A/N: I think J.K. Rowling herself has made a boo-boo in her book. According to HPL, the whereabouts of the Marauder's Map are supposedly unknown, but mysteriously enough, Harry has it in his own precious hands in the OOtP, when he's watching the DA kids get back to their towers safely. Unfortunately, I can't post/e-mail HPL, so for now, the fic will just have to remain the way it is. If anyone has a solution to this mystery (which has been rattling my brains), please stick it in a review or e-mail me, if it's not too much trouble? Thanks.

And I'm sorry chapters are shorter these days. There just...isn't much to say. And its not really like I can update any faster? I do have a sort of master plot I'm following, so if what needs to be said gets said, then prolonging the chapter will just give me more details that I need to possibly refer back to so that I don't contradict myself. Eh...I know, who cares anyway, right? Long as it sounds right. I take fanfiction entirely too seriously, I think I need a bathroom break. Thanks pen and paper action, and the other regulars (whom I've mentioned in previous chappies) especially, as well as the others who reviewed for...erm...reviewing! Forty. A landmark for me--pathetic, you say? Yes, indeed, I am perfectly aware.


Harry looked in the mirror, and then round at Hermione standing on a stool next to him, staring at her own reflection. Molly was murmuring under her breath, fixing the collar of his robe, and fumbling with the creased hood of the traditional red cloaks of the Order. Hermione surveyed her profile sideways, pressing the velvety fabric on her stomach, then smoothing it.

"Stop it, Hermione, you aren't fat," said Mrs. Weasley a little sternly. She smiled a little at his appearance, apparently satisfied, when Harry moved to get off the stool and accidentally stepped on the cloak--which they had all falsely assumed had been magical adjusted to fit him.

"Damn it!" Molly swore angrily at the torn cloak, and Harry surveyed her, surprised. Hermione gasped audibly. Molly, though, did her best to pretend nothing had happened.

"Accio Sewing Kit," she gestured, and the small brass box came zooming to her. She flicked her wand in an odd pattern, and the hem began mending itself. There was a call, which sounded oddly like Dumbledore, coming from a few rooms down.

"Coming Albus," she replied, bustling around. "When you both are ready, go to the Hall, Neville is already waiting down there with his grandmother."

The initiation was a solemn affair. First up was Neville, who was not at all intimidated, but bore the air of a brave and courageous knight out to battle. His grandmother, in her flamboyant hat and prudent red cotton dress, sniffled through tears that melted her magically made face.

"...do you promise to uphold all codes of honour as dictated by the Knighthood of the Order of the Phoenix?"

"Yes," Neville replied, with no trace of remorse.

"Do you promise to put the task designated to you by the Order of the Phoenix first and foremost before even your own life and those of your beloved?"

"Yes."

"And do you accept your task as Rejected, to assist Harry Potter in the fulfillment of The Prophecy, though it may mean death?" said the dark-haired man dubbing them. Neville looked a little surprised at this, but did not think much before accepting the task unflinchingly. Harry was filled with immense guilt.

His went much the same way, except for the end bit.

"Do you," the man said to him instead, "Accept your responsibility to slay the Dark Lord Voldemort or die yourself if the attempt is unsuccessful?"

Harry hesitated. "Y-YES," he replied firmly in a moment. The full weight of it seemed only to settle now that it was so formally pronounced, and it was all the more intimidating that way. Thus far all he felt for Voldemort had been vengeance and hatred, but the absolute necessity of the end that was meant for him had established in him, a sort of dread as well.

Hermione was the last, and all of them in the Hall, nearly fifty people it looked (if not more) were looking forward to learning of her part in the Prophecy.

When she was announced "The Insurmountable Sacrifice," all of them gasped. Harry, having only a vague idea of the implications of Hermione's task, noticed that Molly had looked away, and a few ornery tears had escaped her eyes. He suddenly felt anger building up in him. He looked at Dumbledore accusingly, only to see him communicating a stern expression. Then he understood. He surely would not have let Hermione come if he had known the part she would be playing, and Dumbledore had merely anticipated it.

"No!" Harry interrupted, "She most certainly will not!" Many eyes turned to him in shock, some in dread as he had interrupted an almost sacred rite. He caught Hermione's carefully censored glare, and returned it, pleading for her to support him.

