how my lessons were going and the weather; Dad would talk about something in the news."

Hermione suppressed a frown, then, not wanting to miss anything, softly dragged her chair along to sit nearer to Harry without distracting him.

"A short lesson in the afternoon – yes, must have. Then a nap. I would always be put to bed for an afternoon nap whether I was sleepy or not. I suppose I dozed off that day as usual."

Hermione became more puzzled but kept her attention on the boy whose gaze was now far off in retrospection.

"Some days, Uncle Remus would come, and we'd have fun in the garden – but not that often, and he didn't come that day. Anyway, it was September and probably a little cool for being outside. I think I read one of my story books. Probably 'Hopping Pot' again."

Hermione shifted slightly in her seat but remained politely listening.

"After supper, I'd always be put to bed early – I was very young, remember."

"Of course."

"In the summer, while it was still light, and after Mum had gone downstairs, I'd often sneak to the window and look out, but that day in September, it was already dark, so with nothing interesting to see, I'd soon have drifted off to sleep."

Harry fell silent for a long time, and Hermione was about to say something, when suddenly he released a deep sigh and resumed.

"Something astonishing happened that night – something completely wonderful entered my life and changed everything."

He rose from his bed and went over to the shelves that were set between his wardrobes then crouched down. A much-handled grubbily-folded sheet of parchment lay on the lowest shelf and he plucked it out from amongst the other bric-a-brac. After opening up the parchment, he held it out. Hermione's name was written there. Just her name.

"Oh, Harry!" She rushed into his arms. "I'd imagined that had been thrown away long ago."

"No way, Hermione. That was my happiest day ever – the day you came."

The pair sat together on a thick rug and cuddled for quite a time, murmuring silly things. He touched her cheek, and even more delicately explored her eyelashes and the tip of her nose with his fingertips. "I didn't think you were quite real that day, Hermione. I still can't believe how lucky I am."

"I'm the lucky one, Harry," sighed Hermione, "I've been given another chance to show you how I really feel."

"You're trembling..."

"Am I?"

Time passed swiftly until the busy girl could stay no longer.

"I have to go," she said briskly, rising to her feet. "I'll come regularly, of course, and so will the others. You can still help organise the new recruits, but Neville and the others will have to meet and brief them at his place. We'll find a way to get beyond this, Harry. Always remember: you're not alone."

She dashed to the door, came back for one more kiss... then was gone. Amazingly, Harry didn't feel alone at all.

"Hey! You forgot your slice of cake..."

He eyed it enviously for a few moments, then decided it would be a shame to waste it.

.

Never So Proud

"Oooofff!"

Harry Potter stumbled from the green flames in the Worthing fireplace midst a cloud of soot and ash, but was caught by an elf whose dutiful magic guided the young visitor quickly to one side. Sirius was already ahead, being greeted by Mike, and Hestia soon emerged – more gracefully than her son – into the parlour beside the clumsy boy.

Mike Worthing beamed. "Harry Potter! Mrs Black!" He gestured widely towards the open doorway. "Come through, all of you, and welcome."

Sirius winked as he whispered in Harry's ear, "Be extra cautious around a Slytherin when he's smiling."

Harry stiffened. Another Slytherin in Cathesis and more coming into Crest! Did Hermione really know what she was doing? Yes a little voice in his head said quite firmly, and, once again, it was his own, not Hermione's.

Several other wizards and witches were already in what was clearly a large study with bookshelves and a desk. To the Blacks, Mike introduced Vera Gair and Madam Zabini who were already seated at a large round table, and then to Jop Gair who was hovering a small runic bowl out of a cabinet towards the table.

"I thought we were accepted?" queried Sirius. "You trust us, surely?"

"Not for your memories, Sirius," said Mike. "But so you trust us – or at least fully comprehend mankind's awful fate, which will not change without our efforts."

They took their seats just as an older man hurried in, discarding his travel cloak to the elf behind him.

