Disclaimer: "Harry Potter" and all other aspects of this fic that you recognize (unless they're from any of my other fics) all belong to J.K. Rowling, and not to me! The storyline and the ideas involved in this story, however, do belong to me!

Summary: A dark force haunts the trio. When the dead come back to life, can you deal with what they might have to tell you? This is a story about loss, damnation, and a dead man's second chance at redemption ...

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Road to Redemption

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Chapter Seven: Years Long Past

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Nausea. That was it; that was the thing that was threatening to overcome her.

Hermione swayed in her armchair, knowing that she had never come closer to fainting in her life. Sirius automatically reached out a hand and steadied her by holding her shoulders gently from beside her, his eyes looking her over – taking in the drained colour of her face underneath the hood, the trembling, small hands, and the wide brown eyes. He was as shocked as she was, and was unable to understand the curious sensation of desolation inside him. Hermione – dead? Destined to die in another three years, speaking from her own time? He was horrified, but he knew he had to stay calm, and he spoke softly and bracingly to her, trying to recall her from the pits of her utter shock.

Sirius's voice somehow – inexplicably – penetrated the shock that had surrounded her and recalled Hermione to a sense of her surroundings. She looked up and saw Harry watching her with a concerned look on his face as well as one of confusion. His hand was reaching out for a full decanter of brandy that lay on his desk. No doubt for such occasions ...

"Are you all right?" Harry asked, frowning.

I'm just perfect, Harry. After all, I just discovered that I'm going to be DEAD in three years' time!

Sirius cleared his throat pointedly. Hermione spoke up: "Oh ... yes, I'm quite all right, Harry, thank you." She was amazed at the calm steadiness in her own voice. Her ability to deal with a crisis was quite admirable, if she did say so herself. She explained: "I thought I was just on the verge of an asthma attack. Sorry – I didn't mean to alarm you. So – so Hermione has been dead for thirteen years? I'm very sorry to hear that, Harry," she said gently.

His jaw was tight, his voice constrained as he replied: "Thanks."

"Can you tell me what happened? I know it must be painful to talk about it, but – "

"Do you want to know about Hermione or about the war entirely?" Harry asked brusquely.

"Harry – "

"Don't mollycoddle, Hermione," Sirius warned her, "He doesn't like it."

Hermione rolled her eyes. Harry said, "Look – I might as well tell you what happened. After all, I've talked about it enough to newspapers and to any number of others." He sounded bitter. "But perhaps it's time I told someone the real story. I can't try to forget forever, can I? I've tried – believe me, I've tried to forget Hermione and everything else, and all that happened during the war – but it doesn't work. Even if I don't dream of it, I'm reminded every minute here at Hogwarts – when my students stare at me with a kind of awe – like I'm a hero." His teeth gritted together, his green eyes flashed at her. "I'm not a hero. I don't deserve admiration, awe and respect. If I really was, people wouldn't be dead! Damn them all – none of them know the truth! None of them know who I really am. And one of the people who always knew what I really was is dead! She's dead!" His voice burst out in fury, and then immediately, he softened and there was a glistening in his eyes. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to shout at you."

"It's not a problem," Hermione said softly, glancing at Sirius. He was staring between Harry and Hermione with pain in his eyes. She knew what he was thinking: if he had been around, perhaps things might have turned out differently. She glared at him. It was no time for him to blame himself ...

Harry stared at her. "Who are you?"

"I can't tell you that, Harry." She frowned. "Why did you just ask me that?"

"For a minute there, you reminded me of – " he broke off and shook his head, staring at the window fixedly. "Never mind. I'm getting fanciful in my old age."

Hermione smiled weakly and said, "Will you tell me, Harry? I don't want to know the gory details. I wouldn't put you through that. I – I just want to know who the casualties were – and – and how they were wounded or how they died."

"Like that's any less painful to talk about," Sirius muttered.

She hit him in the stomach.

He took a step away from her chair.

"Abusive," he murmured wryly.