To his horror, Hermione replied, "Yes. I will accept my duties," in a small, yet somehow courageous voice.

"No!" Harry yelled outright. Dumbledore silenced him suddenly, banishing him by wand back to his seat. The anger flashed in his serene eyes, and Harry glared right back. He would not allow yet another person he loved immensely to be taken from him.

He could not talk for the rest of the ceremony, owing to the charm Dumbledore had placed on him, but it was mostly boring anyway, as the most important part was over. After the initiation, they were all three sent to their respective rooms and a regularly scheduled meeting took place.

"Hermione," said Neville first, when they were back in Harry's room, "You shouldn't have agreed to that! There must be some other way, I'm sure of it. You wouldn't have to die--"

"Of course I would Neville, it's customary for one person to die in every Prophecy in order for it to be carried out perfectly. The other person has to be Voldemort. Or if Harry dies, then someone Voldemort is close to will die," she answered calmly, taking up the air of a simple informant yet again. "Or it maybe," she went on, "That I and Voldemort's Sacrifice may both have to die for the whole affair to happen properly, but it varies with the type of Prophecy." It seemed to Harry that Hermione had accepted everything like some undeniable fate, yet Harry could hardly even cope with the notion of it.

"Hermione, don't be stupid. I'd rather let Voldemort defeat me, there can't be anyone he cares enough for to sacrifice," he said, matching her serenity, though hers was in earnest, where Harry felt everything but calm.

"You'll die!" Neville pointed out unnecessarily.

"Of course I will," Harry ascertained, "One of us has to."

"VOLDEMORT has to," Hermione said, and Neville unconsciously started at the name.

"No, Hermione," he said to her, "If he dies, you die, and there are far too many people that care about you for me to just ask you to die for me."

"You're not asking me to! How absurd!" she said back sharply. Neville's fearful eyes darted back and forth from Hermione to Harry as he followed the argument.

"But it's all become clear now, and you see that. I can't possibly defeat Voldemort, and the Prophecy only says that one of us has to die. And Dumbledore will defeat Voldemort eventually because he's obviously more powerful!"

"Harry, don't be such a moron! I never thought you were so far drowned in guilt that you aren't even willing to make attempt!"

"NOT IF IT MEANS THE DEATH OF THE ONE PERSON IN THE WORLD I LOVE MOST!" he burst out, his resolve breaking. Hermione's jaw dropped and Harry quickly turned away and began pacing the length of the room.

"I'll just leave you two alone then," Neville said, and the door clicked shut quietly behind him. Neither of them took any notice.

"What do you mean?" Hermione said finally, fiddling with a loose thread of the quilt on his bed where she was sitting.

"Look," he said angrily, sitting down next to her and running a frustrated arm down his neck as he looked up at the ceiling for reassurance. "I'm not going to fool around any longer with this because there would be no point in it."

"No there wouldn't," Hermione urged, glancing up to meet his green eyes.

"I realize that I love you very much. Not that I like the idea very much, to be in love with my best friend's girl--It all sounds like something Aunt Pet would watch on television, but I really can't help it," he explained. He noted that Hermione's face was suddenly filled with anger.

"You make it sound like a curse!"

"It is! Obviously because you can never love me back." Harry regarded her, for even the faintest hint of disproof of the statement he had just uttered.

"I do love you back. I've had a huge crush on you since back in first year, but I always put it to the back of my mind. Everyone just expected me to get with Ron, so I just went along with it. He's not bad at all, but if I had thought I had any hope of--" she stopped, giving him a giant smile, "Oh dear, It really does sound like Muggle TV." But Harry's mood wasn't at all ameliorated any.

"Oh hell, you can say whatever you want now that I've made a complete fool of myself, It would make Ron really jealous if you went back to school with me, and then he'll just fall at your feet again like always. That's it isn't it?" he retorted. Hermione looked faintly insulted.

"What do you think I'm making all this up because I want Ron to--why do you think I broke up with him in the first place?" She accused. Harry looked at his hands, having no logical reply to it, but still unwilling to believe that after all his self-beration, she had somehow loved him all along, and still he was the one at fault because he didn't talk to her about it sooner, nor pay her the attention she deserved.

