Title: Unsaid

Author: Sonya

Rating: R

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I don't own. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. Harry Potter and all associated characters, setting, props, etc., belong to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Inc., etc. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue - all you'll get is a really bratty bird and some really spoiled guinea pigs.

Spoilers: Up to 'Wrecked' in the Buffyverse, up to "Goblet of Fire" in the Potterverse.

Pairings: Willow/Snape, Hermione/Viktor Krum, Draco/Ginny, Fred/Angelina. Other 'ships to be revealed later. ;)

Summary: This one's not summarizing well. I may give up on chapter summaries.

Author's Note: Just a reminder that this story takes place following "Goblet of Fire" - as in, "Order of the Phoenix" never happened. There will be overlaps, but there will also be differences, and there are no intentional spoilers. So, if you've read the book, you'll see some things familiar and some things not. If you haven't read the book and don't want to be spoiled - use your own judgement. If I don't tell you what's my idea and what's from the book, then you're not really being spoiled, right?

Willow,

Hi. It's Dawn.

I'm not really sure why I'm writing. Giles told us a little about where you are, and then I bugged Anya into telling me the rest - well, not about you in particular, she wouldn't know that stuff, but about the whole wizard society thing. Pretty weird. That's not why I'm writing.

My arm was broken in two places. I was in a cast for six weeks. That's not why I'm writing either.

I suppose I don't need to tell you that Giles is still very mad. Buffy was a little mad at Giles, too, when it turned out he'd been keeping secrets, still. And he made us all promise to keep secrets too, if we contacted you. I'm not going to tell you what's been going on around here - not because of Giles, who I think is being kind of a jerk, but because you haven't earned it. If you want to know what's going on, come home. I'm not going to tell you it's all okay, either. It's not. It's bad.

And I still don't know why I'm writing.

" - be happening in an election year," said the portly wizard at the next table over, slouched back in his chair and sipping a pint of the Three Broomstick's butterbeer, looking very confident of his point. The witch sitting next to him snorted in cynical agreement.

"Of course not," agreed the wizard across the table; he wasn't as plump as his companion, but he was by no means thin, and his robes were of a very fine material. "Fudge is no idiot -"

"Oh, he's an idiot," the first wizard cut in. "But he's a clever idiot. No real brains, but he knows how -"

"Crazy like a fox, that's what you mean," the witch cut in. "Thinks he can get away with anything, and usually does." Her hat was topped with enough feathers that it must have been the death of half a dozen birds, all of them exotically plumed. Probably endangered species, not that any of them would care about that - the Wizarding world's never even heard of environmentalism, I suppose.

I don't suppose a society that still keeps slaves - and that's what house elves are, I don't care what Ron or Hagrid say - I don't suppose a society like that is likely to care about sending a few birds into extinction.

Not likely to care how much violence and death and -

- no, stop it, don't think about it! You were thinking about politics and birds, that woman's stupid hat, her hat that probably cost two dozen galleons and was made by house elves who iron their hands if they make a mistake and she thinks it makes her better, that hat, that stupid bloody hat and the money to buy it and the blood and the name that got her the money - the blood - blood - cause of death was -

- stop it, stop it, stop it!

How can they be so - so blind and insular and brainwashed -

"It'll blow over," the second wizard said dismissively. "There's nothing to it, really - you watch, two years from now we're going to see a rash of pardons and apologies and everyone will be wondering what the fuss was about."

"And Fudge'll be the first to wring his hands and talk about unfortunate mistakes made," the rotund wizard added on, saluting his companion with his butterbeer. "Lot of nonsense, treating it like - "

"Murder," the witch interrupted in a melodramatic drawl, and then tittered nastily. "Have you heard that? Those fanatics are calling it murder. Really!"

Hermione clutched her mug of butterbeer until she felt her fingertips going numb, a hot white buzzing filling her ears.

Have you heard that? Those fanatics are calling it murder. Really!

She should bleed - let her see what it feels like - let someone hit her in the head hard enough to make blood pool up in her skull and tie her down and carve her up like a goose at Christmas while she's still alive and bleeding and let's see what's fanaticism then, let's see if she thinks it's murder then -

"Hermione?"

She jumped, and butterbeer sloshed over her hands, onto the edges of her sleeves.