"Ah, Barty, welcome!" cried Mike, gesturing him to one of the empty chairs, then adding grandly, "Everyone, this is Bartemius Crouch, our future Minister for Magic!"

Madam Zabini arched one eyebrow, but Harry noticed the grand lady was smiling as she did so. Her skin tone was considerably lighter than her son Blaise's, but the resemblance was there in her handsome features. Strange it felt, to be sitting down at such an illustrious meeting in a Slytherin's home with the head of yet another Slytherin household present too.

The woman straightened up, but it was not Harry's attention that had caught her eye. She rose swiftly, and in moments everyone else stood with her. Applause softly began to ascend in its enthusiasm. Harry turned his gaze back to the door and gawked in pleasing astonishment: Hermione stood there, quite bemused, and appearing very small in the presence of all these important adults.

"Rosie!" cried Vera.

Hermione's hand was raised in protest as she entered. "Because I have long trusted you all to keep my secrets from the world, I think now's the time for my true identify to be revealed to those of you who do not yet know it. My real name is Hermione Jean Granger. My parents are both Muggles, and we live in Elmbridge. I'll be fourteen years old in a couple of months."

Vera smiled and tasted the new word: "Hermione ... Hermione ... in a way, you'll always be Rosemary to us, but 'Hermione' is a lovely name too."

Her husband nodded his warm approval, along with Mike and even the corner of Barty's mouth twitched sympathetically.

To Harry, the remaining empty seat gave the impression of being at the head of the assembled company, but once Hermione filled it, and Vera opposite stood to direct the meeting, the round equalising of the table became more evident.

"I'd like to begin by formally welcoming our new members: Madam Zabini, Sirius and Hestia Black, and their adopted son, Harry Potter, who, as agreed by an almost unanimous vote" – Crouch frowned at this point, though not severely – "has been accepted as a passive observer until he is of age." She turned to Harry. "That does not mean you will be totally excluded from any interaction, Harry. There may be opportunities to share your ideas, or object against our decisions."

Barty humphed softly but said nothing.

"Now, Rosie – Hermione – has requested that our new members should have access to the same experience of destiny that we have viewed."

Hermione said, "I'd like to add and apologise, especially to you, Mike, that I... well, I don't think I lied to you, but I misdirected you long ago. You were right, Mike, I am the woman in the laboratory coat whose memory is in that Pensieve."

"I'd already guessed that from the research that's saved my life," smiled Mike.

"It's been confirmed then?"

"Yes, St. Mungo's tell me I'm now in complete health and they are making the Muggle therapy available to any Magicals that need it. And as you informed us, it will take many more years of testing data for the lab to present it to the Muggle community – then more years before it becomes available to all."

Hermione nodded. "A pity, but can't be helped; magic can prove the effects very quickly whereas Muggles have to be more rigorous."

"Now, just one moment. Can I interrupt here?" said Hestia, "Hermione, are you saying your actual memory of the future is in that bowl? The doom you told us about?"

"A previous future. Hopefully, we can change our own fate."

"Then I don't want Harry to see it." Hestia said, lips firmly pinched as she finished speaking.

"Mum!"

"You're Harry's parents; you have the right to decide, of course," said Hermione, "but remember, like any Pensieve memory, you can guide your son away from anything unsightly, and most human remains are unrecognisable shadows and stains. Believe me, he's seen worse. Would you like to view Harry's own memories of the mini-mart? Or the charred corpses near the motorway?"

Sirius growled. Hestia, briefly squinting her eyes shut, shook her head from side to side. "For Merlin's sake! Harry won't even be thirteen till the end of the month!"

"I'd have wanted my son to know the truth," Madam Zabini said quietly. "He's in Harry's year."

Sirius sighed, not happy to be bested by a Slytherin. "What d'you think, Hest?"

"You stay close then, Harry!" cried Hestia. "No wandering off."

"Let it so be," murmured Hermione.

With her wand she stirred the mysterious surface of the memory, then watched as Mike led the way by dipping his face into the strangely swirling fluid. Sirius and Hestia guided Harry in, then Madam Zabini followed.

