Author's Notes: Again, a repeated word of warning…some things in this chapter, and in upcoming chapters, may not make sense to you after reading OotP. This is due to the fact that, as I've said before, this story was first written in the golden days before Order of the Phoenix. So you sort of have to pretend that you're back in the three year summer before Book Five. Ah, the three year summer.
On with the chapter!
***
Harry Potter gazed around his best friend's bedroom in awe. An enormous, inviting four-poster bed with rich, forest green drapes around it took up the centre of the spacious room. Thick curtains of the same colour, lined with gold trimming, were pulled shut around tall windows. An ornamental trunk, beautifully carved, sat in the corner of the bedroom, next to a gold-framed mirror with clawed feet. To Harry's mild surprise, the mirror stirred and casually strolled to the other side of the room, settling itself comfortably near the door. Paintings and tapestries hung on the stone Hogwarts walls, which, in this room, somehow did not look cold and ancient but warm and comfortable. A quick glance into Ron's bathroom revealed more luxury; it included an enormous bathtub with many different handles, not unlike the one in the prefects' bathroom, and a miniature water fountain. Water was shooting into the air from a ceramic mermaid's lips.
"Well, well, well," Harry mused, walking out of the bathroom. "So while we were sharing a dormitory with three other boys, McGonagall and the other teachers were living it up in the Hogwarts grand suites."
Ron grinned and flopped onto his bed, which nearly enveloped him in softness. He didn't bother stifling a loud yawn as he stretched lazily.
"You weren't serious about sleeping in the nude, were you?" Harry asked slowly, a look of horror dawning on his face. "Because I don't mind sleeping in the bathroom…or the closet…"
"'Course I wasn't serious," Ron's voice said from somewhere within a groove in his mattress. "It's just fun to get a rise out of Hermione," he snickered.
Harry rolled his eyes but grinned, then seeing that Ron wasn't going to offer him the bed any time soon, he murmured something under his breath and conjured a comfortable little cot to sleep on. As Ron cast aside his night-robe Harry got a brief glimpse of maroon pyjamas. He smirked.
"Everything taken care of in Canada?" Ron asked presently, putting out the torches in his bedroom with a swift wave of his wand. He tossed it onto his nightstand.
"Number four is safe and sound, thankfully," Harry replied, sounding relieved. "'Course we never thought it'd be there, and it was a job wrestling it away from the wood-nymphs, who believed that it was their cosmic destiny to protect it or something…but it's safe now."
"How's Hagrid?"
"Great," Harry grinned to himself in the dark, remembering the overjoyed feeling he'd had when he had discovered that Hagrid was to be part of the mission. "He was a big part of the search team…but once we had found it, he had to go back to the Alps…I guess there's some big negotiation going on with the giants, and since he's the Ministry's ambassador…"
"Things all right at the Ministry?"
"Yeah, everything's fine. Except that Stark git is giving us a hard time again, Sirius nearly took his head off last time he showed up and started one of his stupid rants…"
Harry paused and stared up at the ceiling, grateful to be sleeping comfortably indoors at last, even if it was only on a cot in his partner's bedroom. Ron had fallen silent, and Harry decided that it was an appropriate time to ask the question that had been burning inside him since his arrival. "How's Dumbledore? Any worse than the last time you wrote me?" Harry asked anxiously. They had, of course, been keeping in touch through owls, sending letters at least once a week. For fear of interception, however, they were usually brief, and in code. The two Aurors could never be too careful.
"No change at all," Ron sighed, "for better or for worse. It's like he's in a comma or whatever that Muggle illness thing is."
"A coma," Harry corrected.
"Right…"
A very long silence followed. Harry was sure that his partner had not actually fallen asleep, and that Ron was doing exactly what he was: staring at the ceiling, contemplating their former headmaster's situation. Harry did not think he could ever forgive himself if they let Dumbledore die; Dumbledore, who had worked tirelessly to keep Harry alive. Harry quickly decided to change the subject for the moment.
"Well?" he said out of nowhere.
"Well what?"
"You know what I'm talking about," Harry retorted.
"Excuse me, Mr. Potter," Ron shot back irritably. "But I was not aware we were going to have a jolly little sleepover, and stay up all night talking about boys and painting each other's nails. Now if you don't mind, I'd like to get some sleep."
"Pity. You would've looked so good with a manicure."
"Ha, ha."