"Oh, I'm such a -" she began, grabbing for napkins with shaking hands.

"Here," Viktor cut her off, taking hold of her hands and shoving napkins into her sleeves to soak up the beer.

"I can do that myself," she protested irritably; they were laughing at something now, over at the next table, but she hadn't heard what. I shouldn't be trying to. I shouldn't be paying them any attention, he's only here for a few hours, and there will always - there will always be people like that - I can't do anything about it -

- but I can't stand it, I can't stand the thought that they're sitting over there laughing at it - laughing at it -

"I was trying to help," Viktor said, scowling, looking somewhere halfway between worried and annoyed. Oh, don't be angry, please, I don't mean it - I just can't - can't - can't anything -

"I know," Hermione said, sighing. "I mean, I'm sorry, I was just -" she stopped, at a loss for an explanation. I can't keep being a mess all the time, can't think about anything else, and I have to, have to pay attention and not snap at him and act like a human being even if I don't feel like one, even if I feel like I'm just rage inside a skin, because why - why would he want that, why would he want to be with that -

"Right, right!" said the overdressed wizard at the next table, too loudly, amused, and Hermione's eyes slid sideways without her meaning them to. She averted them hastily, crossing her wrists and digging her fingers into her damp sleeves, before venturing a glance up at Viktor's face.

He'd followed her gaze, frowning, then catching her eyes as he turned back.

"What were they saying?" he demanded.

"Nothing," she snapped out, and his glower darkened. "I mean - it's nothing - I shouldn't be paying attention, you were saying -" But she had no idea what he'd been saying. Ten minutes ago he'd been telling her about Ana having a boyfriend, and how he didn't like the boy very much, but then she'd heard the words 'trial' and 'Wizengamot' and 'Fudge' from elsewhere in the room.

They'd asked for Viktor's autograph when they came in, those same two wizards and the witch in the avian massacre of a hat, and he'd given it graciously enough. They'd given her curious sidelong looks, smiling politely, faintly disapproving while he was looking down at the parchment. He hadn't noticed. She hadn't said anything. There will always be people like that and I can't - I can't -

- I can't not, can't ignore it, I just can't do it.

"Do you want to leave?" Viktor asked, shooting the group another glare; they seemed to have noticed him looking, and quieted. The witch smiled at him a little hopefully, despite his murderous expression. She's old enough to be his grandmother, the disgusting old hag! Why does she get to be here - why is she alive, why is that waste of space in that hideous hat here, and not my mother -

"No, it's okay," Hermione answered, forcing her lips into a smile. I can't be like this all the time. Not when he's here. He won't want me anymore. "You're not finished your dinner."

"You are not eating yours at all," he pointed out. "We could go some other place - if you do not like this food -"

"No, it's fine, I like it," Hermione insisted, eyes flickering down to her nearly full plate of fish and chips and wondering how she was going to get that all down without being sick. "Though, if you don't like it -"

Viktor shrugged. "It is good," he said, without much enthusiasm.

"You don't like it," she surmised. "You should have said -"

"No, it is good," he interrupted, going sullen. "It is just food. I was thinking you liked it here."

"I'm sorry," Hermione said, just above a whisper, picking at the napkins still tucked into her sleeves. "We can go."

"We do not have to," he argued mulishly. "I want to do whatever you want." The conversation was picking up again at the next table, a quieter buzz from which Hermione could only decipher a few words. She heard the word 'underage' and then, she thought, maybe, 'mudblood'. Her face went red, and she couldn't stop it. I can't be like this all the time, I have to stop it!

Hermione grabbed for her butterbeer, burying her face in the mug while her eyes darted nervously up to Viktor's face, hoping that maybe somehow he hadn't noticed. She saw his expression darken, eyes narrowing.

"The things you are hearing, I think I hear now too," he said, looking like he wanted to hit something. His chair scraped loudly on the floor as he shifted it back, ready to stand. Hermione put down her butterbeer and pushed her own chair back so quickly she almost tipped it, leaping to her feet.

"Let's go," she said, reaching across the table and grabbing his wrist. "Come on, let's just go, I'm not hungry."

"I signed things for them," Viktor protested, righteously indignant.

