There was absolutely no shade on Privet Drive. The trees present were sparse and undeveloped, and the yellowed, dying grass was clinging faintly to the edges of the burning pavement. Row after row of disturbingly similar little houses were arranged in perfect symmetry up and down the lane. The sun was beating down rather oppressively on them, and Draco was still wearing his wizarding robes over top of his usual clothes, so he was stiflingly hot.

They stopped abruptly in front of one of the houses—small, unassuming, and pretty much exactly like every other house on the block. The house looked a bit like Granger's, only Granger's house was nearly twice its size. Did Granger's family have…money? Draco looked at the tiny, pale blue mailbox, which was surrounded by wilting flowers. The bronzed letter "4" shone dully on the side of its wooden support pole.

Potter paused in the front of the house, on the sidewalk. He stared up at the house, his arms folded.

"Home sweet home," he said dully.

Granger looked at Harry uncertainly, biting her lip. He stood in front of the house and stared at it miserably. She let him have a moment to collect his thoughts, then grabbed his arm gently.

"Harry, are you ready to…?" she trailed off uncertainly. Potter took a step forward, then froze.

"C'mon mate," said Weasley, clapping him lightly on the shoulder. "Gotta go in eventually."

They were being awfully supportive, Draco reflected. By now, if Crabbe or Goyle had been standing out there like that, he would have told them to suck it up.

Finally, Potter seemed to steel himself, and he started down the front path. Granger and Weasley tagged along behind him. Draco gave a long suffering sigh and followed, leaving a healthy distance between them as he went.

000

Vernon Dursely was even more bloated, purple, and ugly looking than Hermione had imagined from the eyewitness testimony of her two best friends. His round face puffed up and turned an interesting shade of puce when he opened the door and found himself staring at the face of his estranged nephew.

"Hullo, Uncle Vernon," said Harry, as pleasantly as possible. "May we come in?" He pushed past him and walked through the door without waiting for an answer. Hermione and Ron, and then Malfoy a few moments later, followed behind him.

"Oh, ho ho no!" growled Vernon, puffing up even further. He now resembled a large, irate bullfrog. "Who are these people?" he demanded. He slammed the door behind him and whirled around to face the assembled crowd in his living room.

"These are my friends," said Harry. "Well—most of them are." He threw quick look at Malfoy, who very clearly mouthed something vulgar at him without speaking. By this time, two people that Hermione immediately identified at Aunt Petunia and Dudley Dursley walked into the living room. Aunt Petunia clasped one of Dudley's pudgy shoulders protectively with a bony hand.

"You've got friends?" said Dudley disbelievingly. Dudley Dursley was one of the most disgusting creatures Hermione had ever laid eyes on. Being spoiled was one thing—but this boy looked like the very personification of gluttony.

"Friends from school," clarified Harry. Uncle Vernon's bulging eyes traveled across them, resting on the wand thrust into Ron's belt, as well as the one poking out of Harry's pocket. Fear flickered in his eyes.

"That's—that's—" He moved across the room, placing himself between the wizards in his living room and his family. "Look, I'm not in the business of adopting freaks." He pointed a puffy pink finger at Harry. "You can stay, but the rest of these people have got to go!"

Harry opened his mouth in fury. Ron was sticking his tongue out at Dudley, which seemed to be causing the obese boy excessive amounts of distress. Hermione stepped forward, trying her best to be diplomatic.

"Mr. Dursley, I realize that we are putting quite an imposition upon you, but if you would just consent to house us for one night I'm sure we could come to some kind of suitable—"

Ron, meanwhile, had decided to take matters into his own hands, which consisted of pulling his wand out of his belt at the same time Hermione was doing her best to be discreet. "Look you gits—" he began, brandishing his wand casually. The Dursleys collectively recoiled, and Uncle Vernon grabbed a set of coasters from a nearby end table and held them aloft, cocking his hand back like a baseball pitcher.

Suddenly Malfoy strode forward and advanced on the Dursleys, his face cold. They cowered slightly as he conversed with them in low tones. Hermione wondered what on earth he could be saying to them that was making them recoil in terror. It was pretty arrogant of him considering that he didn't have a wand, and if Uncle Vernon decided to chuck those coasters at his head, his only retaliation would be to sprout a large, purple bruise.

