There and Back Again Lane

Ch. 10 – Your Cover's Blown

In human affairs, nothing remains enduring; all human affairs revolve in a helix, moving around and out.

—Frank Herbert, Children of Dune

Sir Humphrey Appleby: Yes, I do think there is a real dilemma here, in that while it has been government policy to regard policy as the responsibility of Ministers and administration as the responsibility of officials, questions of administrative policy can cause confusion between the administration of policy and the policy of administration, especially when the responsibility for the administration of the policy of administration conflicts or overlaps with the responsibility for the policy of the administration of policy.

—Sir Humphrey Appleby in Jonathan Lynn and Antony Jay, 'A question of loyalty,' The Complete Yes, Minister, 336.

Edinburgh

---(Bertie's POV)---

Pay it no heed until the last moment. The blighter's nose sniffs the air in rapid twitches, its beady eyes peering at the ledge where I'd been perched seconds earlier, forepaws raised in supplication as it sits on its haunches. Smells female. Yes, I know I'm making a spectacle of myself up here, but she's a lovely little thing, fit for plucking. A slight dip, a casual slide, and dive. I may not get much practice – not nearly as much as I'd wish – but it's a delight to hear the short sharp shriek as talons pierce pelt and grasp tenaciously on to bone and cartilage. Feisty bugger this one, struggling to gain liberty as I tighten my grip further. Too tasty to drop; can't let some daft alley cat take my feast. Minor adjustments in flight allow a claw to find the spinal column and —snip! — ickle Miss Squirmy is off to ratty afterlife, while I enjoy my temporal paradise on the rooftop, away from prying eyes.

First taste confirms what I'd suspected. Not as stringy as a common city rat. She was domesticated, likely trained, fit. A faint flicker of remorse flashes in my mind for the owner until I begin to savour the flesh in earnest.

---(Ginny's POV)---

Through the walls of disbelief, the words I'd longed to hear Harry say for two aching years march triumphantly into my ear. He's remembering. My arms cling tighter to him as he lowers me to sit near him on the kitchen floor. I opt for his lap instead, ensnaring him with my legs, determined not to let go. Maybe I should ask him what he remembers, but I don't want to ruin this moment. Not yet. The stench of drink and smoke emanating from his clothes besiege my senses, but all I truly smell is his scent, definite, singular, as I nestle my head deeper into the crook of his neck, kissing there every once in a while to prove he's still here, that I'm not imagining this. Against this resistance I offer, he extricates himself slightly to look me in the eye, though I gently rest my forehead against his and attempt to breathe regularly.

To prevent him from asking the question I'm dreading, finally I gather the nerve to inquire about his recollections. He spins the tale of the Death Eater attack on Hogsmeade in mid-February of my fifth year at Hogwarts that laid waste to The Three Broomsticks. I remember that day well.

We were acting as Ron and Hermione's 'chaperones.' Dean had succeeded in his half of our pre-summer holiday plan to make the objects of our affection miserably jealous and was off in the corner playing footsie, and who knows what else, with Parvati. Lucky bastard. The git now under me, however, remained blithely ignorant that I wanted him there, then, and that I didn't care who saw what. This despite the snogging in that alcove in October of that same school year. But for that bloody vision...

Some boys, especially Harry, desperately require a beater's bat to the head before they clue in to a girl who fancies them. Not that Occlumency training helped. Might as well have given Harry cataract glasses inasmuch as I was concerned. Even his formerly beloved Cho received short shrift. Their reconciliation ended with a handshake, with neither a hug nor peck on the cheek, at least not by Harry, thank God. Little did I know I'd receive only a slight margin more out of him that year, which was less than could be said for the seductively shy Susan Bones and her questions about corporeal patroni. If only I hadn't panicked and warned him off after that kiss. Stupid, stupid. That sodding vision cursed me during the one full year I might have had a chance with Harry. That and all those supplementary Occlumency lessons he was taking. But I digress...

The four of us were at table with Neville and Luna. Harry and I had come to a tacit understanding regarding Mum's death after I'd bloodied his nose upon his return from brooding alone in the dark corners of the castle. We'd be there for one another, as family, should another tragedy strike. So, while Ron and Hermione were obnoxiously gazing lovingly at one another, Harry and I joked about how hideous Luna and my bridesmaid dresses would be at their wedding. Neville desperately tried to keep a straight face while Luna, seeming to take Harry and me seriously, offered fashion advice. The gleam in her eye, and the occasional looks at Neville, revealed she was revelling in much different ideas. God, it hurts... why her? Why any of us?

