Later that night, after everyone had gone to bed, Tara crept out onto the front porch of the Summers home. She found Willow leaning on the rail, nursing a mug of hot chocolate.
"Hi."
"Eep!" Willow jumped several inches and barely avoided spilling cocoa all over her white pajama top. "Jeez, Tara, you scared me. When did you get all ninja-like?"
"S-sorry, Willow. I figured you heard me open the door."
"Not so much, no. But it's okay."
"Sorry."
"Really, it's okay." She looked at Tara's pajama outfit. "So … you're still up."
"Uh huh. You too."
"Guess so."
They drifted into silence, absorbing the rare screamless night in Sunnydale.
"Will," Tara said finally, "d-do you want to tell me what's wrong?"
"I'm not covering it up so good, huh?"
"Actually, I didn't notice anything, 't-til I saw you out here at three in the morning staring into space."
"Wow, look at me. I'm secret-keeping gal."
"I bet Grey knows."
"He's very in-tune with the many moods of Willow, it's true. But I haven't really talked about it with him much, and he doesn't press. It's not a Grey conversation."
"No?"
"Nope. Kind of a Tara conversation, actually. If you don't mind?"
"Willow," Tara gave her the 'duh' look with her sleepy eyes, "of course I d-don't mind. I didn't come down here because I thought you were just getting your chocolate fix. What's wrong, sweetie?"
"Magic."
"Magic?"
"Magic. You know how I went to Hogwarts every week for a lesson." It wasn't a question, but Tara nodded anyway. "And they all went really well. I came back, did the practicing, and that all went really well. I wasn't even thinking about it, it went so well. Kinda like, y'know, right before Glory? When I was really powerful but not dangerous?"
"Uh huh. But n-now?" Tara asked tentatively.
"Same. No change. I'm still at that point. But this time it's giving me the big ol' fear whammy right in the stomach."
"The magic? Or how comfortable you are with it?"
"The second. 'Cuz last time, whoops, sorry 'bout your limb, Dawnie. Glad you have three more. And … the other stuff," Willow added, not wanting to bring up the memory spell. "I caught myself doing the dumb stuff I did then, y'know? Little things, like conjuring clothes when I was late for something, or changing a one-dollar bill into a five so I could get a cheeseburger. Like before."
"That's not good, Willow. When did that happen?"
"I didn't even notice until, like, the middle of July. Probably started a few weeks before, right after we left Hogwarts."
"Did you talk to Professor Dumbledore about it?" Willow shook her head. She had been too ashamed. "You should have. It's a bad sign."
"I know it is, Tara. I'm not naïve like I was before. When I figured it out, I stopped doing spells."
"St-stopped? Doing magic? But you've been going to the lessons."
"I take the lessons and do the homework as fast as I can. I only do stuff with my wand now, and when the homework is done … I've been giving my wand to Buffy. Just in case."
Through the nervous twisting in her gut, Tara forced a smile. "That's good, though, Willow. You're dealing with it. You aren't letting it take control of you."
"And-and-and that's just it! I have. I'm not in control, because when I'm in control I can do whatever I want, because I'm deciding to do it. I'm being decisive Willow. With this I'm out of control Willow who has to give her wand to the Slayer to keep from doing magic. That's the definition of not in control."
"But you did something about it. You stopped."
"I can still FEEL it though, Tara. I don't need the wand. I know it. The magic knows it. I keep feeling like there's some creepy old British actor standing behind me saying 'It's only a matter of time.' And I'm so not down with that."
"O-of course not. But … I'm thinking two things about this, if you want to hear them."
"I so do," Willow said, nodding.
"The f-first thing is that you are in control. I mean it. If you want the real definition of out of control, a-ask Jess about her walkthroughs with Dumbledore."
"Walkthroughs?"
"Th-they're part of her rehab. It's n-not my place to describe them, but … she's dealing with the stuff she did. That's out of control stuff. I-i-if buying a cheeseburger sets off your alarm, we've still got lots of time, okay?" Willow nodded again. "The second thing is that you should tell Professor Dumbledore. He'll help you, and h-he won't judge you, so you don't need to be worried about being ashamed or anything with him. You know that, right?"
"I … sort of. Yeah. I do. Just, after all the work we did, it's hard, y'know? To admit that I'm nervous about being black-eyed Willow again?"
"If you hadn't done the work before, y-you wouldn't be worried about this now, sweetie. That's why you did the work in the first place. The work isn't done because the school year ended."
Willow thought that over and decided that Dumbledore would understand. He also wouldn't judge her for it; he'd only try and help. "You're right."
Tara smiled sweetly. "Aren't I usually?"
"Draco? In my study please," Lucius Malfoy said as he walked by the door to Draco's room. The younger Malfoy rose from his leather chair, put aside his book on Seeker tactics, and started the walk he had learned to dread.
Nothing good ever happened to Draco in his father's study.
The room was several doors down the hall from his bedroom; he entered and took his usual place, standing ramrod straight in front of his father's massive oak desk, fear running down his spine like a bead of sweat.
"You'll be returning to Hogwarts in a few weeks," his father's icy voice said. Lucius' chair faced away from him, allowing Lucius to view the countryside through his enormous picture window while he spoke. "I thought it best that we talk now, before we make the trip to gather your supplies."