"The people who died?" Harry asked quietly. "It's a fairly long list. Hagrid died in a battle with some of the giants Voldemort had recruited." His voice was flat, emotionless, empty. "Emmeline Vance died about a year before the main battles began, in an ambush with Death Eaters. Mundungus Fletcher was killed while in capture; a result of the same ambush – we couldn't get to him in time. Terry Boot, Cho Chang, Hannah Abbot, Padma Patil, Seamus Finnigan, Colin and Dennis Creevey – they were all murdered while fighting off Death Eaters when Hogwarts was attacked." (Hermione put a hand up to her mouth in horrified shock, but Harry didn't seem to notice). "Ron was nearly killed in the final battle against Voldemort, but someone got to him in time and got him to St. Mungo's. Neville Longbottom lost the use of one of his eyes when he got hit by a curse. Remus Lupin was tortured to madness with the Cruciatus Curse." (Sirius staggered back, his eyes dark with pain) "Fred Weasley lost his soul during a Dementor attack, Professor McGonagall can no longer walk without her wheelchair ..." Harry's voice trailed off, and he suddenly sounded unbearably tired. "All of that – all of those lives – happened before I managed to kill Voldemort. Now do you see why I'm no hero, and why it's no victory for me?"

"You've still got your friends, Harry," Hermione said quietly, because her voice would have cracked if she'd tried to speak any louder. "You still have Ron and Neville and Parvati and Ginny and Luna and all the other Weasleys, and there's Tonks and Professor Dumbledore. You have your son, your godson, and all your other 'nieces' and 'nephews', don't you? You're not completely alone."

"It's not the same without Hermione," said Harry sharply, banging his fist down on the desk. "IT – JUST – ISN'T – THE – SAME! I should have been able to save her. I should have seen it coming, damn it all! She trusted me – and I failed her."

Hermione's breath caught. "Wh-what do you mean?"

"How did she die?" Sirius demanded with a strange urgency in his voice. He seemed to have forgotten that he couldn't talk to Harry.

Harry answered Hermione's question, which inadvertently answered Sirius's as well: "Hermione didn't die during the actual war. She fought alongside us. It was about eighteen months after I'd killed Voldemort. It was during the last duel we had with the remaining Death Eaters." His eyes took on a dark, haunted look. "She stayed strong for us during the war, but after it got over, something happened ..." He hesitated, expelling a shaky breath, and continued: "On that dark night before the last duel began, Hermione got into a strange state of fear. She said she had seen the Grim in the darkness. We told her it was nothing, not to worry about it. But she stood out by the window, looking through the storm and keeping a watch. Then – suddenly – she started to laugh. It was a high, hysterical laugh ..." Harry's voice took on a faraway, distant note of being in the past.

"And she said 'oh, you've haunted me enough. Tonight, I'll end this'. And before we knew it, she raced out of the house." Harry's voice broke and they heard the sound of a strangled sob before he managed to utter in a hoarse and haunted voice: "By the time we found her in the storm, the last Death Eaters had been waiting for her and she was dead."

As Harry finished his narration, his voice seemed to ring in the air.

Hermione stared at him, transfixed. She couldn't believe she had just heard Harry tell her about her own death. She couldn't believe the pain in Harry's voice. What had happened to her? Had she gone mad? What had driven her to such madness? She, who scoffed at Professor Trelawney, had seen the Grim? She shivered. And hadn't the omen proved itself genuine ... after all, she had died that night.

Died ... she was dead. She no longer existed in this time.

All she had left was three years.

"You can't blame yourself, Harry," she said softly, because he couldn't. How could he have seen her insanity coming? Clearly, her act had been unexpected.

He spun towards her, furious. "Can't I? She counted on me to save her ... and I failed!"