000

Draco had come to the conclusion that he had tolerated quite enough of this nonsense for one night. The house was tolerably clean—though it was inhabited primarily by filthy Muggles—and he decided that he would be willing to sleep here for a night.

He advanced on the Muggles in the most menacing way possible, and they were appropriately terrified, which pleased him greatly.

"Would you like to know why I'm here?" he drawled, his voice soft and dangerous. "It's a rather long story, and I don't imagine your tiny Muggle minds would understand much of it—but it culminates in my father spending some time in jail. Would you like to know why?" The Dursleys stared at him in alarm. He smiled icily.

"You see—he had a bit of a talent for mercilessly torturing Muggles like yourselves. Wretched, ignorant creatures, if you ask me. In fact, I've been thinking of venturing into the family business, if you know what I mean." The woman let out a squeak of fright. Draco leaned in, milking every moment.

"Unless of course…some Muggles were to perhaps prove that they weren't so disgusting after all by offering us some very simple hospitality—then they might not end up thirty feet in the air in the middle of the night, jerking and twitching…and screaming their foolish little heads off." He finished, his dark smile widening.

Dursley looked quite faint, he began stammering inaudibly. Draco was quite pleased with himself. He backed away from the filthy Muggle family and stood next to Granger, arms crossed defiantly. The man was staring at him in abject terror. Draco sneered at him. His gaze flitted back and forth between Potter and Draco. Finally, he managed to speak.

"You—you can all stay here," he managed faintly. "D—dinners at seven." He herded his family into the kitchen, where they hid for the next several hours.

000

Hermione was dreadfully curious about what Malfoy had said to the Dursleys, but she decided not to stoop low enough to ask him. He certainly did have a talent for manipulating people. However, it wasn't the most pressing thing on her mind at the moment. They were all alone in the living room, and she was currently practically trembling with anticipation at being able to unlock the secrets of the diary. She laid the diary open on the table and pressed Malfoy's hand against it.

"Did you threaten them?" demanded Harry, asking her question for her.

"What the hell do you care?" snapped Malfoy. "It worked, didn't it?"

Harry turned away without responding, but Hermione noticed that there was a very cheerful smile on his face. The diary was once again full of handwritten black script. She grabbed a quill out of her pocket and quickly wrote out their hard won password in one of the boxes. Her heart leapt as the diary began to glow. The words Hermione had written disappeared, and were replaced by another letter.

Sirius,

I know I've been an idiot, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry we were never very close—

Hermione saw Malfoy roll his eyes. He probably would have walked away, but she had his hand pinned to the diary. It felt cold. His hands were always so cold…

…but I really need your help now. You're the only one I trust to fulfill this task when I am gone. I'm sure you know of Horcruxes. The Dark Lord has hidden his soul in dark places, and he has hidden it well. And…I have helped him do this. Forgive me. I was young and stupid. I should think you of all people would understand this.

I will never pretend that I understand the nuances of his insane mind, but the Dark Lord is seems possessed with Hogwarts school in this endeavor—the Founders in particular. I have seen a locket owned by Salazar Slytherin, a cup owned by Helga Hufflepuff, and a chalice owned by Rowena Ravenclaw. I have the locket in my possession already, and I am preparing to destroy it, which is why I am so certain I will be dead before you read this.

The Dark Lord wanted me to help him penetrate Ravenclaw's tomb. She buried herself there with many powerful relics, and he was obsessed with gaining one of them. There are many secrets buried in that cave, and despite himself the Dark Lord has sought knowledge of few of them. He himself is banned, unable to enter the cave. I have left instructions for you here in this book, but I fear the path may have become more treacherous.

It is said that Rowena Ravenclaw was an accomplished Alchemist as well as a witch, and I have seen much evidence that this is true. My skills are nothing compared to that of Nicolas Flamel, and as a former pupil, I was forced to enlist his aid in my endeavor. He suspected my intentions after awhile I fear, and turned me away, but not before I was able get what I needed.