"Yes, father," Draco said, glad his father's voice was calm. He still held out the faint hope that he might escape this conference without a resumption of the routine thrashings he had received earlier in the summer.
"Your studies with me this summer have gone well," Lucius said, turning his massive leather chair around to face Draco. "Much better, in fact, than I thought they would. It is possible, just possible, boy, that you have a glimmer of the Malfoy potential in you after all."
Stunned by the praise, Draco didn't reply beyond a stuttered 'thank you.' His father had said nothing all summer, piling dark lesson upon lesson, just as Snape had predicted. This went beyond any of that; he almost sounded as he had the year before, when he spoke of making Draco a Death Eater.
"This is an important year for our master," Lucius continued. "Despite last year's setbacks, I have managed to restore something of the credibility of the Malfoy name. If I am to return to sit at his right hand, however," Lucius' piercing eyes closed in on Draco, and the boy had to restrain himself from stepping back, "I will need to present him with a greater gift than any other."
"I expect your assistance."
"Assistance, father?"
"Yes." Lucius Malfoy's lips curled up in a jackal's sneer. "If you assist me well, the rewards will be great." Menace burned in his ice blue eyes. "If you fail, the penalties will be equally great."
"What can I do?" Draco asked, careful to phrase his response as if helping Voldemort would be the most natural thing in the world for him.
"When the time comes, I will tell you specifically, but for now rest assured: you will have the satisfaction of the crushing victory over Harry Potter and his nitwit friends that I know you desire."
Draco flashed his most evil smile.
"I won't fail you, father."
Neville was waiting outside the Leaky Cauldron when Ron, Harry, and Ginny arrived with Molly Weasley.
"Hello, Neville dear. How are you?"
"Fine, Mrs. Weasley. And yourself?"
"I'm well, thank you." She gave him a sweet, motherly smile. He exchanged greetings with Harry and Ron, then flashed Ron a concerned look.
"Say, Ron, mind if I speak to you in private? Just for a bit."
Confused, Ron allowed himself to be led aside, where Neville began whispering and gesturing heatedly.
"What d'you think that's about?" Harry said to Ginny, squeezing her hand.
"Dunno." Ginny looked around. "Wasn't Hermione meeting Neville early? Maybe she's not here an' that's got him worried."
Suddenly Ron's face broke into a pained expression. He nodded, asked Neville a question, then took off into the pub once he had the answer.
"What's happening?" Harry asked Neville when the boy came back over.
"It's Hermione," Neville said somberly. "She's locked herself in her room and won't come out."
Ron could hear her crying through the door. He tapped tentatively on the battered wood, then knocked louder when he got no response.
"Go 'way," Hermione's voice was thick with weeping.
"'Mione? It's me, Ron," he called. "Please let me in." He heard shuffling, followed by the clack-clack of a chain banging into the doorframe.
Then the flimsy door flew aside and a sobbing Hermione threw herself into his arms.
He held her in the doorway for a few minutes, making cooing noises and letting her cry herself out. His left arm draped across her shoulders and his right hand rubbed small circles across her back.
When she seemed a bit calmer, he hefted her into his arms and deposited her on the bed. Then he went back and shut the door.
"Feelin' better?"
"A bit," she mumbled.
"Want to talk about it? Neville said you were in Flourish an' Blotts an' all of a sudden you were cryin' and made him walk you back here."
"I don't know. It'll sound so silly if I say it out loud."
"Made you upset," he said tenderly. "That makes it not silly to me."
"Ronald Weasley, are you trying to be sensitive?" She gave him a tiny smile, lighting up her tear-stained face.
He grinned. "Maybe a little. I'm not a complete dunce, y'know."
"I know." She reached out for his hand and interlaced her fingers with his.
"And really, how bad could it be? I mean, s'not like you didn't make Prefect or something."
Hermione blanched, and Ron thought he saw her turn green. "Go 'way," she cried, her tears quickly restarting.
"You didn't make Prefect?" Ron bellowed. "Are you kiddin' me? Bloody fucking hell!" Then he remembered that she was crying, and sat down on the bed next to her. "Aw 'Mione, come here." He wrapped his arms around her again. "That's not silly at all. You should be damn pissed off."
"I kept thinking, 'oh, they must not have sent the letters yet,'" she said after her sobbing slowed. "Especially because of how all the slots were open after last year's class graduated? I figured they had to take their time and pick them all out. But then … we went to Flourish and Blotts and there was Dean Thomas, wearing a badge."
"Dean bleedin' Thomas? Are you kiddin' me?" He repeated. "You'd be a way better Prefect than Dean Thomas!"
"Well, I know that, Ron," she said with more than a hint of anger. Then her voice drooped, "but I guess Dumbledore and McGonagall don't think so."
"But they think you're great!"
"I guess not," she said, looking away.
A huge lump formed in Ron's throat. She looked so hurt, worse than he had ever seen. It didn't make sense. Dumbledore and McGonagall thought the world of her. McGonagall had even given her the Time Turner, which required her to tell the Ministry that Hermione was fantastic AND responsible. That was a lot bigger deal than being a Prefect, at least to Ron's way of thinking. He almost said that to Hermione, but realized it wouldn't help. He satisfied himself with hugging her closer and kissing her temple. That would do, for now.
When they got to Hogwarts tomorrow, he and Harry would have a few words for Professor McGonagall.