"Listen to me – "

"Don't you see? My crimes were far greater than just not being there in time. I'd let her down so many times in all the time I'd known her. I didn't listen to her – and she was always right. I took my anger and my grief out on her, and she just accepted it. I never once realized what I had – until I saw her lying dead in the mud. Maybe I've had the chance to realize and show Ron and the others how much they mean to me, but I was too late for her – "

"Stop it!" Hermione cried, standing up. "Snap out of it, Harry! She doesn't blame you. Wherever she is now," her voice shook, "She does not blame you."

"Reed was barely a year old when she died," said Harry, pushing his fist hard into the wood of his desk and staring down at it as if under a distant spell, "Like me, he's never had the chance to know his mother. And like my mother, Hermione never had the chance to watch her son grow up. She'd be proud of him. He's a lot like her, particularly his brains."

"I'm sure she is proud," Hermione said in a choked voice. "And grateful to you for taking care of him for her – "

"I didn't do very much. The credit goes to his father. He – Reed's father – has been my only hope for thirteen years, believe it or not."

Hermione opened her mouth to ask a question, but Harry spoke again, before she could: "Is there anything else you wanted to ask me?" He sounded tired and drained, his green eyes dull and lost in a mist of memory. "If there's nothing, I think I'll go to bed."

She didn't have the heart to keep him back.

"There's nothing else. Thank you, Harry."

"Goodnight then."

Hermione nodded and walked to the door. She left the room, with Sirius following her, and shut the door behind her. She was about to take out her wand, mutter "lumos" and make her way down the corridor, but Sirius caught her arm and jerked his head towards a shadowed set of curtains beside the door. She was too drained of energy to protest, and merely let him push her behind the curtains. They stood in silence for some time, and then she heard a sound that made her look up and blink back tears:

Harry was crying inside his office. They weren't the errant tears of an adult, but the broken, heart-rending sobs of a child. He sounded utterly lost.

Sirius looked shattered.

And then, five minutes later, Harry left his office and walked down the corridor in the opposite direction, towards his bedroom obviously. Sirius moved to the office door as soon as he was gone, and opened it with Hermione's wand. He went in. Hermione numbly followed, and barely registered as he closed and locked the door behind them. She traced a fingertip along the desk.

"There's no chance of us running into anyone in here," Sirius said in the tone of one attempting to make light conversation – and failing.

Hermione didn't answer.

So ... she was dead. It was strange, to think that you were dead and gone forever and that there was no one in the world left who thought of you as anything but a memory.

She was dead!

She had virtually killed herself!

Death ... death was another adventure, wasn't it?

Her mouth twisted in a rather pained smile. Sirius, understanding that she wanted to be alone with her thoughts, settled unobtrusively into an armchair and rested his chin on his linked hands and his elbows on his knees. A dark, brooding look crossed his face. What a dark future lay in store for the survivors from their own time! Hermione was dead, Harry was a broken hero, Reed had no mother but appeared to have a father, Remus was insane, Fred had lost his soul, several of the youngsters from Hermione's year and even younger had been murdered years ago. Sixteen years had passed, and Harry's pain had not eased. Did one ever really get over the loss of someone you loved? Sirius couldn't remember ever getting over James's death. And he was dead too ... another grief for Harry to suffer. He closed his eyes and wished it was possible to change the past without wrecking the balance of time.

And quite suddenly he blinked. Time was complicated. But technically, they were still inhabitants of their own time, which was sixteen years ago. That meant this future had not yet come to pass. And if that was true – which it was – it also meant one other thing ...

Hermione's eyes fell on the album Harry had been looking at. It was still lying on his desk. She reached out with tentative fingers and opened the album. The first page had an inscription in what she recognized as Professor Dumbledore's handwriting: "The Memoirs of a Golden Trio". She smiled, a bittersweet smile. It was strange to know Dumbledore had referred to them as the Golden Trio. She turned the page, and looked at the first photograph, and her heart seemed to ache.