The remaining four studied each other.

"And now we wait," smiled Hermione.

While Crouch called Mike's elf to bring refreshments, Jop and Vera asked how Hermione had been, and they engaged in casual conversation for the next twenty minutes with Barty Crouch joining in here and there.

"So... you and Harry...?" asked Vera.

"Yes, he's my boyfriend now."

Crouch's interest wandered around the room.

"Don't underestimate the importance of Harry Potter," Hermione scowled at him. "He's the reason I'm here. He is the cause of you being Minister for Magic one day."

"What!"

"I was reborn in circumstances triggered by my dying efforts to help Harry. He is the reason I now live again. In a curious way, you are all reborn – but you have no memory of your former lives. You died in the apocalypse."

Crouch drew a quick breath. For a few moments he struggled with the concept of this second life for himself. "We know, of course, that you had lived before and that some other 'we' were part of that experience – but I don't think we ever thought of it in the sense of ourselves having the chance of another lifetime."

"It has no existence now," said Vera. "Can it be said to be part of existence at all – that other life?"

"I don't know," sighed Hermione. "Sometimes I wonder if all material experience is but a limited perception of–" Her head jerked up from the introspection. "– Harry!"

The boy had emerged from the Pensieve, with the others immediately following. All looked rather shaken, especially Mike, even though he'd witnessed the annihilation of mankind twice before.

"Someone else be the guide next time," he muttered, then, turning to Hermione, added, "How you endured it for real, I cannot imagine."

"At that point I feared I was the only person left alive in the world," said Hermione. "Utter, wretched loneliness tore me apart for weeks until I began to find other survivors. Later on, I wished I had been the last, for the suffering that followed was–"

"–Hermione, please!" cried Hestia, indicating Harry with a glance of her eyes.

The boy was sitting very quietly but listening. Hermione gave him some pepper-up chocolate, then handed it around to those that needed a boost.

"You still use this, then?" Hestia smiled weakly.

"I've finished most of the stock you gave me," said Hermione, "so perhaps–"

"–Perhaps we ought to continue with our meeting?" cut in Crouch, glancing at the clock on the wall.

Vera frowned, but consulted her notes. "Next on the agenda is that we need to confirm our support for the Muggle Protection Act, and that the parts we are to play are well understood. Jop, would you, please?"

"Yes, I can confirm that we have more than enough votes, but we do not wish to give any hint of our strength at this early stage. Assuming an average turnout, we have the flexibility of six votes excess to our needs, so I've arranged signals with some of our supporters to either abstain, vote for, or even vote against, so that we win by only one vote. Sirius ... Madam Zabini, at the crucial time, you two please keep your eyes on Madam Longbottom's hat, NOT on her vote; if it arches left, vote for, if right, then vote against, otherwise abstain, is that clear?

"Her hat?" frowned Sirius.

"It has a dowdy old vulture on top; you can't miss it. If she's not there, then whatever you do, vote for, is that clear?"

"It flies?" The frown deepened.

"Not the bird!" roared Jop with a worried expression. "I mean if for any reason Madam Longbottom herself cannot attend then–"

"–We understand perfectly," said Hestia, nudging Sirius in the ribs, "don't we, dear?"

"Perfectly. If the old bird has flown then we vote for." Sirius winked at Harry, who – quite recovered now – grinned back.

Jop sighed. "Is he always the joker?"

"Always," said Hestia. "But I keep him in line."

Vera turned again to her notebook. "Next up, we need to review the recent attacks you've already informed us of, Hermione, so that everyone is on the same page, and to add anything new."

"Well, as you know, Vera, the Arcanist we committed to–"

"–for everyone else, please, Hermione."

"Of course. The Arcanist who destroyed the Muggle shop and all those within, was a dark wizard called Caractacus Blund. Our tri-unanimous judgement was: guilty, and he was sentenced to life in Devil's Deep with all his magic permanently drained. After the attack at The Burr–"

"–His magic was what!" said Sirius.