"It doesn't matter," Hermione pleaded. Nothing matters, you can't do anything, and if you get in a fight it'll be in all the papers, it'll be a scandal, and I can't let that happen because of me - no one else can be hurt because of me -

- because I want you to do it, I want you to hurt them, I want to hurt them, want to make them bleed and scream and pay -

- but you'll pay, you'll pay for it in the end, for me, for my dirty blood and it was ever such a surprise when I got my letter, but I was ever so pleased, of course, I mean, it's the very best school of witchcraft there is, I've heard - and all it costs is just a little blood, just a few hours of being tied down and screaming and bleeding and dying, but really, it's the very best school that there is -

- and you can't pay for me too.

"W-was everything alright?" asked Madam Rosmerta, suddenly at Hermione's shoulder and smiling nervously, eyeing Hermione's untouched plate. She'd been near to giddy when they came in - when Viktor came in, I've nothing to do with it - now she looked like she just might cry.

"Wonderful," Hermione blurted out automatically. "I'm just -" she almost said 'feeling sick', which wouldn't have been very much of a lie. But I can't say that, can I, someone might overhear and if I say I'm feeling queasy they'll put it in the papers that I'm pregnant. " - not that hungry."

"The food, it was good," Viktor said in a tone that suggested the opposite, handing her several coins. "We did not care for the company," he added darkly, glaring one last time at the table next to theirs. The witch in the awful hat was still trying to smile winningly back. The fat wizard raised his butterbeer in salute. Are they blind? Can't they see the look on his face?

"Oh," Madam Rosmerta said, flushing. "W-were people bothering you? We have p-private d-dining rooms if -"

"It's not your fault," Hermione interjected, wrapping her scarf around her neck and turning away, heading for the door. It's just the way things are, and there's nothing you can do about it.

You were there all summer. When Buffy was gone, you were there. So were Tara and Giles and Xander and even Anya, I guess, but mostly you were. I think Tara would have made me pancakes no matter what, and Giles would have made sure I had money to buy shoes and toothpaste and stuff, and Xander . . would have been Xander, but that's not the point. The point is you were the one who held it together. That's how it seemed at the time, anyway.

But you didn't really hold it together. That whole time, you were trying to find a way to get Buffy back.

You brought Buffy back. You pulled her out of heaven and you hurt her, you hurt her more than I think you're ever going to understand, and you were wrong, and I should hate you.

I don't hate you.

"You should read this, Weasel," Draco commented. Ginny looked up from Salazar Slytherin's diary, glancing across Myrtle's bathroom to where Draco sat propped up against a sink, one of Slytherin's ancient books in his lap. Myrtle herself was nowhere to be found today. Probably down to the lake - the books bore her. "This is bloody fucking amazing."

"What is?" Ginny asked, eyes darting back down to the diary, and she surreptitiously turned a page. She was beginning to be able to pick out a word here and there in Old English. His plans for the Chamber, spells and charms and theories and I can get bits of it - just bits and pieces -

- would get more if he'd read it to me but he's more interested in the other books - thinks I ought to be more interested in the other books - but they didn't hold her attention for long.

"There's an incantation in here that'll let you understand anyone or anything," Draco said, sounding very impressed. "Any language at all."

She frowned. "Isn't that just a translating charm? We learned those in 3rd year." He was shaking his head rapidly.

"No, it's not," he insisted. "Translating charms just - if you cast a translating Charm on this book, it'd all turn into modern English, except half of it would be wrong, and the grammar would be all fucked up – well, unless you were really an expert at translating charms, but even if you were they'd still be useless for speaking, or understanding something spoken instead of written. They're too slow."

"So how's the spell in the book different?" she asked, trying not to let her impatience come through in her voice, stealing furtive glances down at the diary. It's not important anyway - this is what's important, what's in here - this is what I have to figure out -

"It doesn't translate," he said. "It - teaches, or makes you understand, or something like that. You cast it on yourself and someone who already knows whatever it is you're trying to read or speak or whatever, and it sort of . . makes a copy, I guess, of their understanding, copies it into your brain, so you understand."

"So, you could cast it on me - on you and me - and I could read Old English?" Ginny asked hopefully, her interest sparking.