The walls and windows of the Three Broomsticks imploded from a mass of Reductor curses, glass shards and wood splinters racing through the air into walls, fixtures, and unprotected flesh. I saw Madam Rosmerta's throat pierced by a nine-inch long fragment that once was part of a window frame as the concussion drove me to the floor. She hadn't a chance. Her hands dropped the tray she was holding before she fell to the ground. Two full tables of third years were completely decimated. Some of the older witches and wizards were able to impede or deflect the missiles while others were injured. Ron and Hermione were bloodied and unconscious but otherwise all right. Neville looked dreadful as he had protected Luna from much of the blast and the debris, but he would survive. Harry was on the ground groaning, having been struck in the stomach by a beam that had been heading for the both of us. He wasn't being brave: we'd both been surprised by the assault. As I provided first aid on those around me, Harry rose to confront a Death Eater that had the temerity to view his handiwork and stunned the bugger. In his condition, I don't know how he did it, and from what he's saying now, neither did – nor does – he.

He seems only to remember the aftermath of the attack, of the pub looking like a bomb had just exploded, of his injuries, and my face – he is very certain about that – appearing above him.

Then he asks the question: 'How well did we know one another then?'

I want to answer honestly, but 'I don't know' wouldn't hold even a dram at the moment. I could reduce our relationship as it was to the fundamental 'I was your best friend's sister,' which would entail discussing the entire Harry-Ron-Hermione dynamic. Sorry, but I haven't the strength for that. Probably he suspects something about them due to their behaviour last night. It would be best for Harry's sake to keep his reintroduction to his past simple.

'We were friends.'

'How close?' He continues to seek my furtive gaze. The truthful answer demands extensive explanations. 'Ron obviously knew me, Hermione seemed to as well, and Fred certainly remembered me.' Good job, Ange; at least one of us succeeded.

---(Harry's POV)---

As I recounted my hazy reminiscence, her reactions uncovered how little I'm remembering. She cringes as I describe the chaos that surrounded me, us, holds me a little tighter as I recall the pain, and stiffens when I mention asking about our friends. What about our friends frightens her? Did something even more dreadful even than this bombing happen? Must have, otherwise my memory would still be intact rather than cobbled together as a modern art piece by some collective of unnamed bastards.

The worst part about this bloody recollection is that all my emotions are buggered up. Oh, the pain I remember clearly, but when I looked up at Ginny then I couldn't tell what I felt. There's affection, certainly, but confused and indeterminate, battling with some vague anguish verging on anger. That disquiet is lurking aggressively along the boundary of my consciousness, a tangible presence constantly reversing upon itself…

Her delay in responding to my query intrigues me, as does the uncertainty in my recollected feelings. Mostly, however, these two sources of confusion unsettle me gravely. It's not the adolescent angst I remember almost fondly – and, if this memory is as true as it appears to be, absolutely falsely – of boys, girls, suggestion, and dark corners, or even the threat of a hiding.

She keeps avoiding my eyes, fidgeting in my lap, her jeans scraping not entirely uncomfortably against the cotton of my suit trousers. Focus, lad. 'Ginny?' She sighs, her back arches away. With my hands cupping her bum, I pull her back. It's like trying to hold on to a recalcitrant cat. 'Please.' Finally, she stops squirming. I kiss her to breathe life back into her lips. 'Tell me.'

---(Ginny's POV)---

Always the smooth talker, Potter. Melting into him, all reason flees. The flooded polders of my consciousness, sundered by the collapse of my defences, make me more susceptible to his ministrations. 'I was your best friend's sister,' I begin.

'Ron, right?' I nod, my hair whisking across his face. 'That can't be all, though, can it?' Where's he going? 'I'm assuming you don't snog someone rigid in a pub if you've just met after however many years.' He's smirking, but I wonder whether it's more for his self-confidence than any actual knowledge of our past. But he was delightfully rigid that night. 'Why, Ginny?'

'Why what?' Escape and evade, one of the more important skills Aurors learn.

A brow rises in mock indignation. 'You mean you do savagely snog old acquaintances you meet on the street in pubs.' I so want to slap him but at least he's trying to bring some levity into our fiasco. Saving his cheek, I pinch his arse, causing a pleasant little jump and an exclamation. 'Is that a yes?' Men.

