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Author's Note- Okay. I'll admit this right now. I'm a sap. I can't help it. Angst is well and good, but I'm a sucker for the fics that just "cute" all over the place and leave you with that happy feeling. Hallmark commercials and Disney movies make me cry. Hell, G Gundam makes me cry. My CD case is equally divided between hard rock and pop. Not to mention the incredible amount of Broadway. And as I've mentioned, this fic is being heavily influenced by my "Highlights of Jesus Christ Superstar" CD, which I happen to be listening to right now. Harry's parts are influenced mostly by the songs (if you're familiar) "Heaven on Their Minds", "The Last Supper", and "Judas's Death". (It fits. Eerily.) Draco's parts are swayed by "Gethsemane", "The Temple", and in turn with Harry, "The Last Supper". Judas and Jesus, respectively. However, they aren't the only ones who have songs that appeal to their motivations. "I Dont Know How To Love Him", for instance, is Hermione's. And thus my point. I warned at the beginning that there would be Ron/Hermione. And there will be, oh, there will be. ^_^
Oh, and for the reviewer who mentioned, "I hope Harry doesn't go Judas on Draco"...? *cackles* I suppose that depends on what you would term "going Judas"...
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Author's Acknowledgment- This is a bit late in coming, perhaps, but better late than never. I have a dear friend named Clio, who trafficks every new chapter of this fic to a few of her friends without Internet access. Between you, me, and the lamppost, I'm not really well known as an author. Thus, every fan I have is a blessing- especially when they seem to enjoy my work so much. First of all, thanks to Clio, for putting up with my review-whoring and for being so dedicated. Secondly, I'd like to thank those people I've never met who so often spend their lunch shifts eagerly awaiting a new chapter. I've never had a fan group before. I'm glad you're enjoying this so far, and I'm gonna endeavor to meet your expectations.
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The weak moonlight shone against her luminous skin, the slight wind playing through the tangled tresses. Dark eyes were focused unwaveringly on the stars ahead, the quiet strength he had known there since he was a child never abating. Even when she stood alone, like now, Hermione Granger was a rock.

Ron ran calloused fingers through his mop of red hair self-consciously, dust stirring into his robes under his hesitant approach.
They'd left Harry and Sirius to talk, Professor Lupin- or- not-Professor Lupin offering them a treat at the Cauldron. It'd been a while since then, and a while since not-Professor Lupin had excused himself for some unnamed "business". He was suspicious it had something to do with the ruckus that had been going on in Knockturn Alley yesterday... but they'd hear about it if it was important, no doubt.

Hermione had gone outside a little while ago, and he'd thought it best to leave her alone, at first. She could take care of herself, after all. Maybe she just wanted some air.

But after a few minutes, he'd gotten a litte worried.

So here he was.

It was baffling, really; he'd known her since she was eleven, since she was a poofball of hair and uneven teeth. Even then, Hermione had cowed him. She was smart, and she was rather mean sometimes, and she was forceful. When Hermione wanted something done, Hermione got it done. And that was something he had admired, no matter how hard it would have been to admit.

And when the chips were down, Hermione didn't run away. He had never expected a girl to stand up and fight the way Hermione did, especially against the enemies they'd faced.

He admired Hermione. He really did.

He just didn't understand her sometimes.

Especially now, when she stood alone in the darkness with her face cast up to the moon, the light streaming over her and painting her cheeks with silver, robes fluttering in the wind and clinging to her legs, her waist, her arms.

"Are you worried, Ron?"

He started at her voice, then blinked out of his reverie and stepped forward to her side. "Worried?" he queried, puzzled, peering down into those brilliant eyes. "Whad'ya mean, Hermione, worried about what?"

One eyebrow quirked in the familiar 'don't you pay any attention?' look. "Harry," she said simply. "Are you worried about Harry too?"

"'Course I am," Ron returned distractedly. He wanted to reach up to brush that lock of hair from her face... so many years ago, maybe he could have done it... but now...?

"Oh, you don't even know what I'm talking about, do you?!" Hermione huffed, glaring up at him venomously. "I swear, Ron, you never pick these things up."

"What things?" he snapped back, startled back to the familiar snipe-and-play. "You never make any sense, so I think we're even!"

Hermione glared a few moments more, then shook her head and sighed. "He... he's changed, so much..." she said softly, something in her voice pained, saddened. "He's so much blacker now, Ron. I waited all summer to see him, to see if... if he'd gotten any better..."

Waited all summer, just to see Harry... He felt sick to be jealous, and yet... yet, he couldn't bear that somehow. He knew Harry's life was lousy, and Harry was his best mate, and he'd do most anything for him. But it was true, those bitter words of his fourth year... everything exciting had always happened to Harry.

He wouldn't be able to bear it if Hermione happened to Harry too.

So he said nothing, only touched her shoulder with that familiar ache of emptiness in his heart. Hermione turned to him, her dark eyes soft with worry and emotion, then lay a slim hand against his arm. The touch startled him, but he didn't dare to move, only watching her face, the night wind playing over them both.

"I just wish we could start all over again, Ron," Hermione whispered, dark lashes fluttering. "The three of us... I just wish we could start all over again."

"Me too," he said softly, and that was all he could say.