His eyes rounded, horrified. "Hell no!" he exclaimed. "I wouldn't try to cast this on a gerbil, Weasel, this is so fucking advanced it's scary. You point a finger the wrong way while you're casting it and you'd turn your brains into scrambled eggs."

"Oh," she responded, disappointed, and looked back down to the diary, turning another page.

"It's not the language part that's so fucking brilliant, anyway, it's the – the copying part," Draco finished, grimacing in frustration and clearly at a loss for words. "You really ought to read this, it's exactly the sort of thing they don't teach in Magical Theory here, too close to the Dark Arts I guess - it's sort of like the reverse of Obliviating someone, and sort of like -"

"You sound like Hermione," Ginny interrupted distractedly, frowning down at the diary in concentration. Well, except for saying 'fuck'.

Draco went suddenly very quiet, and she could feel him staring at the top of her head. She looked up. "What?"

He looked on the verge of saying something scathing, but seemed to decide better of it. "Nothing," Draco snapped, then turned back to the ancient tome in his lap, a very sour expression on his face. What? What did I -

- oh.

"It's not an insult," Ginny said quietly. "She's a really brilliant witch." And it's all the same after all, my blood, my heritage, it was always dirty – except it's not, not really, everything's dirty and nothing is, except that someone makes it – makes it -

- it's not alive, it just . . thinks it is.

And if Muggles don't have souls, then what do they hate with? Hated them because they hated me – where's Riddle, where's that devil-spawn little bastard – they couldn't have souls, couldn't, just walking corpses – just meat – just –

- but I let them make me, let them twist me, and I won't anymore. I have a soul.

"Right," said Draco shortly, not looking up. He's being careful of me again.

"I'm a Mudblood too, you know," she said, challenging. Maybe everything has a soul and no one's blood is dirty – only dirty to spill it – waste it – burned her at the stake for a witch and a thousand years later I killed my father –

- but not yet, I didn't, not me. The other. I was just words on a page, just ink and sinking and fading – dying -

- but I'm the one with a soul now. I'm the one that's real.

"No you're not," he retorted without the slightest hesitation. "You're a Weasley, or at least you were born one - not that that's much to brag about, but you're not a Mudblood." His tone suggested she'd said something awful about herself, and needed reassuring.

"You mean this body's not," Ginny countered, ignoring the jab at her family. He doesn't really mean it anymore anyway, it's just habit, just - little ghost of a rat trying to swim in the air -

"Well, yeah," Draco agreed. "Whoever's in your head, your body's not - I mean, your blood, literally, it's not -"

"If my body's one thing and . . and what's in my head is something else, why can't her body be just a body and what's in her head be something else?" Ginny pressed. "She's a witch, whatever she's made of."

"Because - because that's just fucking different," Draco argued, beginning to sound annoyed. "You're a special case, Weasel, and Granger's not."

"No, she is," Ginny insisted. "I mean – I mean I'm not. It has to either matter or not, and if it's 'not' in my case, then it can't matter at all." She paused; he looked suddenly tense and wary. Doesn't like me to say that things don't matter – afraid I'll decide nothing matters, again – better for it all just to end - "Don't go all scared of me now, I'm okay, I'm just figuring this out while I'm talking ."

"I never said it didn't matter in your case," Draco cut her off. "I wasn't saying your body doesn't m-" and he cut himself off, seeming to hear his own words, and his pale complexion went suddenly, faintly pink. Ginny just blinked. He's . . blushing.

I've never seen him blush before. I've seen him red in the face but only because he was angry or upset or - or something bad. Never just because -

Ginny felt an answering flush rising up her cheeks.

"I never said your blood didn't matter," Draco pressed on determinedly, in an irritated, embarrassed sort of tone that almost made Ginny want to giggle. "I said your blood's just fine, even if it is Weasel blood, it's still wizard blood."

"But Tom's blood wasn't," Ginny retorted. "Not at all on either side, his father was a Muggle and -" and he wants to kill his father, for what his father did to me, to his mother - my mother's dead too, you know – and I killed my father, only it wasn't me, it was the other - "and Slytherin's wife was Muggleborn anyway, so -"

"- so Tom doesn't have blood anymore, Weasel," Draco interrupted sharply.