'You certainly weren't complaining,' I breathe into his ear before leaning back a little. 'Groping strange women in dark booths...' A sly grin plays across my face, but other inquiries await. Savour the calm while it lasts.

His mask slips back into place. 'But you did know me,' he states. I understand from his tone that he doesn't mean that fool 'schoolmate' platitude. 'It wasn't simple recognition on your face that day.' I open my mouth to protest but can say nothing. 'It was shock.' He touches his forehead to mine and pushes upwards so that our noses touch, our eyes can't elude each other for long. His probing stare demands that I answer.

I rely on my training. 'We were just friends.'

'As we are now?' I feel his brows furrow and see the muscles at the corners of his eyes contract. He might be angry; I'm furious. I play into his trap.

'I love you, you know that!' I growl, placing both my hands on his chest ready either to push him back or throttle him.

'And then?' The expression has lightened, merely inquisitive rather than inquisitorial.

He won't think less of me if he knows the truth, will he? It won't cause him to collapse on the floor, whether to laugh at how pathetic I am or in regression, right? No, I tell myself, but I might want to seep into the floor and away after I tell him. Half-truth. 'I had a crush on you for three years.' God, I feel like I'm eleven again, insignificant and bothersome. A burden. 'Starting in my first year.'

'I must have been blind then,' he snickers and it warms me.

'Damn right,' laughing with him.

'Afterward?' His question bears a hint of amusement, coupled with restrained impatience.

'I had boyfriends, you had girlfriends...' The words stumble to a stop. I'm too cowardly to proceed further. Outside, it's beginning to rain.

'But...' He's waiting for me to continue, his pupils delve into mine searching for an answer.

I don't know. 'Let's just say you're a heartbreaker, Harry.' My hands, which I now notice are bunched into fists wrapped in his shirt, relax and wind their way around his back once again.

---(Harry's POV)---

Her evasions and wriggling about make me feel like a frontier dentist in a Western trying to extract a tooth with rusty pliers. Why didn't she want to tell me we were friends, that she had some schoolgirl crush on me? I probably made as much of an arse of myself around girls at that age, if not more. But I don't think she's just reliving some old embarrassment. This shouldn't be so bloody stressful.

'And how did I break your heart, other than being a blind prick?'

'That's not enough?' she scolds, her brows rise menacingly. The ends of her lips, however, are angling upward.

'Ginny...' I hate badgering her, but I have to know. Her reactions hint at something far worse than teenage romance gone awry.

'Things got in the way.'

'What sort of things?'

'I already told you: boyfriends and girlfriends.' She's blushing, embarrassed by the blatant lie. 'And exams.' My head lowers and shakes. She must think I'm terribly thick. She rests her forehead on my shoulder, arms entwining around me.

The simple question first, then. 'Were we seeing other people?' Her head rises a little and shakes, red hair fluttering across my nose and lips. 'Each other?' Same answer, though much more hesitant. 'What do you mean by "things"?'

Stammering a garbled response, she breaks from our embrace and rises to leave. I clasp her hand and give it a light tug, hoping that she'll join me again. 'I— I can't say...' She doesn't sound as she did before; her reticence is not compelled but intentional, as if she's protecting me from something. Hands slowly slip through one another's grasp, mine clatters to the floor as hers glides to her hip, glances along her thigh as she wanders over to the window.

---(Ginny's POV)---

Too much, too soon, tiptoeing along the edge of the precipice. He mustn't learn about Voldemort so early, without sufficient preparation. 'Really, I can't talk about it,' I announce once regaining some of my composure. To his credit, he doesn't force the issue further.

Hermione's right. His memory will have to be nursed carefully if it's to return. Right now, the course we're treading is exceptionally dangerous. The closer we come to the events leading to his obliviation, or to key memories manipulated to conform to his altered history, the more likely he will suffer a relapse in the conditioning. Should that happen, from what she hinted, he would become as he was at St Mungo's before they buried our Harry. 'The screams, the flailing...' If it came to that, I could, if necessary, subdue him. Also, she expressed openly about something worse than becoming a raving lunatic, which would be hellish enough, but the collapse of his two worlds. Should that happen, he'll be little better off than the recipient of a Dementor's kiss. At best, as vapid as that Lockhart git. There would be no returning to either my Harry or ours, only a brittle shell.