It was a picture of Harry, Ron and herself. They were all about seventeen years old – perhaps very late sixth-years, or summer before seventh-year. Hermione was standing in the middle, shooting disapproving glances at Ron, who was grinning and trying to steal centre stage of a picture, and jabbing him hard in the ribs in her playful exasperation. Harry was standing on her other side with his arms crossed, laughing at the others' antics. Then he turned his head towards the camera taking the picture, and he unmistakably winked – the message clearly being "I can't believe I'm friends with these clowns!" – It looked like a picture of three very close, very happy teenagers. Hermione wondered if, during this brief time, they had actually been happy.

A tear fell onto the page. She wiped it off hastily, and closed the album.

She remembered Harry sitting on the edge of his desk and looking at that same picture. She wondered whether Ron, too, was a broken and wounded man with little vitality in him. She remembered the tear of pure sorrow sliding down Harry's face as he touched the picture and whispered "I'm sorry". He had been asking for her forgiveness – she, who had let herself get killed and caused him more guilt and more pain! What had happened to her, to them?

Something seemed to burst inside her. Hermione felt the album slip out of her hands and thud onto the desk again. Her knees felt weak and wouldn't support her ... she sank to the ground, blinded by hot and terrible tears that coursed down her cheeks and wouldn't stop. She could hear someone sobbing, and did not realize that they were her sobs.

Sirius was neither deaf nor oblivious. He stood up sharply.

Hermione felt his arms around her, trying to quell the shaking of her body and trying to stop her tears.

Strangely enough, Sirius's warm (oddly warm, considering he was dead), tight hold and the soft yet hard feel of a strong chest beneath her aching, tired head was comforting. She clung to him, and sobbed her heart out. He didn't tell her she was being stupid, nor did he laugh at her. He just realized she needed to get it out, and he let her cry. And drained, she finally felt the tears dry and looked up, knowing she looked a sight. She smiled weakly.

"Your shirt is wet," she said apologetically.

He chuckled. "Dead people really don't care about their clothes," he assured her.

Hermione flinched. "Oh, Sirius, don't!"

Sirius paused, and looked at her closely. "Hermione ..."

"Do you remember asking me whether I hate you, Sirius?" she asked, looking up at him suddenly. "I don't think I answered you. I don't hate you. I never have. And you asked me about whether those song lyrics applied to me as well." She sighed. "Yes. Yes, they do. I always had a bit of a crush on you, Sirius. You were a marauder and completely unattainable and just the sort of person I disapproved of – yet I always admired you. You have a certain something no one else has. I was annoyed with myself for having a crush on my best friend's godfather, and so I tried to pinpoint all of your faults. I made my belief that you were selfish and reckless quite public. I guess I thought that if I said it aloud, it would make me realize how utterly unsuitable you were. It didn't work," she shrugged. "All I managed to do was make Harry and Ron think I was insane for disapproving of you."

Sirius, although clearly taken aback by this entire speech, looked at her for a moment and appeared to have halted his mind at one point and stuck himself there: "Unattainable?" he repeated questioningly. "You considered me unattainable?"

"Well, yes – "

"Why?"

"Well, a thirty-four-year-old man could hardly fancy a sixteen-year-old girl, could he?" Hermione said with a matter-of-fact tone, raising her eyebrows. "So naturally, someone my age who had a crush on you would think you unattainab – "

"Had a crush on me?" He eyed her.

Hermione put her hands on her hips. "Do you ever listen to my full sentences?"

"Answer the question."

"Well – I mean – of course, I can't have a crush on a – well – you know, someone who's dead," Hermione said rather apologetically, blushing flaming red and trying to look anywhere but at Sirius who was standing painfully close to her.

Sirius said rather sardonically: "Ah yes, of course ... my greatest flaw is my current stage of the human life cycle. How could I forget that?"

"You – sound angry," Hermione said doubtfully.

"Not with you," he assured her, sighing. "All right. We can't stay here, in this time, forever. I think it's time we tried to leave and get back to our own time. I've got a task to fulfil, and your disappearance will have been noticed by now – and we don't want an outcry of panic, do we? They'll think Voldemort got you when they find you missing."

Hermione appreciated the logic of this, but had a problem: "I don't know how my wand cast that spell," she reminded him rather anxiously.