Go to him Sirius. He is friends with Dumbledore, who I am sure is your ally as well. Flamel's Elixir of Life is immensely powerful, so he is sure to be alive somewhere. I know that you can convince him to help you. You are the only one who can.

With infinite regret,

Regulus Alphard Black

They were all very silent for a long time as the message sunk in. Regulus and Sirius Black. Nicolas Flamel. Albus Dumbledore. Ron finally spoke.

"We're completely fucked," he observed accurately.

000

Dinner had lasted an hour and passed in absolute, stony silence. Hermione had explored the diary a little further, as long as they were there—but it seemed futile. The diary was full of riddles, complex prose, and strange diagrams and symbols. The only thing she really knew for sure was that they needed to go to Albania. And then…it seemed rather hopeless.

Harry trudged up the stairs late that night, and everyone followed immediately after him, though Hermione noticed Malfoy was staring rather obsessively at the powered down Muggle television set as he went upstairs.

"Right," said Harry in a tired voice. He pushed opened a door, revealing a neglected, dusty bedroom and an extremely rickety bed. "Ron, Malfoy—" He looked at Malfoy in distaste. "We'll sleep in here." He pointed to another room. "Hermione, you can sleep down the hall in Dudley's room. From what I understand he's currently curled up into a ball at the foot of his parents' bed, so it should be free. You may want to clean all the crumbs off the sheets though, I think he eats in there…pretty much every waking moment."

Hermione nodded. The woman gets the lone bedroom to herself while all the men crowd heroically into one room. How delightfully chauvinistic. Did she say chauvinistic? She meant chivalrous. Yes, very chivalrous. It was so illogical for them to actually have space to breathe while they slept. The implications of impropriety were simply staggering! She sighed and stalked off to find her bedroom.

000

"I've got to sleep in here with you?" said Draco, his lip curling in disgust.

"Yeah," said Potter sarcastically. "Don't hog the covers." He began laughing at the horrified look on Draco's face. He pointed his wand at the corner of the room and a squashy blue sleeping bag popped into existence. "Congratulations, you get to sleep on the floor." Potter turned away and began making his own bed. Draco grumbled under his breath.

Potter was such an arrogant little git. For some reason, he had expected the "Boy Who Lived" to be living somewhere that wasn't a tiny little Muggle hell-hole. More of a lavishly decorated room with a giant four poster bed, the walls hung with deep green velvet—oh wait, that was his room. He remembered his life at Malfoy Manor with a pang of longing. It was a far cry from a hard wooden floor and a sleeping bag. Then again, as he looked around Potter's room, he noticed with some satisfaction that it was approximately the size of his closet.

Weasley had wandered off somewhere else, probably chasing after Granger. She was too good for him.

Wait, what? She wasn't good at anything but being a pain in his ass! And she was a Mudblood…Wretched, Filthy, Unclean. Hmm. He felt a little better.

"I want a pillow," he complained. Scarhead grumbled and conjured him a pillow.

"Can I have my wand back now?" he asked Potter impatiently.

"Why?" asked Potter, frowning.

"Why the hell not?" he countered. "It's mine."

"I'm just grasping here," said Potter in mock thoughtfulness, "but I was thinking that if I give you back your wand, you'll murder us all in our sleep." Why did everyone think that?

"I'm not going to murder you in your sleep," he said irritated. "Besides—how do I know you're not going to murder me? Apparently that diary is rather useless—"

Potter looked angry. "We're not going to kill you," he said sharply. "And the diary is not useless, we'll think of something."

"Sure…" said Draco skeptically. He busied himself positioning his sleeping bag and pillow, but he noticed that no matter where he placed it, it was still lying on an uncomfortable hardwood floor. They were both silent. Weasley still had not returned.

"If you didn't need me to read that diary thing, would you kill me?" asked Draco suddenly, breaking the silence. Potter stared at him, as if considering very carefully.

"No," he admitted finally. "We wouldn't kill you. What the hell is wrong with you anyway? You are such an evil little bastard. You can't just go off killing people—"

The last thing he needed was a lecture on morality by Harry-bleeding-Potter. Why did he get into this conversation anyway?

"I don't!" he snapped.