"Destroyed, removed. By means of a special magical parasite, we are able to permanently remove all magic from any wizard or witch, and do so to all those we convict of serious crimes. They become less than a Squib, less than a Muggle actually."

Sirius blew air.

"How so?" said Madam Zabini. "What is less than a Muggle?"

"Madam!" Hermione slid down off the chair and puffed herself up to a full sixty-one inches. "Please be informed that this meeting is being conducted by a Muggle, and my parents are Muggles too! Why, it was exactly twenty-four years ago today that Muggles landed on the moon, and they didn't need magic to do it! It was my belief that you were–"

"–You misunderstand me, but I apologise for my badly-worded question, both to you, and to you, Vera. As you requested, Hermione, Mr Worthing has educated me concerning the power of Muggle science, technology, and other knowledge. And, if that were not enough, the experience of your memory in that Pensieve confirms their immense power. No, I should have asked, "What is meant by 'less than a Muggle?' Surely, being non-magical is... aah!"

"I see you've worked it out, Madam Zabini," said Hermione, deflating back down and hopping onto her seat once more. "In various degrees, Muggles are raised with non-magical life skills, whereas many wizards scarcely know how to wipe their... nose without an elf to assist them. Perhaps we need a scheme to teach any prisoners that are released how they are to survive in the Muggle world. They will be Obliviated of all memory of the Magical community, of course."

"Like you, I have knowledge of both worlds," said Vera. "I'll look into it." She scribbled in her notebook.

"Can we push on?" Crouch said dryly, "I've a meeting this afternoon with the head of the Department for Law Enforcement."

"Sorry, Mr Crouch," said Hermione. "As I was saying, the name of the Arcanist who destroyed the Muggle shop is Caractacus Blund. Further interrogation under the influence of Veritaserum suggested that the Back Arc may have a self-Obliviation spell, potion, or charm, because he repeatedly denied trying to kill Harry, and would have succeeded if Harry hadn't cursed him first! This ties in with our experience at Hogwarts with Draco Malfoy who showed genuine surprise and confusion when Ron accused him of entering the Dome of Thorns. Draco has not the skill to Obliviate himself so intricately and precisely – has anyone? Then which dark wizard do we know with the skill to have wiped Draco's mind of that one part of his activity?"

"Snape," muttered Harry, unsure if he should speak aloud.

"Possibly," said Hermione, "but I was thinking of Nott's father. Mr Crouch, I informed you a few years ago that Nott Senior works for the Ministry Obliviating Muggles after any incidents that breach the Secrecy Act?"

"Yes, he's on our watch list, remember?" replied Crouch, turning to Worthing for confirmation.

"I don't recall receiving any recent report of dark activity on his part," replied Mike. "But I'll check with my agents."

"Thanks," said Hermione. "And ask them specifically if they know where he was on the day of the attack on The Burrow because young Theo Nott's behaviour has similarities to Draco's. Nott claims he wasn't involved; was he self-Obliviated? Considering the speed with which he was taken by surprise, it seems unlikely his father was with him to wipe his mind, then Disapparate away. Surely he'd have taken his son with him?"

Harry shook his head. "Luna and the others never mentioned any sound of Disapparating."

"That's right," Hermione said thoughtfully. "Mike, we'll keep watch on the boy if you inform your men of developments and ask them to be extra vigilant with his father."

"Understood."

Crouch said, "If culpability is proven of either or both, then it won't be easy to vanish them to Devil's Deep without the Black Arc taking notice and making the connection with that attack on Potter at The Burrow."

Harry shivered. Being forced to stay home all summer was bad enough, but the idea of a boy his own age confined alone forever under that mountain chilled his flesh. What if Theo was just a collector of butterflies after all? His mind wandered as discussions moved between tactics and politics, then finally to economics:

"We have some additional financing from the British government via our connections within the security services, and our first waste recycling plant is now fully operational." Vera began handing around copies of her annual accounting report. "It's intentionally very low-key to begin with. Only a single council – uumm... that's the local Muggle authorities – will be using our service, but once others see the benefits of vastly increased efficiency, better service, and lower costs; everyone will benefit."