His brow furrowed. "Well, let's get back to that spot near the lake. Then we'll think of the next step."

He turned and walked out of the room.

Hermione watched him go, and realized that she had lied to him earlier. Sort of. No, she didn't have a crush on him, but her logic about his being dead was completely defied by her new revelation. The realization brought a fresh wave of hopelessness and a greater belief that she could have gone mad in three years' time: somehow, over the past few days, she had fallen in love with Sirius Black.

Who, by the way, was dead.

I need help.

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Hermione took a minute or two to leave Professor Harry's office (it still felt strange to think of a thirty-two-year-old Harry, and it was downright impossible to think of an adult Ron). Sirius had probably already gone out into the grounds, but she lingered in the office for a moment. She stood looking around at all of Harry's possessions. Foe-Glasses, Dark-Detectors, an extra wand – it was the typical office of a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. But there was something missing from it that all her teachers had had: the personal touch. Where was Harry's Order of Merlin, First Class (for he must have gotten it), and where were his other awards? Probably all locked away somewhere, in a dusty drawer for fourteen years, Hermione thought sadly. He wanted to forget, didn't he? So why would he keep reminders around of, what in his opinion was not what he had accomplished, but what he had failed to accomplish.

The only indications in the entire office that this room belonged to Harry were the photo album (which wouldn't normally even be out there on his desk) and a single framed photograph that lay on his desk. Hermione walked around the desk to look at the picture. It was one of Sirius and Harry. Both grinned at the camera, although there was a hint of some elusive sadness about both of them. Hermione smiled slightly to herself, and then frowned. Sirius looked a great deal like the spirit Sirius she knew ... when had he cut his hair and taken this picture with Harry? A bizarre thought struck her: had Sirius always had a long-haired WIG? She nearly laughed, and felt better.

She left the office, softly closing and locking the door behind her with the simple charm, and started walking down the corridor. She took the route through the Astronomy Tower, suddenly seized by an urge to see Hogwarts as it had become in sixteen years' time. Uneasily aware that she was no longer under the Disillusionment Charm, she walked carefully and in the shadows. Her steps were light and soft, and there was no likelihood of anyone seeing her. Luckily, she didn't run into anyone on the way – not even Filch – she wondered with a mixture of guilt and eagerness if he was dead. She wouldn't grieve if Mrs. Norris was, that was certain!

A minute later, Hermione arrived at the Astronomy Tower. She started up the stairs towards the topmost room from which one could see right across Hogwarts grounds, right up to the lake far beyond the castle. Sirius would be waiting, but she needed to see Hogwarts in its entirety now. After all, she thought rather bitterly, she was never going to get another chance to see it as it was now, would she? Blinking back tears that were not only for herself but for all those she left behind, she reached the topmost room. Just as she was about to enter, a sound made her stop. Someone was already there. She sighed and slipped back into the shadows. She was about to move and turn back down the stairs when a voice spoke in reply to the vague sound she had heard, and she recognized the voice as one she had heard not many minutes ago. Her heart did a strange kind of slip inside her.

It was Reed's voice – her son's voice.

Why the devil had she named him Reed, by the way?

"You're not going to believe what happened today," he was saying in a quiet voice, laughing, "James and I – we managed to work on Peeves and win his devotion by our second-year, you remember my telling you this, don't you? – and anyway, we convinced Peeves to cause a little chaos to help us out of a sticky Potions test. Well, he came shooting in with these absurd creatures that I've never seen before – and you should have seen the look on Snape's face." The boy began to laugh, a warm laugh of pure enjoyment. Then, clearly still grinning, he said: "Oh, Mum! Don't look at me like that ... you know you're dying to laugh. Go ahead; I won't tell anyone you laughed."

And then, as Hermione stood stock still in the shadows, utterly frozen with her heart racing, she heard a sound that made her clap a hand to her mouth to stifle a gasp: she heard soft, warm laughter – different from Reed's, but unmistakable: it was her own laugh.