"I dunno, but I find it difficult to believe that you can act all lovey-dovey with Ron and still have been madly in love with me somehow. I don't know what you want Hermione, but if your intentions are to convince me that I shouldn't keep you from dying, I can't think how you'd manage it by confessing your long-lost crush on me. Try a different approach, won't you?" Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, and Harry glowered back at her earnestly. For a brief moment, neither of them said anything, but suddenly Hermione stood up.

"You know, Harry, I reckon Rita Skeeter's right 'bout you," she fumed, "You're actually starting to enjoy wallowing in misery!"

The door slammed like a thunderclap and resounded heavily in Harry's ears as he sat on his bed contemplating Hermione's accusation.

The next morning, although, she was in enormously better spirits. She bounded into Harry's room, opening the curtains to let the blinding light stream in.

"Wake up, Harry!" she trilled, kissing him on the cheek in an odd gesture. Harry's hands shot up to shade himself from the sunlight, and he groaned.

"Why're you all happy alla sudden?" he moaned through a yawn.

"We're finally learning how to Apparate! Dumbledore's got us a special temporary permit to do magic for the Order," she rambled, sitting on his bed and bouncing annoyingly on it.

Harry turned to his side, pulling his pillow so that it covered both his ears, why did Hermione have to be so enthusiastic about learning anyway? "Whatever, I need more sleep," he said, pulling the sheets tighter about him, and beginning to drowse off again. He'd had the pool dream, and hadn't gotten to sleep until only an hour before. Hermione, though, had other plans. She cheerfully brandished her wand and "Wingardium Leviosa"-d him out of bed and onto the hard floor of the bathroom.

"Don't be silly!" she said, "A man named Cherian Crompton is teaching us. He does official Ministry issued lessons! Molly wants us down for breakfast in ten minutes."

Harry sighed as he heard the door close behind Hermione and began to brush his teeth. "That girl really is crazy," his mirror suggested, with a mouth full of toothpaste. Harry nodded in agreement as he bent over the basin and turned on the tap.

They had about ten pancakes each for breakfast and went to the Greenhouse for their lessons. Their teacher was a short, plump man (Harry'd been scolded for calling him fat), who breathed heavily and sweated all the time. His face was ruddy, but he was very good-natured and patient with the both of them.

He first used a spell to completely disapparate them so that they floated like essence in the air. It was really odd, and they felt as if they were bound by the man's magic to keep from Apparating in odd corners of the world in seperate pieces.

"Now, look to your left and right. Remember, you're all going to concentrate on moving to the spot where the person next to you is. Mr. Longbottom to where Mr. Potter is, and vice-versa, and Miss Granger in between Mr. Potter and Mr. Longbottom when their both finished. Is that clear?" They all nodded.

Harry and Neville first switched places, but apparently, they were wearing each other's feet. Harry got it right about his third turn, but Neville still left body parts behind so that Harry often had three hands and a foot. Hermione, of course, got it perfectly the first time.

And then Crompton taught them the spell to be used for Disapparation.

"But the whole point of Apparation is to do it wandlessly, so don't start to rely too much on this spell," he warned.

When they had finally gotten even Neville to Apparate properly a step or two, it was not surprisingly, noontime.

"The key to Apparation is practice," Crompton said with great effort, before dismissing them, "So practice, practice, practice! You only have a week and a half until you have to return to Hogwarts. And you can't Apparate or Disapparate there, you know." Hermione looked smugly at Neville and Harry in turn. "Tomorrow, come back at nine, and we'll work on Disapparating."

"Thanks," Hermione said enthusiastically as they exited. Harry and Neville nodded uncertainly.

"You're all welcome," Crompton said, smiling and waddling off in the opposite direction of their rooms.

They spent the rest of the day doing exactly what Crompton suggested, and Hermione insisted they do, practice. When it was time for them to go down to lunch, Harry (confident in his abilities) began disapparating in the same manner as they'd done all day and tried to go down the stairs. Suddenly, though, there's was a painful lurch in his stomach as he blacked out, right before he could propel his essence down to the table, he was tugged by an unseen force out miles away.

And as he hit a sandy desert floor with the nearest civilization no less than three thousand miles away and his wand safely back on another continent, Harry knew nothing but the searing pain in his scar, and the ominous wetness behind his ears.