"Impressive," said Madam Zabini, staring at the totals on the typed sheet of paper before her.

"The funds are only a means to an end," said Hermione. "Cathesis is more about increased cooperation with Muggles to change society and ultimately establish magical defence capabilities."

Vera stood up again with her notebook raised. "Which brings us neatly to Mike's lengthy dossier on Muggle business practices – has anyone had a chance to read any of it yet? No?"

"Took me over two hours!" laughed Hermione. "I've not had time for an in-depth study, of course" – Harry smiled at those words – "but I understand the background, having had previous experience of where such extreme practices lead – inevitable economic collapse."

Vera frowned. "Really? Mike, would you summarise your findings for the rest of us?"

"Yes, I anticipated this." His wand flickered briefly towards a high shelf, and a shiny object glinted through the air and onto the table before him. "This is a small silver cauldron – a very average item for mixing certain types of potion. I bought it in Diagon Alley a few days ago." He held it up. "Like all products made by the magical community, it is hand-crafted and so is of good–"

"–Don't wizards conjure them?" asked Vera.

"Conjure? No, conjuration is temporary even for a powerful wizard. Magic is used in the crafting process though. For instance, the silver for this pot would be melted, poured, moulded, and precisely cooled entirely by subtle spells. Centuries of experience go into supplying the products that our community needs. The very nature of magical society has shaped the organisations required to provide our essentials."

"We in the Muggle world have the same but using–"

"–No, you don't!" snapped Mike, then his tone softened. "Sorry, Vera, but you don't. Generally speaking, you don't have companies set up to make products; you have companies set up to make PROFIT!"

"Which pushes them to be far more efficient than Magicals!"

"Efficient at making MONEY not merchandise!"

"But the products have to be well designed to meet the customers' needs or–!"

"–No, they don't! Not entirely at any rate. Muggle products are primarily designed to SELL, to look appealing in the shop with their weaknesses hidden. They are not designed or produced for the consumer at all except the minimum needed to maximise the price! In fact, I would venture that if some Muggle businesses could make more profit producing utterly worthless trash they would happily do so! Believe me, I used to drive very hard bargains myself but never as finely calculated as do Muggles! Secretly have I sat in on many board meetings to learn their ways. Do you suppose they discuss how to improve the lot of their customers? No, they discuss how to squeeze more percentage from them!"

Vera was back on her feet now, bristling with rage. She leaned forward aggressively. "Are you saying all Muggle businessmen are wicked, Mike? And Magicals are saints? Because if you are–"

"–No, Vera," and once again, Mike eased off, "I'm saying the Muggle commercial system is wrong and most of your traders are compelled to ruthlessly compete for a share of the market or go out of business. Our magical craftsmen compete on quality, with profit as a necessary part of the practice whereas your manufacturers compete for profit, with products merely a part of the process."

Vera sank down, eyes glistening with humiliation, and a mumble on her lips, "They're not MY manufacturers..."

Jop started up to go and comfort her, but surprisingly, it was Madam Zabini that reached out to place a silent arm around Vera's shoulders.

"Mike didn't mean it like that, Vera," gulped Hermione. "It's not so black and white. There are many dedicated Muggle craftsmen and altruistic businessmen, but generally speaking, the larger the corporation, the more focused they are on cutting costs and the increase of takings – to the disadvantage of their customers."

"It gets worse," said Mike, darkly. "Worldwide, billions of their currency are spent on widening that gap. For example, I was shocked by the incredibly high expenditure on wasteful advertising – a cost that has to be passed on to customers, so all prices are higher than they need be."

"Modern marketing is extremely streamlined and efficient," muttered Vera.