Another silence. "She's got a boyfriend," Ron finally muttered.
"Really?" Harry exclaimed in surprise. "Who?"
"Some brainless git from the Ministry." Contempt and a faint note of bitterness were definitely in Ron's voice. Harry couldn't help but feel momentarily sorry for his friend.
"What department?"
"Finance or some nonsense like that."
"Ouch. That's got to smart."
"Excuse me? It isn't a contest," Ron said, trying to make his voice sound as casual as possible. "Besides, there's plenty of other fish in the sea. I know of lots of women who'd give anything for a piece of Ron Weasley," he said smugly.
It was rather pathetic; Ron didn't even sound like he'd convinced himself.
Harry gave a derisive snort. "Bull - "
"Language, Mr. Potter," Ron interrupted in a singsong voice. "Ten points from Gryffindor."
"Ha, ha." There was silence yet again. Harry gazed at the ceiling thoughtfully.
"…He looks like Lockhart," Ron suddenly said in disgust. "Lockhart with glasses."
"No!" Harry gasped.
"Yes," Ron replied grimly. "And she…she thinks he's gonna ask her to…you know…"
"No!"
"Yes," Ron replied despondently.
A hush fell over the room as Harry processed this information. He attempted to picture this despised boyfriend, but was unsuccessful. He only managed to conjure a picture of Lockhart wearing oversized glasses, the kind with a fake moustache attached to them. Harry shook his head to clear it.
"Ron, I reckon you'd better step up," he said seriously. "You're going to lose her, you know."
"'You're going to lose her'?" Ron sniggered. "Harry, have you been reading those romance novels again?"
"Shut up and listen to me for a second, you idiot," Harry snapped, propping himself up on one elbow and speaking in the vague direction of Ron's bed. "I refuse to leave this castle with a lovesick partner who keeps whining about Hermione, Hermione, Hermione." He started mimicking Ron in a high-pitched, whiny voice. "'Do you think she'll write soon, Harry? Do you think she misses us, Harry? We haven't heard from her since we left, Harry, maybe her owls are getting lost - '"
"All right," Ron cut in sharply, but Harry was on a roll.
"'I should've never left, Harry. What if I never see her again, Harry? What if she thinks I don't care about her anymore, Harry - ?'"
"All right!" Ron yelled impatiently. "Besides, I never said that last one," he muttered. "She knows how I feel - "
"Correction, Weasley, she knew how you felt seven years ago before…never mind," Harry said, a faint trace of bitterness in his voice.
"Well, what am I supposed to say?" Ron asked, exasperated. "'Hey Hermione, I'm still madly in love with you. Can you not marry your rich, successful, handsome boyfriend? Thanks very much.'"
"Say whatever! I'm just sick of being part of the Ron Weasley pity party."
"But…"
"Okay then!" Harry cut in loudly. "When you two start acting like adults and admit you're crazy about each other, let me know, will you?"
"All right, all right," Ron said in defeat. "It's not like I haven't tried, you know…and now it seems sort of inappropriate to be putting the moves on Hermione when Professor Dumbledore is unconscious in the hospital wing. There are more important things than our twisted little relationship, you know…" Ron trailed off, sounding quite disgusted with himself for worrying about such trivial things when Dumbledore's life was on the line. Harry remained quiet. "Contrary to popular belief, I'm not an insensitive prick," Ron added haughtily.
Harry considered the various comebacks he could respond with, but then decided against all of them. "Tomorrow we have work to do," Harry said instead. "We could be running out of time, you know." His voice cracked as he said this. "I think we should return to the scene of the crime."
"The Great Hall?"
"Well…if you really believe this Drago woman poisoned him…we…we need to check out the dungeons."
There was the unmistakable sound of Ron swallowing nervously. Harry didn't blame him; there was nothing he'd rather do than set the bloody dungeons on fire and never have to set foot down their again. But the mark of a good Auror was not to let personal feelings or fears get in the way. The job had to be done.
"Hermione's not exactly a fan of the dungeons," Ron replied doubtfully. "And neither am I, for that matter," he admitted.
"Same," Harry agreed, his throat dry. "But we…we really should…"
"Yeah. All right."
"I wouldn't mind checking out Dumbledore's office, either," said Harry thoughtfully.
"Good idea."
A faint, pink light was beginning to stream through the thick emerald curtains, which Harry guessed were made of some sort of enchanted material to allow the first light of day to pass through them. "We should really get some sleep, then," Ron said.