I didn't always have to be so careful around him.

After our row in late May of my sixth year, when I felt Harry and I had reached our lowest point since Mum's death, my waking nightmare finally faded into the background. The next day Harry absconded with me as I bowled through the portrait hole for breakfast, secreting us under his invisibility cloak to a nearby unused classroom. Once he removed the cloak I saw he looked little better than I felt that morning. His eyes were almost black from lack of sleep and unfocused, his robes askew. He took my hand in his, the one he broke the night before, and squeezed, wincing at the pain it caused him. To lighten the mood and assuage my nerves, I told him to get his hand looked at, but he waved the suggestion off immediately.

'Not just yet, Gin,' he said. 'There's something I need to tell you first.'

There he was, the love of my young life, grimacing from his broken hand and confessing that he liked me, not as a friend but as a girl, a young woman. There were tears in his eyes that I knew weren't only from physical pain but from the uncertainty whether he would hear the same from my lips. My response may have been non-verbal, but I'm certain he understood. In the rare breaks as we snogged before the blank chalkboard all he said was, 'Keep holding on to my hand, tightly...' All the cursing and glowering kept the four remaining, five if you include Hermione, siblings at bay while we enjoyed what little peace we could get before it all went to buggery.

Where the bloody hell did that owl come from?

Bertie, the great git, perches, barely, on the window ledge and begins rapping the pane with a blood-soaked claw. Attached to his other claw is an equally gory letter spattered with patches of fur. Only Bertie, being a Weasley, would interrupt his mission for food. Harry can't help noticing the owl thrusting its message-bearing talons at me through the opened window. 'That explains Hedwig,' he announces between chortles.

I giggle too, while Fred's smudged letter puts my mind somewhat to rest. It confirms what Harry told me earlier about their night out, and acquiescing in my plan to bring him formally into the family. Sounds like Ange gave Fred a right bollocking, otherwise he wouldn't have apologised so quick or directly. Still, I'm worried that there's a whiff of further mischief between the lines, though I can't place where.

As I rest the letter on the window ledge in front of a now gagging Bertie, he coughs up a rat vertebra on to the parchment looking mildly pleased with himself. A sudden movement across the street caught in my peripheral vision leads me to look upward. There it is, another rat, looking straight at me. Bugger and double bugger. We're being watched. Why have I never seen them before?

Harry notices my agitation and wraps his arms around me. I don't know how much time we'll have before the Ministry acts. Carefully, I extract myself from his embrace and shoo Bertie off with a treat before rushing to the bedroom to release Hedwig with a quick note to Hermione. Harry follows me, puzzled by my sudden activity. 'What's going on?'

No sense in lying now. 'We're being watched.' He moves towards the window but stops about a foot away. I pull him away in any case and perform a few anti-surveillance spells on all the windows and the door.

'Why?' He standing in the midst of the hallway, more perplexed than angry.

'I don't know, Harry.' I look him straight in the eyes. 'Honestly.' He nods and relaxes a bit.

'So, what are we going to do?' It's odd having him defer to me so completely, but he recognises he's terribly out of his element and he's calm.

I finally look at the kitchen clock. One in the afternoon? This has to be one of the few times I'm happy I'm not a morning person, though it means we probably only have about two hours, three at most, until the Ministry moves. Knowing Perkins, it will probably be quick and nasty, but Babbage will counsel patience. Babbage generally wins out. Time enough, then, for a little seduction.

As I glance back at Harry a grin spreads across his face. I swear that lad can read my mind.

---(Rat operative's POV)---

Mrs Bletchley was never this late before, I remark silently to myself clutching my threadbare cloak and robes tightly about me sheltering from the downpour beside a waterproof fire preparing a small feast for my growing nest of spies. She was always pointedly punctual with her reports. An hour had passed since her expected time of arrival and I'd not seen a whisker of her. Two further hours pass until Mr Graveney returns with word that our subject was visited by an owl. Scattering my prepared offerings before the assembled throng of long-toothed operatives, I amble to the remnant of a half-wall on which I place the secure messaging device: a small, greening bronze tripod cauldron upon of a pair of bricks. A flick of the wand ignites a small controlled fire underneath the cauldron while my other hand writes a brief encoded note on a slip of parchment. The vessel emits faint trails of acrid smoke. Crumpling the note and dusting it with a trace of powder, I toss it into the vessel speaking in a low but clear voice, 'London, Ministry of Magic, Undersecretary Babbage's office.'