"–Efficient in competing to retain a slice of the pie, not to provide society with the information they truly require to make wise choices! Muggle promotion is not the gay laughter of a healthy swimmer but the hysterical screams of a drowning cripple. The methods are aggressive, intrusive, costly, and nowhere near candid enough. With some produce, I estimate efficiency at one hundredth of one percent compared to our four or five percent, and it costs Muggle society thousands of times more than ours costs us. Advertising is not free; the customer pays for it ultimately. There is only so much pie; why feed so much to an unnecessary, rapacious, parasitical industry?"

"Hermione?" Vera entreated feebly.

But there was no encouragement to be received from the twice-born – twice-experienced: "In my future, it became worse, much worse. Long ago, Muggle industrialisation forced agricultural workers into mill work. In later years, increased mechanisation and automation drove those workers into assembly lines. Now, computerised machines are herding many into overseeing, administrative, and clerical work. Smart devices are beginning to do that much more efficiently, and, in my future, even greater intelligent versatility squeezed most of the Muggle population out of general employment altogether. Industrialists began temporarily to get even wealthier but soon found themselves with only poverty-stricken consumers who could not afford their goods. Prices dropped to unsustainable levels and, like a black hole, the overall pie collapsed until nothing was accessible to eat at all."

"My God, you mean the Singularity, don't you?" breathed Vera, beginning to understand at last.

"You've heard of that?" Hermione's eyebrows had risen high.

"I've kept up with my sociology and economics, but I never believed in that hypothesis. So it really happened?"

"The Economic Singularity was inevitable, but the more threatening Technological Singularity–"

"–Oh, excuse us!" pouted Sirius. "Would you mind explaining what you're talking about? Smart devices? Black holes? The–"

"–Sorry, yes," said Hermione. "Just think of the Economic Singularity like magical portraits doing all the work so nobody else can get a job, and the Technological Singularity as the portraits painting smarter portraits that can then paint even smarter ones so people aren't needed at all – for anything. Harry, you remember those endless trucks roaring up the motorway the other day? All those drivers?" – He nodded slowly, afraid of what she would say – "All gone by the 2030's – the drivers that is. The trucks will be driving themselves by then."

"Impossible!" cried Sirius, though his tone was not convincing. "Even magical broomsticks need someone to fly them, and a hovering charm needs a wizard to guide it."

Mr Crouch stared. "The trucks became alive? Aware of the road ahead? Muggles can make them do that? Even portraits aren't really..." There was a trace of fear showing in his expression.

Hermione shook her head. "No, just like enchanted paintings, advanced Muggles machines never became truly self-aware or had any purpose of their own, only the fixed purpose we gave them so–"

"–Why not?" said Vera. "The human race evolved consciousness. We're machines – at least our bodies are."

"Yet I consciously survived the death of mine." Luna-like, Hermione gazed up at the ceiling, not thinking about the problem. "Madam Pince once related an ancient belief that Magic created Conscious Life and made the gods angry. Perhaps bodies evolved out of that Conscious awareness instead of the other way round–"

"–Ahem..." Crouch cleared his throat.

Her attention jolted back to the present, Hermione looked about. Everyone was staring at her. "Yes... uumm... well, just a myth, I suppose. But anyway, er..."

"What matters is, what do we do about the economic collapse?" prompted Mike.

Glad that everyone was being diverted to a less esoteric matter, Hermione gathered herself together. "Yes, you and Vera and Jop were just starting to turn things around in this country when–"

"–We solved it? WE! did you say?"

"Well it was not your original idea, but yes, you two were both well-placed by Jop as economic and business advisers to the fifteen-year emergency coalition government.

"I continued working in economics?" cried Vera. "But then..."

"That's right, I'm sorry to tell you," said Hermione, seeing Vera's face darken, "your son didn't exist in my previous life. You never had any children. How is he, by the way?"

"Uumm, fine... We see him less often these days but.." She and Jop stared at one another, sharing old memories and, perhaps, decisions. "Hermione, he's... you know our son is married?"

"Yes."