"You're dreadful, Reed," Hermione's voice said, giggling.

"I knew you'd find it funny! Dad told me so."

"I'd stake my life on the fact that he hooted with laughter, didn't he?"

"Of course!" Reed chuckled, and then said, "Merlin's beard, Mum, it was utter pandemonium in the dungeons today, and all thanks to Peeves – and indirectly to yours truly and to James. Snape couldn't handle the creatures – I don't think he knew what they were – and they flew at him and started nibbling at his fingers and toes and nose, while James and I collapsed with laughter and some girls screamed in terror. Uncle Harry, Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick had to be called in to assist Snape out of his trouble. It was an excellent day. McGonagall and Flitwick yelled at Peeves, but I heard them laughing about it much later. And Uncle Harry! You should have seen him doubled over when those created went for Snape's ears. He told me after the class," he added with a note of pride, "That he had never seen such chaos since the days in his fifth-year, when Fred and George Weasley made Umbridge's life hell."

"I wouldn't be surprised," Hermione's voice said dryly, but there was a smile in it, "You, sweetheart, seem to have a marked talent for causing trouble and getting yourself into it. I wish you had someone like me to keep you in line in your year." She laughed, and added hopefully: "I suppose Ron's daughter Hermione is no good, is she?"

"None at all; she's a daydreamer."

"He chose names wrongly," Hermione said firmly.

The Hermione standing in the shadows suddenly couldn't bear it any longer. Where was her voice coming from? That was her son out in that room, and he was talking to his mother ... a mother whom he clearly cared about. For the first time in her life, she damned the consequences, and walked out into the moonlit room of the Tower.

"You're dreadful, Reed," she said softly.

He turned his head sharply, his eyes widening as he saw her. Slowly, almost absently, he looked from her to the page of a large and heavy old book and he had propped against his knees. Then he shut the book distractedly and stared at her as if he was going mad.

"M-mum?"

"It's me," Hermione said.

He climbed off the ledge he had been sitting on, leaving the book there. "But – but you're d-dead!"

"Yes, I am," she confessed sadly, "But – but I wanted to see you."

"I don't understand," Reed said, staring at her as he drew nearer, his face full of confusion and a kind of elated wonder. Hermione realized with a rush of warmth that he didn't care about his mother: he absolutely adored her. "How – how can you be here, Mum? You – you – and you look just like you do in the pictures, in the portrait, too."

"Listen to me, sweetheart," the words seem to slide off her tongue instinctively. "I can't explain how I've gotten here, but you mustn't ever tell anyone you saw me." Her throat hurt, but she said, "You can't tell Uncle Harry or Uncle Ron or Aunt Ginny – or Daddy. I came here to see you, and I'm only here for you. Things could go very wrong if you tell anyone that you saw me." She smiled. "I know you understand, because you're as clever as I was in school." (He grinned suddenly) "So can you keep this secret for me now, Reed?"

"Of course I can, Mum. I won't tell anyone – not even Dad," he finished regretfully.

Hermione reached out tentatively with her hand. Her son, who was currently no more than a year younger than she was, took her hand. She grasped the warm hand and looked down at it, unable to believe she'd really created him. "I'm so sorry, Reed," she said softly, her eyes tearing, "I'm so sorry I was foolish enough to run out into the storm that night. I'm so sorry I wasn't there to watch you become the handsome boy you have. I'm sorry I wasn't there for you during all those times you needed me. There's nothing I can do now to change that – " her voice caught, but she persevered, "But I want you to know that I love you ... that I'm so proud of you ..."

"Even of my troublemaking talents?" Reed asked with a grin, but there was a strangely hoarse touch in his voice.

She laughed. "Of course! I had a few of those myself – just between you and me."

"Oh, Mum! Everyone knows you had a knack for getting into trouble."

"They do?" Hermione gasped, annoyed that her perfect reputation should have been discovered to not be so perfect after all. Oh well ... she couldn't have expected anything less.