Potter stared at him incredulously, his face twisting in anger. "You tried to kill—"

"I know!" he said, his voice cracking. "I know what I tried to do—I—I didn't want to—" He closed his mouth immediately. One rule—don't show weakness.

"Snape did it for you," said Potter hatefully. "Your lovely Mum made him make the Unbreakable Vow—and now that filthy traitor is—what?"

"Don't talk about my mother, Potter!" he screamed, leaping suddenly to his feet, fuming. "What the hell would you have done? You all think you're so goddamn high and mighty—'come to the right side, Draco'—you don't know what it's like—it's kill or be killed. He threatened to kill my family! What would you have done? I'm not about to let her die because of my—my weakness—" He did kill her. She was gone. He had failed, in so many ways.

"Mercy isn't weakness," said Potter quietly. He was staring at him intensely with his brilliant green eyes.

"Murder—or be murdered, Potter?" he said, his voice shaking. "What would you have done?"

Potter was suddenly very quiet. The fury twisted onto his face seemed to falter slightly, and he stared at him as though he had never seen him before—looking right through him at something else entirely. He swallowed, his voice quiet but resolved.

"I—I would have done what I had to do."

000

"Eww," said Ron, lifting up the rumpled covers on Dudley's bed. As suspected, there was a layer of what looked like cookie crumbs all over the cartoon printed sheets. "He really is a fat slob, isn't he?"

"Yeah…" said Hermione, letting out an uneasy chuckle as Ron Scourgified the bed. "It's sort of stupid for us to split up unevenly, don't you think?" she blurted out quickly.

"Huh?" he asked stupidly. He didn't get it. He never got it. Would he ever?

"You know, Ron," she said, swallowing nervously. "There's a—a fold up cot under the bed. Maybe…it would be a little less crowded if you stayed here…"

She saw the rather nervous look on his face, and immediately began babbling. "I mean, of course, maybe it would be nice if we could just talk for awhile…not anything…" she trailed off.

" 'Mione," he said slowly. "You're a girl…"

Hermione smiled sorrowfully. "So you noticed?"

"I shouldn't…Harry and Malfoy in there—I don't really trust him, you know?" said Ron lamely. He shuffled nervously towards the door. "Well, goodnight…" he said. He stepped through the door, closing it almost all the way behind him. Hermione sank down onto the bed.

Ron popped his head in again, still holding the doorknob. "We're—we're still friends right?"

She smiled broadly, her eyes over-bright. "Always," she said softly. "Nothing could ever change that."

"OK," said Ron, looking relieved. "Goodnight, 'Mione." He closed the door.

"Night," she murmured. He just didn't get it. He acted like a child. She rolled over and faced the wall, wrapping the sheet around her like a protective cocoon.

At that moment she realized that Ron, despite his potential intentions, was six years too late to be anything more than just a friend. And she knew that she couldn't just wait around forever for him to grow up, because…it just hurt too much.

And, at that moment, she began to cry.

000

Draco rolled over onto his other side, but much to his dismay, he found it was just as uncomfortable to have a hard wooden floor pressing on your left shoulder as it was to have a hard wooden floor pressing onto your right shoulder.

He had been having trouble sleeping—every time he closed his eyes, his vision was assaulted by nightmares of merciless red eyes, frozen white hands, and a midnight blue cloak that slowly fluttered onto the floor and lay deathly still, never to move again.

He kept his eyes shut anyway. At least that way, he could pretend that he wasn't actually lying on Harry Potter's floor, inhaling layers of dust and listening to Weasley's intolerable snoring. Forget the wand, he thought irritably, if Weasley didn't shut the hell up within the next two minutes or so he was going to leap up and strangle him with his bare hands. Maybe that would stop the god awful noise.

He heard a soft scratching at the window pane and sat bolt upright, only to remember that it was probably just a stupid owl. When had he gotten so jumpy? Weasley sat up as well, looking dazed. He turned his befuddled gaze to Potter, who was sitting cross legged on the bed, glasses on, staring at the window.

"Are the spiders attacking?" demanded a confused Weasley groggily.

"No, the spiders are not attacking, Ron," replied Potter reassuringly. Weasley didn't seem to notice; he collapsed backwards and fell back asleep. Potter smiled in amusement, and went back to staring out the window.