You'd think with all the effort the Ministry's expending on this woman that she's some former member of You-Know's inner circle instead of an Auror. But as the last war demonstrated, you can't trust anyone.

London, Ministry of Magic

---(Permanent Secretary Nicholas Babbage's POV)---

A well-burnished bronze cup coughs a note upon my desk. Dudson must be panicking that the Weasley woman found a café his rodents haven't themselves discovered. Oh dear. Why am I saddled with these dreadful incompetents?

I collect the Weasley file from my locked cabinet and venture towards the office of my lady and mistress, the Minister of State for Magical Law Enforcement, whilst formulating how to extricate myself from the inevitable imbroglio that will ensue once Grub Street receives word of this sordid fiasco.

Unfortunately, when I arrive the Minister is in conference with another official, that reedy, weedy Weatherby of all people. Hiding the file behind my back within the folds of my deep grey robes, I request a private meeting with the Minister, but Madam Perkins insists that anything we might discuss may be spoken before him. She waves off my remonstrances that this particular matter ought to remain between only the two of us, so I begin the best way possible.

'Minister,' necessarily taking the tone one does explaining something to a small child, 'it has come to my attention that a certain situation may have arisen in the northern capital on a matter in which the administration has heretofore foreseen little or no progress that, given the information presently available, may cause a measure of perturbation in the operation of this Department.'

'Excuse me?' Madam Perkins splutters.

'Yes?' Really, I don't know how I could say it more plainly to the Minister without informing that interloper.

'What did you just say?' I repeat what I had just told her. 'In English?'

'Well, Minister, it appears that our Edinburgh agent has encountered a problem with one of his charges.'

'Who, what?'

'Dudson, Minister,' I continue. 'One his minions seems not to have returned from conducting its duties.' I wait for the information to filter through. Madam Perkins gasps and motions for Weatherby to leave her office forthwith.

'Not the Weasley woman?' she splutters after the door is shut and I've locked it with a spell.

'Yes, Minister.'

'Maybe one of his rats was caught by a cat,' she chunters.

'From what Dudson says, it was an owl.' I tell her that an owl with bloodied talons visited Weasley woman, one unfamiliar to the other rats. One can almost hear the cogs begin to mesh as the Minister struggles to find an escape route to this problem. Our dilemma is thus: should we consider her an immediate threat and respond with a wet solution, the Department might seem not simply overhasty but downright tyrannical, especially as it would be against a family that had done and had lost so much during the war; however, if we do nothing, the truth will out, and we, the both of us will drown in the bile of society as conspirators in one of the two great infamies of our age and be forgotten in the deepest, darkest gaol. Which, it might be said, could be little less than what we deserve.

Government isn't about just desserts, though. It is about what is necessary, expedient, and possible. Five years ago, there was really no other option than allowing countless innocents be slaughtered by roving bands of Death Eaters while so much of our meagre resources were wasted protecting that boy, no matter what he did. True, by the time we finally put our plan into action, the attacks were decreasing, but even that Granger girl agreed with our proposal.

'What should we do?' she pleads, her hands clenching and unclenching upon her hunter green ink blotter. One can see her dark brown hair greying further as her panic takes hold. In order to distract herself, she pulls her rich black pinstriped cloak tightly about her as an ill wind from the past howls about her office.

Personally, I would recommend waiting. Miss Weasley will neither surrender nor fall without a rather dreadful, destructive, and expensive fight, while Potter is an unknown quantity, if he's still there. Damned Fidelius charm. Minister Perkins is, however, an impulsive sort. How to put it in a way even she will understand? 'Minister, sometimes the best answer to such a dilemma,' a note of panic as she realises there are only two options, 'is to wait for the situation to unfold rather than forcing it.' She's on the edge of her seat now, gulping like a selkie after a long dive, holding her head in her hands. 'Following Dudson's report, I suggest sending four from Special Section to keep a closer watch on her and,' a pause for a careful look round to make sure all the doors and windows are closed, 'the other one.' I raise my eyebrows to make sure she doesn't mention the name aloud.

'You mean...' She's now sitting upright, a look of terror on her face.

'Yes, Minister.' The selkie impression begins again.

'How much do you trust this Dudson's appraisal?'