"Aw, does this mean no manicure?"
"Shut up, Harry. G'night."
"Night."
The sleepy silence that followed was quickly broken. "Harry?"
"Mmhmm?" Harry replied thickly.
"Thanks."
Harry grinned into his pillow, and then rolled onto his back. "Well, someone had to set you straight. If it weren't for me you and Hermione would still be bickering about the Yule Ball."
"Ha, ha."
***
Though she loved him dearly and was ecstatic to see him again, by mid-afternoon of the next day, an extremely irritated Hermione Granger had decided that Harry Potter was more trouble than he was worth.
It wasn't that Harry had become annoying or anything; quite the contrary. Professor McGonagall had generously agreed to give both Hermione and Ron the day off to spend with Harry, and it had started out quite pleasantly enough. All three of them, despite their late night adventures the previous evening, had awoken early, had breakfast together, and then had chatted amicably about lighter topics before delving into the reason Harry had come - Dumbledore.
They talked in hushed voices, alone in the Great Hall, for a few hours. However, by nine o'clock, whispered rumours were circulating that Harry Potter was in the Great Hall, and they had to leave. By eleven o'clock, a few of the more daring students started skipping classes to see if they could get a glimpse of the Boy Who Lived. By noon, the entire school knew that Harry Potter had indeed returned to Hogwarts.
It was like guarding a high-profile celebrity all day. Ron and Hermione took more points from the houses in three hours than they had all year, having to send many, many students who had hoped to meet Harry back to class. This was the generation that had grown up on Harry Potter mania; after the death of Voldemort the magical community had had a heyday, amazed that they had been saved once again by the same baby who'd survived Avada Kedavra so many years ago. Of course, Hermione and Ron had also had their fifteen minutes of fame (to Ron's excitement and Hermione's chagrin), but they soon faded into the background, destined to become two more briefly mentioned names in the history books. In fact, Hermione was rarely even called by name in the books, known only as 'Harry Potter's other loyal friend', the one who hadn't become an Auror and later earned fame for himself. Which was just fine, as far as Hermione was concerned.
"I think we need to get you one of those Muggle disguise kits," Ron said cheerfully as he told off a group of girls hoping to get Harry's autograph in lipstick. The trio was walking through one of the main corridors and kept being assaulted by Potter fans. "And possibly a wig. I'm thinking platinum blonde," he grinned. Hermione felt a strong desire to kick her overly buoyant co-worker. Things had ceased to be amusing or humorous after Slytherin had taken the lead in house points, due to the fact that Ron and Hermione were taking so many points from eager Gryffindors that wanted to meet Harry.
"Let's go somewhere else, shall we?" Hermione suggested, feeling irritable. "If I take any more points from Gryffindor they're going to be in the negative numbers - "
She was interrupted by a loud gasp. Max Brady stood at the end of the corridor with a group of his friends. He had halted in his steps. The Gryffindor Quidditch captain's eyes slowly travelled from Harry's shoes, up his torso. They took in the glasses, the new scar beneath Harry's left eye ("A hag tried to take out my eye," Harry had proudly told an appalled Hermione earlier this morning), his untidy black hair, and finally came to rest on the tell-tale, lightning bolt scar on Harry's forehead. Before Hermione or Ron could say "detention", Max had thrown himself at Harry's feet. Harry promptly turned a lovely shade of crimson.
"Er…hello," he said weakly, staring at the usually popular and self-assured boy at his feet.
"Mr. Potter!" Max managed to gasp. "I'm…I'm Harry Potter, Mr. Brady! I mean - I'm Max Brady, Mr. Potter! Enormous fan!" he breathed. "You're my idol! You're an absolutely brilliant Seeker sir, absolutely - "
"Mr. Brady, will you kindly get off Harry's shoes?" Ron asked pleasantly.
Max, however, was now sobbing at Harry's feet. A few of his friends, who had previously been chatting excitedly and pointing at Harry's scar, were now staring at him queerly.
"You have to play for Gryffindor again, sir!" Max wailed as his embarrassed-looking friends grabbed him under his armpits and hauled him to his feet. "Roger's still in the hospital wing, and Steve Brown's been filling in, and he couldn't catch the Snitch if it danced in front of him! And when they start up Quidditch again we're going to get flattened! Please, sir! You're our only hope!" He was now being dragged away by his friends, who were looking at a displeased Professor Granger nervously. "I know you don't go to Hogwarts anymore, but you were in Gryffindor, and…they'll let you play again, I know they will! Please, sir! You have to!" Max's wild yells echoed down the corridor as he was dragged around the corner and out of sight.