"What—" began Draco, but Potter held up a finger to his lips for silence, and then pointed out the window. Draco followed his gaze, until he saw what Potter was looking at.

Dumbledore's pet phoenix—or at least it used to be. It was floating outside the window. What the hell was its name? Fickes? Dockes?

Potter opened the window with his wand and the phoenix flew in. It did a few slow, graceful loops around the room. Draco swatted hostilely at it as it neared his head. Dumbledore had hauled him into his office once (or twice) to request that he stop bullying first years, and the bird had flown in circles around his head, hooting like a barn owl. He really didn't like that bird very much. Finally, Potter raised his arm invitingly and the bird settled itself halfway up his shoulder.

"Hello, Fawkes," said Potter sadly. Fawkes. That was it. "What are you doing in a place like this?" The phoenix cooed softly and curved its long, swanlike neck so that its head rested on Potter's shoulder. "Yeah, I'm wondering that myself…"

What the hell? He talked to birds now? Harry Potter, the bloody Pet Psychic. Draco scoffed. He was probably just speculating.

"What's that ruddy bird doing here?" hissed Draco in a loud whisper.

"You know, I don't entirely know," said Potter merrily. He stroked the phoenix's scarlet head.

Draco frowned. Idiot. "Well, could you please get rid of it?"

Potter merely glared at him. "Fine," sighed Draco. "I don't care."

He rolled over and went back to sleep, leaving Potter to bond or mind meld or whatever the hell he was doing with that stupid red featherbag.

000

Hermione was the last down to the breakfast table in the morning, which irritated her slightly. She was usually an early riser. The Dursleys had disappeared from the house, and as she poured herself some coffee, Ron had informed her that they were "eating out to avoid the terrifying freaks in their living room, particularly the blond one."

Harry cooked them all breakfast. It was actually a pretty good breakfast, and Harry seemed to know his way around the kitchen remarkably well. Hermione suspected this was not the first, nor even the fiftieth meal he had made in the kitchen at Number 4 Privet Drive. When they finished, Harry had gotten halfway through detail cleaning the entire kitchen, perhaps instinctually, before Ron stopped him and reminded him that he had a wand, underage or not. A somewhat embarrassed Harry quickly cleaned the rest of the kitchen with a tap of his wand.

"What's that?" asked Hermione, staring quizzically at the bulky fabric bag in the middle of the table.

"Present from a friend," said Harry, smiling mischievously.

"Who?" she asked curiously. She reached forward and peeled away the layer or scarlet fabric, gasping at what she saw inside. Harry pulled a fierce looking silver sword studded with blood-red rubies off the top of the pile and held it aloft, examining it casually as it glittered in the air. He lifted a phoenix feather in his other hand and handed it to Hermione.

"Like they always say," he said, grinning. "He's not as gone as we might think."

The sword was impressive—and so was the phoenix feather, but by far the most impressive of Fawkes's gift was the ornately carved wooden chest resting on the bed of scarlet fabric.

Ron and Harry seemed more interested in the sword, and Malfoy seemed more interested in obsessively examining his coffee to make sure it wasn't filthy or poisoned, but Hermione's gaze was fixed on the box, her jaw slightly agape.

The chest was small, about a foot wide, and a little deeper than it was tall. The wood was dark, stained cherry. Two images were on the front, painted in exquisite, colorful detail. The first was a robed man, holding a flask of potion in his right hand and pointing with his left. The obvious image of the Philosopher, the classical Alchemical Sorcerer. The second image was a winged staff, with two identical serpents curled around it.

Hermione's hands trembled with excitement as she grasped the box, running her fingers thoughtfully over its painted surface. This was—impossible. She couldn't he staring at what she thought she was staring at. It was all at her fingertips. But then again—it made some sense. After all…hadn't Dumbledore...

Hands quivering, she pushed open the lid, which creaked in protest. Inside there were stacks of yellowed parchment, covering in alchemical symbols and tiny, cramped writing. Pages and pages of secrets. A lifetime of painstaking research. She almost fainted, right there on the spot.

She suddenly became aware that everyone was staring at her rather quizzically, the initial thrill of the sword having apparently worn off.