"I can't imagine him... not having existed at all." She looked at her husband. "Jop... we ought to visit them more often."

Crouch didn't cough. Even he could sense the deep emotions being evoked.

"How?" said Mike after a polite interval. "How did we salvage the economy?"

"A form of public ownership followed years of–"

"–Never. That never works! The investment of private capital maintains a perfect balance!"

"As does the law of the jungle! And like that harmonious balance between predator and prey, there is much suffering involved in exploiting vulnerable consumers. Listen, Mike, just because national ownership has not survived well alongside free enterprise, doesn't mean it won't succeed when that market cannot continue because it has finally been perfected! Think about the certainty of the aims! Manufacture improved to such excellence that it no longer needs the human workers that buy its produce! Besides, it was the intermediate policies that built the foundations for a workable implementation of public ownership."

"Which was?"

"QUIT!"

"I beg your pardon?"

"QUIT. The Quality & Utility Incentive Tax. Vera's genius and your hands-on business experience came up with that brainwave. QUIT was a sales tax levied entirely on businesses in proportion to the quality and usefulness of every item or service they provided."

"Every single item! Nonsense! You have no idea how businesses are run, child! The costs of paying multitudes of accountants alone would–"

"–There were no accountants! Don't you get it? Inexpensive machines did the daily calculating work of millions in a micro-second!"

"Carry on, Hermione," Vera said, quietly.

Hermione took a breath. "QUIT gave commerce the opportunity and motive to produce what society needed without having to directly compete for profit. Private enterprise began to aim for quality so they could pay less tax per sale and so indirectly make more money."

Mike huffed again. "So the market was flooded with expensive luxury goods?"

"No, high-end products remained a smaller part of trade. Quality and usability was based on what was best suited for society – like your average, sensibly-priced, silver cauldron over there. Value resulted automatically from that."

"Oh, yes, and who decided on the quality and usefulness?" scoffed Mike.

"The people themselves! For the first time in history, everyone had a voice! All were able to give their views on products and services and vote easily using what Muggles call the 'internet' – that's a kind of erm... well, imagine millions of connected magic mirrors to which you can post and read messages – that process of feedback has already begun. In time, the means will be set up for everyone to privately prove their identity so they can officially vote once on any product – well, they could change their vote and details of their complaints or praise at anytime, but nobody could cheat by voting twice on one item."

Mike frowned. "Who was to manage all this?"

"Most of it was automatic. The system was overseen by an independent authority consisting of design and product experts who themselves had several thousand votes each depending on their area of expertise and the particular product. This was to balance out any quirky, unfair sways of misguided votes while still allowing the public the main say. Businesses could appeal against ratings but paid the cost of failed petitions."

"Ridiculous! The whole scheme is absurd! If it worked, they'd already be doing it!"

"They can't! Nations currently have to compete with other nations for profit or fall further and further behind. Only when survival is threatened will things change – and even then, too gradually to avoid suffering and death. And remember, it was YOUR implementation, Mike – yours and Vera's! Oh, and did I not mention that it's already worked in my other future? Brilliantly. So well in fact that the method began to spread around the world. Businesses made good profits fighting hard on a level playing field to find out what was best for their customers – because finally that was also best for themselves. Instead of designing to SELL, they designed for durability, flexibility, and ease of use. No detail was safe from the scrutiny of buyers. In fact, simply not mentioning weaknesses and flaws could cost a business a lot of money. Within a year, advertising was mostly replaced by solid, detailed information readily available when and where the customer wanted it, not when big business wished to force it down their throat. The funny thing was, everyone was happier, even those in trade, while the costs saved paid for 'free' services currently supported by time-wasteful advertising!"

"Why would traders be happier? Running a business is difficult enough without–"

"–They made money and felt better about themselves. Years later, they were the ones who ran essential services and production in publicly-owned industries in much the same way. There was a hybrid of private and public commerce with a fluid taxation system that funded UBI."

Mike groaned. "UBI?"