"And he's still here, I'm still here without my blood, so what does it matter?" Ginny pressed. "It doesn't matter at all. I thought it did, I thought it mattered more than anything, but it's really nothing -"

"You never thought it mattered more than a damned thing," Draco insisted, tone going angry with an edge of scared. "Not you, not Ginny Weasley."

"There's just one of me," Ginny answered quietly. "Just one of me here, anyway," she amended, after a moment. And I think that doesn't make very much sense, maybe, but it's still true. I was and then I wasn't and then I was again, and it's all one long thread, it just got tied in knots a bit -

Draco glared at her.

"Fine," he snapped sullenly, after a long moment. "Right. One of you. But the one of you that's sitting over there, that's got a body to sit with, isn't a Mudblood."

"Would it matter if I was?" Ginny pressed, exasperated. "Would you not be sitting here with me, if I were?" But you would - I have to think you would because if you wouldn't - if you wouldn't I wouldn't be here, wouldn't be me, would have frozen -

His gaze snapped up to her face, looking very trapped. "You're not," he repeated stubbornly.

"But if I was?" If I was just Tom, had only ever been Tom.

But it wouldn't be the same at all, would it, because then I wouldn't be a girl - and he blushed -

"But you're not, and being able to do magic is better," he pronounced. "It just is, like having two legs is better than being missing one, and that's not - it's just fucking reality, Weasel, so you can stop looking at me like that. That doesn't make me like my father, that's not how he thought." He held her gaze angrily, demanding commentary.

"I wasn't thinking that," Ginny assured him.

"Good," Draco snapped back. "Because I'm not. I'm not one fucking thing like him, and I'm going to kill him."

"I know," Ginny answered. He glowered a moment longer, waiting for her to say something more. She didn't, and he looked back down to his book. I remember wanting to kill my father - not the father I have now, but the other - the one I never had at all, the one who didn't want me - didn't want me to exist -

- but I do. I'm here, still here, Tom Marvolo Riddle after my father and my grandfather and that just is, just a name, just flesh, just a thing you can't change and I think I should be trying to talk him out of it - not for his father's sake but because it won't make things better - won't change anything and once it's done you can never take it back -

- not just because it's wrong to murder someone? Isn't that a good enough reason by itself, why he shouldn't, why I shouldn't let him?

But it's not up to me to let him or not.

"That should make Granger happy, shouldn't it?" Draco asked, breaking the silence, still looking down at the book.

"I don't know," Ginny said. "Maybe." It won't, though, it won't make it better. It'll just be more blood -

- and I don't know what Hermione would want, because I haven't been paying her any attention, and she's supposed to be my friend. I'm supposed to be her friend.

"It's all just a fucking waste," Draco muttered, not looking up. "I'm not saying it's the same - her parents - they were just fucking Muggles but it's still just a fucking waste."

You're cursing too much again.

Ginny didn't respond, and the room went quiet, except for the dripping of a sink.

Honestly, I don't know why I don't hate you. I'd have lots of good reasons. You broke everything, messed everything up, and then you just left. And I don't hate you.

I miss you, and if I hate you at all, it's for that. I hate that you left, like everybody else. I'm sick of people saying they're leaving because it's better, or it's how it has to be, what they have to do. At least you didn't make excuses. At least you just went.

I want to hate you. I want to hate you a whole lot. It would make things a lot easier.

But things aren't easier. Things aren't simpler. I don't hate you for pulling Buffy out of heaven because hating you would be sort of like wishing her back there, wishing her gone again, and I don't. I'm not sorry you did it. And if I can't be sorry for it, I can't ask you to be. It was a messed up thing to do, messed up and wrong and probably technically evil, and I'm glad I'm not the one who has to live with it. I guess you had to be in a pretty bad place yourself to do something like that, and between being you, and having a broken arm, I'll take the arm. If that's how it had to be for Buffy to be here again, I'd break my arm all over again every day of the week and twice on Sunday, to keep it that way.

"I should probably be heading back," Hermione said reluctantly, standing at the edge of Hogsmeade near the path to Hogwarts and fussing with her gloves. The edges of her sleeves were still wet and beginning to freeze.

"I will walk back with you," Viktor offered.