"What's with the box?" asked Ron. "That thing Dumbledore's too?"

"This…" said Hermione finally, running her finger across the Latin text at the foremost edge. "Is the luckiest we've been in a long, long time."

"Why?" asked Ron stupidly. "What is it?"

"Not what—" said Hermione emphatically. "Who." Ron blinked. Harry looked bewildered as well. Malfoy looked mildly interested, but he was currently wandering around the kitchen, searching for more caffeine.

"This box," she said, barely able to contain the excitement in her voice. "The Philosopher and the flask. The Winged Caduceus of Mercurius." More blank stares. "These figures are typically associated with the 14th Century manuscript of Abraham the Jew. Look at this text."

Her Latin was a little rusty, considering she had gotten most of it second hand from ancient history books, but she traced the golden text of the chest's engravings with an idle finger.

"One day you will see in it that which no other man will be able to see," she read aloud. "The quest for knowledge. These are his secrets. He—he must have entrusted them to Dumbledore before he died. Who better, after all…"

They still didn't get it. Oh, it was frustrating. It was always like this. This subject was familiar to her—which didn't make it much different from every other subject on earth—but this one was slightly different. She had read every book in the library on it first year (even the ones in the Restricted Section), while trying to solve the mystery of the Sorcerer's Stone.

"Don't you get it?" she breathed, pulling the box towards her. "This box once belonged to Nicolas Flamel."

000

AN: Mwha ha ha. I know that RHr is by far the largest and most definite ship in the Harry Potter fleet, so I took great joy in blowing a hole in the starboard side with a cannon. Then, I cackled as I watched it sink to the briny depths of the ocean. I won't mind the RHr ship when it finally solidifies in the books (even more, I'm talking kissing here) —but right now, I am writing DMHG, and thus RHr must die. I always find it amusing in DMHG fics when Ron and Hermione fall apart because Ron is evil or a traitor of something. Ron isn't evil. Ron is just…Ron. And that's the perfect thing to ruin the RHr relationship.

To my reviewers:

laughingred: Yeah…I know a lot of people have that "I'm busy working on a novel!" thing going on…but I don't have a novel. I don't spend all my time working on fanfic, hehe. I'm kind of writing and drawing a webcomic, but I'm not sure what I want to do with it. So take heart! And thank you.

qwertyuiopasdfghjklzxcvbnm: I totally think Harry is a Horcrux. That was the first thing I thought when I read book six. I'm not sure if I'm going to use it in my story or not. It makes sense though. First—Dumbledore said he waited for "big" kills when making the Horcruxes. What's bigger than the boy who could potentially grow up and kill him? Second—the transfer of powers. Parselmouth! A piece of his soul would probably do that pretty succinctly. Third—the whole book five thing about "the dormant snake rising within him" and all the hatred for Dumbledore, etc. Fourth—before Voldemort possessed him at the end of book five, he was totally fine with Harry being murdered. After the possession, he ordered that Harry not be harmed (Snape mentioned this, didn't he?). Fifth—now Harry is definitely the key to defeating him. He could destroy the piece of soul, because "it can't bear to reside in him, blah, blah, blah, because he's so full of happy, sunshiney love." And according to Dumbledore, "Love" is the key to victory. So there. Whew. I could ramble on this forever, but I'll restrain myself.

FizzingWhizbeez: Yes, I'm not alone in the Regulus theory, but I thought of it by myself, I swear. And the diary was original too, but I have no idea where that came from.

Yumiko Kaze: That is a pretty awesome theory. I would be so happy if Sirius came back! I don't think I can use it in my story though, b/c if Sirius came back they wouldn't need Draco, and then how could Hermione and Draco snog? The snogging is integral to the plot! Hehe. Thanks for the offer though!

Thanks to everyone who reviewed! I love you!

PS: Next stop—Diagon Alley and the Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes. I got too busy with angst in this chapter, and it got rather long rather quickly. I've been trying to keep the chapters at 10 pages or so. Also (probably) coming in the next chapter, leather pants. Mmm…pants…

PPS: I had fun writing the "Malfoy threatens the Dursleys" scene. I hope everybody enjoyed it, lol.