Reed began to laugh at the expression on her face. Hermione stared at him, and realized that the laugh was strangely familiar. Then her son shook his head and said: "You don't have anything to be sorry for, Mum," he said quietly, a jubilant light in his eyes. "You have been there for me when I needed you. Right there in the book – " he indicated it.

"What is it?" Hermione asked.

"It's sort of like a painting, you know – the person in it talks to you and interacts. Professor Dumbledore and Dad charmed one of the photographs taken of you after I was born, and made that for me. Dumbledore wanted Dad to have one – but I don't think he could handle it. He and Uncle Harry refuse to remember. They fight not to. He – he still misses you, you know, Mum," Reed said slowly, "He hasn't been the same since that night. Most people wouldn't be able to tell, because he's always been able to hide his pain if he wants to, but I can see it. He blames himself for not being able to save you. So does Uncle Harry."

"You have to tell them that it wasn't their fault, Reed," Hermione said softly, brushing a few stray dark hairs out of Reed's eyes, "Tell them that you dreamt of me, and that I asked you to tell them that I'm very – very happy where I am. Tell them that I miss them, but that I never once blamed them for what happened to me."

"I'll tell them, Mum, don't worry."

"Now ... tell me what those creatures Peeves brought in were," Hermione smiled.

Reed laughed. "I honestly don't have a bloody clue! But Molly from Ravenclaw said that she was sure they were 'Nargles' or some such things."

Hermione thought of the girl who looked just like Luna Lovegood and giggled. "I'm not surprised."

"I've missed you, Mum," Reed said suddenly, reaching out and touching her hair, her cheek, her shoulder – as if to check that she was real, that she was solid. Hermione squeezed his hand tightly, remembering how she had reacted upon seeing Sirius's spirit. "I really have."

"Do – do you remember me? You were only a baby ..."

"It's strange, but I do remember you. Sometimes, when I dream, I can hear you singing and although your voice sounds different when you sing, I know it's you. And sometimes I can smell you as you lean over me and tuck me into the cradle ..." Reed blinked sharply and swallowed. "I – I know you can't stay with me, can you?"

"No," Hermione managed to say, fighting back tears, "I – I'm sorry – I can't."

He nodded. "I understand. Time travel and all."

At her surprised look, he grinned. "What? You said yourself that I'm as clever as you are, Mum! Give me some credit for knowing how things happen."

"You're my son, through and through," Hermione laughed. She tightened her grip on his hand before finally releasing it. "I have to go now, Reed. Don't forget to keep this a secret." She ran a finger down his strong jaw- line. "Take care of your father and Uncle Harry. I'll always be with you, Reed. I love you so much." And it was absolutely true.

He reached out and hugged her. For a moment, mother and son, barely a year apart in age, held each other as if they would never let go. And then Hermione gently disentangled herself and kissed Reed on the cheek. She managed to whisper "I love you" once more before slowly turning and stumbling towards the stairway. She didn't turn back or look at him one last time, because she didn't think she would have the strength to leave if she did. Quickly, she fled down the stairs, fighting back tears and refusing to cry. On her way, she bumped into a tall, handsome figure.

"Sirius!"

"Hermione, where've you been?"

"I – I saw Reed," she whispered, choked.

He grabbed her hand. "Hermione, you've got to remember something. I may not be around much longer, so I'm going to tell you now. Even in the darkest fog, there is always a light at the end of the tunnel. There's always hope. You need to remember that." He started hurrying towards the Entrance Hall, pulling her along with him. "Remember that."

"Hope?" she said bitterly. "Hang hope! I've lost you. I lose my son. I lose Harry and Ron and my parents and all the others I've cared about, simply because I was stupid enough to get myself killed by stray, murderous Death Eaters. I'm dead!"

"You'll see me again," he offered in consolation.

She looked at him. "At what price?"

"Listen," Sirius said urgently, "That's just it. You don't have to die."

Hermione froze and stared at him, shocked.

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TBC.

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A/N: Once again, please review, and I'll update as soon as I can!