"Well," Ron said jovially, "that was disturbing."
"Do you think we could go check out Professor Dumbledore's office now?" Hermione asked impatiently, hands on her hips. The boys had informed her this morning about their plans for the day, and though she was trying to be as bold as they had seemed, her stomach was slowly twisting into knots at the thought of going down to the dungeons. She was trying to delay it as long as possible.
Harry, meanwhile, was looking rather humiliated. "Sorry about all this…" he muttered.
"Not your fault, mate," Ron said, slapping Harry on the back good-humouredly. Which, Hermione mused to herself as they headed towards Dumbledore's office, proved yet again that Ron had matured somewhat in the last seven years. At least he wasn't throwing a jealous tantrum because Harry was getting all the attention.
"Hermione. Hermione!"
Professor Granger was jerked out of her thoughts by Ron snapping his fingers in front of her face. "What's the password?" he inquired, and by the tone of his voice it seemed as if this was not the first time he had asked. Hermione blinked, surprised; they were standing in front of the stone gargoyle that was the entrance to the headmaster's office.
"Erm…strawberry liquorice," Hermione said clearly. The three of them waited expectantly. The gargoyle just blinked back at them.
"Damn," Ron swore. "He must've changed the password before - "
Harry looked thoughtful. "Sherbert lemon," he tried. "Butterbeer. Bertie Botts' Every Flavour Beans. Uh…chocolate frogs. Er…canary creams!"
"Canary creams? Don't be stupid, those were Fred and George's…" But to everyone's surprise, the gargoyle was slowly swinging open.
"Well, what do you know?" Harry said mildly. Looking pleased with himself, he started up the winding stairs leading to Dumbledore's office. Hermione and Ron exchanged glances and followed, both getting the strange feeling that Harry had had to do that before.
All three of them had been in Dumbledore's office alone before, but never had the circular room seemed so empty, so vacant. Fawkes the phoenix, though he was in his fully matured glory at the moment, looked even more pathetic than he did on Burning Day. Hermione was surprised to discover Dumbledore's desk was quite handsome, carved from enchanted wood that periodically changed occasionally, ranging from mahogany to white cedar. She had never really had a good look at the headmaster's desk, as it was usually covered in an abundance of letters, notices, and other documents. Despite its enchanted splendour, the desk looked rather forlorn without its usual mountain of papers.
All in all, the office seemed to be lacking something - or rather, a presence. It had the look of a place that had not been lived in for several months, though in reality, Dumbledore had only been in the hospital wing for a few weeks. Judging by their silence and the way their eyes sadly swept the room, Hermione's two male companions felt the emptiness in there as well.
"Well," Ron finally said, clearing his throat and glancing at Harry, "where do we start?"
But the expression on Harry's face had abruptly changed as something caught his eye. Hermione followed his gaze and noticed it too; a glint of silver, shining in the pale, February sunlight, which was streaming into the room from a nearby window. As if they shared a mind, the three of them crossed over to the object - a shallow stone basin with a silver liquid swirling around inside of it. Hermione had just decided that it was in fact a gas, and not a liquid, when Ron gave a low whistle of recognition.
"Dumbledore's Pensieve," Ron said, turning to Harry. "I assume this is what we came to see?"
"This is it?" Hermione said in interest, examining the basin at length. Harry had, of course, disclosed full details about his adventures within Dumbledore's thoughts back in the fourth year, but Hermione had never really pictured the Pensieve to look like this. "Fascinating," she breathed, leaning closed to the basin, her fingers outstretched. "Brilliant, really - to keep all his thoughts in here instead of having them clutter up his head - "
"Don't!" Ron warned, grabbing Hermione's wrist. Her index finger was just about to graze the surface of the silvery substance.
"Wouldn't want you to get trapped in Dumbledore's memories for eternity, would we?" he said, giving her a grin, but Hermione had become interested in what Harry was doing now - stirring the contents of the Pensieve with his wand. A blurry sort of picture had appeared within their depths as the cloudy substance became clear. Mesmerized, Hermione stared at it; she recognized the picture as a snapshot of the Sorting Feast last year. Rather suddenly, the tiny people inside the Pensieve began to move slowly. Hermione watched, entranced; a lifetime of being in the magical community would never lessen the wonder of certain things for the Muggle-born witch. She was itching to take a closer look, but Ron's warning repeated itself in her head.