"You really shouldn't," she argued, though she didn't want to. Can't you just come back with me and stay - or take me with you - can't you take me back to your house and last summer, with the phone in my room, and calling home on Sundays, can't I just go back there and pick up the phone and call home and my father will answer - Maggie, pick up the other line, it's Hermione! So, 'Mione, how's David Beckham this week?

Dad, don't call him that!

Fine, fine, spoil all my fun - Maggie! Pick up!

"It's going to get dark, and you can't apparate away inside the grounds, you'd end up walking back here alone."

I don't want to go back there. I got an eighty-two percent on my transfiguration quiz last week, and McGonagall asked if I was alright, asked how I was doing with my OWL workbook, and I realized I hadn't even looked at it in four days.

And I can't tell you that, can't just be a mess and a tragedy and nothing else because - because you'll leave, and I know you have to leave, but please - please don't grow tired of me - I'm trying so hard -

"I do not mind," he said with a shrug, shoulders hunched, and she knew it wasn't cold enough for that to be the reason he was folding in on himself. Everything's off between us, all off and strange and wrong, you can't leave like this.

"But I'd be worried," she insisted.

"I will be worried if you walk back alone, even in the light," Viktor pressed. "Those people back there -"

"They were just talking, they wouldn't have the nerve to do anything," Hermione retorted. "And besides, I've been practicing, the spells you've sent me, I can take care of -"

"I do not want to think of you having to use the spells I've sent you," Viktor cut her off. "I do not want you to take care of yourself, I do not want you to need to take care of yourself, not if I -"

"Well, I do," Hermione snapped. "I don't stay locked in my room with wards up all week when you're not here, you know."

There was a pause, in which Hermione had plenty of time to hear the ugly echo of her words. Viktor didn't reply, just glared at her, and then down at his boots, his shoulders rounding even further.

Oh no - oh no I didn't mean it!

"I'm sorry," she said, her voice coming out high and brittle. "I didn't mean -"

"No, you are right," Viktor cut her off, sounding miserable and angry. "I do not like it at all, but you are right."

"I shouldn't have said it like that," she responded, feeling sick with fear at the tone of his voice. Please, please don't - you can't give up on me -

He shrugged.

It went quiet, the only sound the noise of the town at their back, muffled conversation and footsteps and carriage wheels churning through the slush. It was snowing just a little, half-heartedly, almost too lightly to count.

"I - I don't want to leave with you angry at me," Hermione said a moment later, stepping hesitantly closer. He looked up, still glowering.

"I am not angry with you," he insisted, though he sounded it, and frustrated. "I am angry with -" and he made a gesture back at Hogsmeade. "I was wanting for us just to have normal dinner, with no - no people wanting me to sign things, and - those people -"

"I'm sorry," Hermione said again. How many times have I said that tonight? It's a useless thing to say - I can't stand everyone apologizing to me, everyone being so sorry, but now I can't think of anything else -

- can't think of anything but that woman laughing, laughing, and a puddle of blood in my mother's skull and lacerations to the extremities and it's not bloody dinner conversation, it's not an political talking point, but that's all they are to those people and I never made them understand, I never warned them, didn't protect them and I'm sorry, I'm just angry and sorry and there's nothing else left -

"Why do you apologize for them?" Viktor scowled.

Because it's my fault, they were talking about me, it happened because of me - because I don't fit anywhere -

"I just wish you'd had a better time," Hermione said.

"Next weekend, we will find somewhere else to go," Viktor offered. "Somewhere quiet."

"Okay," she agreed, a little too quickly, and he was watching her a little too closely. We can go anywhere - just don't go -

"Unless you do not want to?" he asked.

"No, that's fine - "

"We can go back there if you want to - you did not get to eat your food -"

"No, really, I don't care about the food," Hermione insisted. "It doesn't matter." There was a long and awkward pause.

"You do want - you do want me to visit so often?" Viktor asked, hesitant, scuffing his boot in the snow and turning the ground around him to muddy slush. Hermione felt her stomach dropping, a strange blankness seeming to take up the space where everything inside her should have been, were it not all sinking towards her shoes.