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The candlelight flickered fitfully, casting dancing shadows over the walls, shining over the satin black hair that lay over Sirius's shoulders, shimmering off the trace liquid of his fierce blue eyes. His face was still so thin, still skeletal after the twelve years of innocence in Azkaban, and yet the slender frame evinced nothing but power.

They sat alone in the hotel room, knees brushing, the silence that blanketed them a simple and warm comfort. The other three had left them to speak in solitude some time ago, and yet, not a word had been issued since.

Of all those in his world, Harry had known Sirius the least amount of time. It hadn't even been four years yet. And yet, it was with this man that he could sit without being choked by his nerves, his fear. It was Sirius who made him feel secure, Sirius who made him feel it was safe to be no more than what he was.

Whatever that was.

A thin hand settled on his knee, fingers squeezing lightly, and Harry glanced up over the rims of his glasses. Sirius parted his thin lips to speak, then sighed a little, haunted eyes watching him. "Harry," he said softly, "You know you're in danger."

"That's nothing new, Sirius." The bitterness of his words did not go unnoticed, and Harry winced a little at the pain that lanced through his godfather's eyes. There was no use trying to reassure him, as he'd learned. Sirius had taken Harry on as his responsibility the moment he'd realized James and Lily Potter were dead. He'd begged Hagrid to let him do his duty as godfather, and when he had been rebuffed, gone to commit murder in the name of revenge for Harry's parents, and for Harry himself...

"I know, Harry." That hand tightened on his knee, convulsively, and Harry bowed his head. "I know. But... Harry, there's something more, something I came to tell you."

"Does it have to do with Lucius Malfoy?" he asked quietly.

There was a silence, and then Sirius laughed. It was a pained, harsh sound, one that cut to the core. "I'm too late," he said grimly. "You already know."

"Maybe." Harry lifted his head again, so tired, too tired to care anymore. "Tell me anyway. Maybe I'm wrong, for once."

Sirius nodded, that exhaustion mirrored so well in the eyes that had seen just as much horror as his own, if not more, for so many more years. "All right," he conceded. "We- the Order, that is- got word a month ago of some concrete evidence linking Lucius Malfoy to the Death Eaters, something that might have been enough to get an arraignment from the Ministry. Something that had to slip from the family."

"What-?" Something stabbed into his breastbone, and breath locked in his throat. "Something... from the family...? What- what do you mean?!"

"I don't know," his godfather returned with heartbreaking honesty, biting his lower lip in an almost boyish gesture of worry. "I wasn't told, and neither was Remus. I just thought you should know, considering you know the boy."

Numb.

Harry stared dumbly at Sirius. Something had been let to slip.

Expendable. Everything is expendable.

The shadow of death on his face. The blood soaking the streets.

"However," Sirius continued, "the major reason I had to tell you... Harry, you told the Ministry he was one of them, and they didn't believe you." Harry nodded mutely. "If this should get out further, and you were to raise those doubts again, it would ruin him and his name forever, no matter if there was a conviction or not. Malfoy has always been one to sacrifice everything for his name, no matter the cost. So-"

"So he'll want to shut me up," Harry completed quietly. "As well as quell the leak."

Sirius's eyes held nothing but understanding and sad acknowledgment.

"Even though Draco is his son," Harry whispered, barely conscious of his own voice, "even though..."

"Harry." Sirius touched his back, and Harry shuddered, shaking his head.

"You don't understand, Sirius," he managed, voice breaking as would a child's. "Sirius, Malfoy told me... once Draco screwed up, he'd kill him himself. His own son, Sirius, his only child. And Draco is a little snot, Sirius, a slimy little prat and I want to lock him in a broom closet and beat him senseless, but Lucius will kill him and I swore to him that I'd protect him whether he wanted it or not, Sirius, and- and-"

He collapsed into the proffered clasp of his arms, shaking in utter silence. Blood running black in the streets. Parents crying for their children. And yet, there was no grief for Draco Malfoy, only the unending laughter, casting lots for his fortune and reveling in their pristine virtue...

That was the future, the future that tortured his dreams, and the one he couldn't allow, he had to stop it, stop the laughter...

Sirius's thin hands stroked his back, smoothing his hair back, a silent comfort, the worried touch of a parent, a father, a man worried for the child he held as his own, the child who had never been a child in his eyes...

"It isn't your responsibility, Harry," he murmured soothingly, rocking him, holding him. "It isn't your responsibility. You don't have to do a thing..."

"I can't," he whimpered, fingers clawing into his forehead, "I can't, I can't... I can't watch him die like some cornered animal, I can't let him kill himself with this, Sirius, I can't let him die...!"

Maybe it was Draco's purpose to be the sacrificial lamb. To die for the family name. He had been born and raised to do that one day. It wasn't his place to interfere. It didn't matter what he thought. He was just a bystander. It didn't matter what he thought, what he did, what he wanted. It didn't matter, it just didn't matter.

He wasn't any different from anyone else. He wasn't special. He should suffer like anyone else. Why should he bother? Why should he bother to try to save a life that never should have been? Why should he care about someone who had done nothing but scorn him all his life? Shouldn't he just stand back and let Draco do whatever he wanted?

And stain himself with innocent blood. To let a boy be murdered. To be saddled with his murder.

Why did he care? Oh, God, why did he care?