"No, no," Harry was murmuring absently, swirling vigorously again. As he continued to stir, scenes flashed before Hermione's eyes - a few more feasts, the face of the Minister for Magic - and then, to Hermione's surprise, she caught a glimpse of a conversation she herself had had with the headmaster a few years ago. To see her own face within the silvery whirlpool of the Pensieve was strangely disturbing. Finally, the scenes started to run into each other, becoming a colourful blur - it seemed that with each swirl they were moving backwards in Dumbledore's memories.
"What're you looking for?" Ron inquired, the contents of the Pensieve reflecting in his eyes. They were sparkling in excitement and eagerness. Hermione quickly scolded herself for staring at Ron's eyes and returned her attention to Harry.
"Well, we know Dumbledore has a habit of putting memories of court trials in here," Harry replied, still swirling. "If he suspected the same thing we do, and if the information you've given me was correct…aha!" Harry cried triumphantly, pulling his wand out of the Pensieve. "He was there."
Though Hermione hadn't the faintest clue what Harry was talking about, she keenly gazed into the Pensieve, as did Ron. A grim-looking dungeon-like room swam before them. Several solemn-looking people were seated on benches, which filled the room and were all facing a stand in the centre. It was a courtroom, Hermione guessed, as she focused on the centre of the room. Two wizards and one witch were sitting in chairs, bound to them by gold chains which snaked up their arms and seemed to be cutting into their flesh, they were so tight. The wizards, both raven-haired and wild-looking, though one was considerably older than the other, were struggling savagely against the chains, but in vain. The witch, however - a young woman with chestnut-coloured, curly hair - sat very still. She would have been quite pretty had her eyes not looked blank and lifeless, and her pale face not been disturbingly gaunt.
"Hermione!"
She was pulled back to reality by Ron calling her name. Hermione blinked; her face was inches from the basin's silvery contents.
"Sorry," Hermione muttered, straightening. "I couldn't see properly from here, and - "
"No, you're right," said Harry thoughtfully. "We'll have to go in."
Ron gawked at him. "Are you mad?"
"No, it's all right," Harry assured him. "I've done it before, and the thing spit me right back out again." He paused, knitting his eyebrows together. "Well, actually, Dumbledore pulled me out, but…"
"Well, then," Ron cut in. "You and I will go in, and Hermione will stay out here."
"I most certainly will not!" Hermione exclaimed in a dignified voice, not wanting to be left behind. "I'm going in too," she said stubbornly.
Ron frowned, seeming to fight some sort of internal conflict. "Fine," he agreed reluctantly after Harry had given him a look. "But don't blame me if you're stuck in there with us forever."
Hermione looked victorious, and folded her arms. "So?" she asked Harry, peering at the wavering courtroom image. "What do we do?"
"Just touch it. One finger will do."
Hermione and Ron nodded, each stretching out their hands, which hesitated uncertainly over the basin.
"Hold on a second, mate," Ron suddenly said, looking to Harry. "What…or when…exactly is this?" He nodded at the image within the Pensieve.
"You don't know?" Harry responded in surprise. "It's Alonso Drago's trial."
Hermione's eyes widened as Harry pointed at the older of the two wizards, sitting in the chair on the far left. He had stopped struggling now, and was instead using his energy to glare around the room with bloodshot eyes full of maliciousness and spite. They kept flickering back to a certain spot in the room, on one of the nearby benches, and his eyes would become even more venomous when he did so.
"Oh," Hermione whispered, staring.
"Ready?" Harry asked, inhaling sharply. Hermione and Ron both nodded mutely, standing side by side. "One, two…"
At the last second, Hermione's palms became sweaty and she started feeling exceptionally nervous. Unconsciously, she slipped her free hand into Ron's. His eyes flickered over to Hermione, and he gave her a reassuring little smile.
"Three."
They simultaneously touched the silvery gas; Dumbledore's office unexpectedly tilted, and Hermione abruptly felt as if she had become very small. Then she was sucked headfirst into the basin by some unseen force. She screamed soundlessly, spinning through a silver whirlwind and clutching onto Ron's hand for dear life.
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