"Yes, of course," she said, too calmly. I don't want to sound that calm, I'm NOT bloody calm, and of course I want you to visit, only not visit, I want you to come and stay and never leave and I'd just implode, I'd just collapse and die if you stopped coming - if you stopped caring, even though I can't, I can't care about anything anymore - "If - if you want to, still. If it's not interfering with Quidditch, or - or anything, I don't want to be a bother -"

"You are not a bother," he returned. "I just wanted to be sure - I am taking up so much of your time, visiting so much, I wanted to be sure I wasn't - that you don't need to be doing something else - studying - you seemed like maybe today you were thinking of something else -"

"Oh, no, I'm just - I mean, I suppose I should be studying more, but -" and she ran out of words, shrugging helplessly. But I miss you, I miss you so badly it hurts and you're not even gone yet.

He watched her, waiting for her to finish her thought and looking like he wanted to say something.

"I'm boring," Hermione said flatly. I'm not the person you met, not the person you knew before, and there's no reason you should still want me now - it really wouldn't be fair of me to expect it -

"No, it is only that -"

"Maybe, in two weeks?" she interjected, before he could tell her what it was only. I can't hear you say it. I just couldn't stand it. "We can go somewhere quiet like you were saying, get a private dining room, or - or something - "

He was staring down into the mud again. "If that is what you want," he muttered. It was turning to a hazy dusk around them, and there was the sudden amber glow of candles from behind them as the street lamps were lit.

"I - I really have to go," Hermione said, biting her lip, wondering if he would still offer to walk with her and hoping, selfishly, that he would. But he can't - it wouldn't be worth it, the chance of something happening to him on the walk back, just for another half-hour together, and I'm a terrible person, a terrible, weak, awful person because I want him to talk me into it anyway -

"I suppose I will be seeing you in two weeks, then," he said, and didn't sound happy about it at all.

"Right," she agreed, and forced herself to smile.

They stood there, watching each other, and then he took a hesitant half-step and she shuffled a little forward, and somehow the space between them vanished without Hermione really being aware of either of them moving.

His lips were cold, his breath very hot and tasting of butterbeer, his shoulders broad and bony as she clung to his neck, not wanting to let go. His arms went around her tight enough to make her ribs ache. When he broke the kiss she didn't let go, tucking her face into his neck and burying herself in the smell of his hair, just for a moment, and his arms tightened almost to the point of pain.

She felt colder, when she had to step back, the air on her face suddenly biting.

"Goodbye," she said, breathlessly, feeling as though she wanted to start bawling, but knowing her eyes were dry, her expression calm. I've gotten so good at that - too good at that, I've forgotten how to do anything else -

"Goodbye," he returned, and again he seemed on the verge of saying something else, but instead he pulled his wand out of his robes and backed away a few steps. With a loud pop, he was gone, leaving only a muddy, churned-up spot in the snow where he'd been.

Hermione stood there, arms wrapped around herself and shivering. The light was rapidly sinking, the contrast between the streetlamps and the darkening path she needed to take growing ever more apparent, but she felt rooted to the spot. He would want you to get going - wouldn't want you walking back in the dark - wouldn't want you standing here like some ridiculous, maudlin, pathetic -

She gave herself a determined shake, and forced herself to start moving. "I love you," she whispered down into her scarf, walking away, and not crying.

That's not forgiveness, that's just a statement of fact. I guess it's almost a thank you. I still don't know why I'm writing any of this down.

So, I guess I'll stop.

Willow had lost track of the number of times she'd re-read the letter in the weeks since its arrival, but the creases where it bent to fold into its enveloped had begun to wear through several days ago, creating feathery little cracks in the ink of the text. She stored it flat now, inside the cover of one of her textbooks, the envelope still stowed away in a drawer. It wasn't as if she was likely to forget the return address, but she couldn't bring herself to throw it away.

It's very stream-of-consciousness. Informal.

Like she was upset. Or scared.

But the handwriting looks normal – not rushed or sloppy or anything and she didn't misspell anything – not that she would because this is Dawn, the only other person I know who read the dictionary for fun – and – and –

- and this is not helping me learn Transfiguration. I'm here and they're there and that's . . that's just that, and I need to focus on the 'here' type stuff. They know where to find me now and that's just gotta be that. Willow sighed, and carefully tucked the letter away, opening the textbook to a chapter midway through and beginning to read determinedly.