"An unconditional basic income guaranteed to every citizen." Hermione smiled. "The complexity and expense of a multitude of benefit systems was blown away overnight because everyone received an income freely from their first breath to their last. And that income increased with the efficiency of the smart devices because profitability and therefore corporate tax increased enormously across the board."

"Preposterous! I don't believe you! Why would anyone work at all if they don't need to?"

"No, she's right," said Vera. "It's not a new idea but one included in my studies – as a theory. Firstly, people really will not need to labour, which is just as well because there will be far less essential work available. Yet, most people would like to engage in some interesting and useful activity – whether paid or not – to give purpose to their lives; others because they want more money. You might, for instance, wish to weave baskets, design clothing, write a book. You wouldn't lose your basic income if you took a paying job; any new earnings would be added to it."

"What!"

"Correct," said Hermione. "Of course, a tiny minority will never work if they can avoid it but they already do that anyway! And many who don't work because they are scarcely better off or even worse than on welfare are now free to take any job if they can find one – full time, part time, temporary or casual – and virtually always be better off. And all paid for by the vastly improved methods of production and services."

Worthing shook his head. "I'm a capitalist through and through. I'll never support this nonsense."

Hermione hesitated, then took out her wand. "You will after you see the revolts, and the starving beggars, and the bodies lining the streets before the changes were in place, Mike. Did I make it sound like these events evolved smoothly? It was this prolonged turmoil that made society so vulnerable to the terrorism that scorched us from the planet!" She began plucking a silvery strand from the side of her bushy hair. "Perhaps it's time for me to show you another of my–"

"–NEVER! I've had enough of your memories!"

"Then Cathesis has been for nothing! In a few decades you'll see the agonising reality and change your mind – but it will be too late ... again."

Mike winced and shrunk back into his seat shaking. "I just can't..."

Hermione twirled out another shining memory on the tip of her wand. "The Daily Prophet headline then? The one reporting that you received the Order of Merlin AND a Muggle knighthood for bringing the suffering to an end with your grand economic plan? You'll be comfortable with that I'm sure because I don't think they mention all the dead and dying for whom your salvation came too late – the Muggles whose scientific method saved YOUR life, may I remind you!"

Hestia whispered, "Hermione, please... this is all too much for Harry..."

"I'll look at the memory," volunteered Harry. "I want to see that headline. I want to know for certain that Mr Worthing was too cowardly to face the results of his inaction till it was too late."

"HARRY!" cried Hestia. "We're Mr Worthing's guests here!"

Sirius was on his feet, hackles raised and snarling at his son. For a moment, Hermione feared he might strike him, or even transform into the savage dog she knew he could become. Harry looked resolutely back at his father.

"No... The boy's right. I'll do it." Mike slumped back meekly into his chair. "I'll view the memory. I have to."

"Which?" said Hermione.

"Both of them. I need to see the deaths I would cause, but I also need to know that the strategy really worked to end them. Perhaps this time we can prevent it happening at all."

Never was Hermione so proud of her boyfriend than at that moment.

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—oOo—

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Author's Notes

Almost three years ago, when I wrote the first chapter of this story, I forecast economic collapse because that seemed a strong possibility based only on my personal instinct on seeing the widening gap between rich and poor caused by increasingly efficient production. It's only in the last couple of weeks as I was preparing to write more of that into this current chapter that I came across the term 'Singularity' for that very effect. It was a revelation. I hope no more of my predictions appear to be coming true!

I confess that Harry's 'happiest day of his life' scene was inspired by Abba's 'The Day Before You Came' which touched me deeply. Once again, it was mere chance I stumbled across an old Abba DVD amongst my junk and browsed through it. Funny how events can happen at just the right time as I'd just written Olive's 'happiest day'.

sable-rover asked if all the partnerships would be het and the answer is yes; I'm not drawn to reading in-depth m/m or f/f interaction so I doubt I could write it with any sensitivity. Sorry.

House points to ProditorMagnus for noticing the Aurors were not alerted to any underage magic near Theo Nott.

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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