'Well, he has proven useful in the past, but you know those people from Hufflepuff aren't always the brightest sorts.' Most of us Permanent Secretaries come from Ravenclaw, swift and flexible of mind, not burdened by the glory seeking nonsense of the Gryffindors, the wanton ambition of the Slytherins, or the bumbling simplicity of, well, you know.

'I'm from Hufflepuff,' Madam Perkins avers.

'Oh, I am so sorry.' It's always a pleasure to see her grimace at that reminder.

---(Lupin's POV)---

The beetle on my other lapel transmogrifies into a scraggly-haired wasp beside me. 'This had better be good, you...' Rita grunts, silenced with a sneer.

'Yes, my delectable maiden of mischief,' my voice drenched in antipathy, 'it's something that will place your name amongst the respected journalists of our time, rather than amidst the gutter press.' A mixture of pleasure and disbelief plays across her face. 'Werewolf's honour,' I continue with a toothy grin. Odd, she doesn't seem to consider that sufficient justification for her presence.

'How did you bribe that crone with four bloody bottles of drink and a pair of cups?' she demands. 'Seems a petty price to pay for something...' She glances at the non-descript folder emblazoned with a purple saltire and swallows. Hard. 'Is that...?'

'Administrative Order XIX-L2/JOS/98/312e from the Department for Magical Law Enforcement,' I proclaim while opening the folder. 'And the bribe, as you so vulgarly term that exchange, consisted of five bottles of thirty-year-old Taransay whisky and two goblets of finest goblin-wrought silver with gold and platinum inlays, bearing the armorial crest of the noble and ancient family of Black.' She understands the second part of the trade very well now. 'Taransay hasn't been distilled since the stills were destroyed shortly after the '45 Rising. You know, Culloden and all that.' Blank stare. 'Muggle history. Any road, bottles of Taransay are appraised at several hundred galleons each. That entire gift was, in essence, a king's ransom.' Ordinarily, Rita is unappealing. Completely blanched, she's appalling.

As I suspected, even the one page summary and the explanatory note have been encrypted. Fortunately, I'd studied such spells in school, instead of paying attention in History of Magic. A few muttered spells and some exquisite wandwork, if I say so myself, and voilà, all is revealed. With the exception of the order itself. Sodding hell.

'What is that?' She's bounding about trying to read the document, parchment and quick-quotes quill ready to prescribe poison to the world, or, if I can decode this troublesome conundrum, perhaps save a couple of lives.

'An administrative order, enacted five years ago, signed by the Minister of State herself,' I eventually reply. Mistress Clarke might be an archivist, but the proper incantation is on the tip of my tongue and my wand arm is awaiting the requisite gesture from my brain.

'Isn't that covered by the seventy-five-year rule?' I'll hex her if she interrupts my thoughts again. Another glower forces her into the background.

'Sialagogos.' Worth a shot. Helping Hermione swot for those Healer exams has paid so many dividends over the years, and this is no exception. The summary provided no information whatsoever. I quote:

A modest proposal to ensure the security of wizarding and non-wizarding families within the assembled nations of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland by selective excision of certain historical references susceptible to tampering by persons individually or collectively, or groups, for seditious or otherwise illicit purposes.

And that was the pertinent part of that page. The explanatory note is in even worse bureaucratese and replete with citations to a plethora of statutes, orders, and regulations. I tell Rita to copy those pages, after freeing them from the folder with another charm, to occupy her whilst I rifle through the order itself. Here we are. Harry James POTTER, admitted to St Mungo's Hospital, etc., etc. 'Copy this down, and hurry up,' I demand. Ordinarily, Rita would have answered with a snide remark followed by a boot to the shins, if one was lucky. But she can snort out, or invent if truth be told, a political scandal quicker than a niffler can detect a galleon. Consequently, she produces four quills to transcribe the four-page order and its accompanying five-foot-long report folded into the back of the folder and lays two blank scrolls on to the desk. Though I despise thinking it, I'm impressed.

'You're not the only cunning one around here, you cur,' she declares with the hint of a self-satisfied grin.

Hermione's year long proscription was too brief a sentence for this witch.

A/N: () Charlie had died in Romania, Percy had exiled himself from the family. Any resemblance to the work or life of any other person, living or otherwise, other than those instances mentioned above, is either coincidental or unintentional, and perhaps both. Since I'm not getting paid for any of this, please fund me with reviews...