There was a hesitant knock on her door. Willow closed her eyes and grimaced, resisting the urge to groan. I'm just not fated to study. Just not meant to happen. She pushed herself to her feet and went to answer the door.

And who the heck is knocking? Severus doesn't knock anymore, the House Elves seem to have religious objections to it, and nobody else ever visits.

It was Harry, looking nearly as nervous as he looked exhausted.

"I'm sorry to bother you, Professor -" he began.

"No, it's fine, come in," Willow answered, frowning, and he shuffled awkwardly into her sitting room. She glanced behind her, focused just a moment and made the bedroom door swing shut. No need to traumatize him with the view of my laundry. He noticed, of course, and swallowed visibly. Oh, right. Wandless magic. Still freaky to these guys. Oops.

"Everything okay?" she asked, and his eyes darted back to her face.

"I – I suppose so," he said. "I was just wondering – if it's not too much trouble- " if he gets any more polite it's going to make my teeth ache " – if you could possibly, when you have the time, show me how – how you do magic without a wand?"

Willow blinked. Okay, not what I was expecting.

"I don't think too many people have noticed," Harry rushed on. "And none of us would tell – well, I can't promise for Malfoy, but none of the rest of us would tell, we all know you're not a Dark witch."

"It's illegal here, right?" Willow asked, trying to get her footing in the conversation and cringing at the utter confidence in his tone. Right. Not a dark witch. Lately, anyway. "Wandless magic."

"Yes," Harry answered flatly, and waited. "I know I'm asking a lot," he pressed on after a minute, "that you could be arrested, and -"

- and why am I even having to think about this? This is why I'm here, isn't it?

"Yes," Willow cut him off. "I mean, no." He frowned in confusion. "Yes, I'll teach you, but not just you. Ron and Hermione too, at least, and Draco, and – it should be the whole class, shouldn't it? It really should be everybody."

"But -" Harry began.

"No buts," Willow said firmly. "You're right, it's a thing you guys need to know, you're all half hamstrung with the way you rely on wands, and I'm a big old moron for not having thought of that myself. Or, well, I thought of it, but I didn't think of, y'know, doing something about it, 'cause of the whole illegality issue, and -"

"But I'm the one who'll have to face Voldemort," Harry interrupted forcefully. "He's going to be coming after me. They should know how to defend themselves, sure, but I'm the one who's -"

- the Slayer and you're not.

And I was sixteen, and Giles – he didn't ask me, never told me, because I was just sixteen, and – and hell no.

"If you think that," Willow interrupted, "If you think for half a millisecond that those friends of yours are going to let you face off with a dark wizard alone? You are probably the stupidest person I've ever met."

He shut his mouth with a snap, very obviously trying not to look affronted.

"And you're not the stupidest person I've ever met," Willow went on, more gently. "So no going stupid over this, okay? You're all going to fight, and you're all going to be in danger, and maybe some of you are going to get hurt and maybe some of you are going to die, and none of that – none of that is your fault and none of that is anything you can change."

And that's . . true. That's really, really true, and why is it so much easy to tell it to someone else?

"I don't want my friends to be hurt," Harry protested. "It's not their -"

"Yes, it is," Willow cut him off again. "It is their fight. It's – it's everybody's fight, every single breathing, pulse-having body's fight."

"You're not going to try to teach the entire school," Harry argued, jaw set stubbornly. And I think I feel a little better about all this, seeing that. The politeness and the shyness and all, that's nice, but that's not what this kid is made of, and that's good. That'll maybe keep him alive a little longer.

"The whole school wouldn't want to learn," Willow retorted, and then paused, her high school graduation springing to mind. "Though – actually – I'm not going to try to teach the whole school," Willow sighed, seeing his increasingly worried expression. "I'd get thrown in Azkaban and Dumbledore'd lose his job and that'd all be bad. I'm just going to offer it to my class, and anybody who wants to walk out, can. Okay?"

"Ron and Hermione won't," Harry said, not sounding happy about it. "Neville won't, even."

"Probably not," Willow agreed.

Maybe I won't even have the nerve to send this. But if I do . . if I do, don't write back. Buffy doesn't know I'm writing, and she's sort of just not dealing with this right now. I think it's better that way.

Probably a little bit too sincerely,
Dawn

TBC . .