Chapter 48: The Language of Love

Hermione sat in bed, petting Crookshanks, and dreading going down to breakfast.

There were a few things Hermione knew to be true. One of them was that books were about as good companionship as most people, another was you should never brush your curls while they're dry. And finally, Hermione knew that Harry did not—and would not ever—have romantic feelings for her.

It was so ingrained into her mind that it was hard to even imagine other options. Her thoughts ran over the previous evening, each event more ludicrous than the last. Harry enchanting the library. Holding her in a slow dance. Kissing her outside the common room!

That was not Harry. It couldn't be.

So, of course, the only logical explanation was that she'd imagined the whole thing.

Crookshanks hissed in protest at her incessant petting, and she pushed him off her, scrunched her knees up to her chest. She must have seen Dean with Padma at the dance, and then she'd rushed off to her room and cried herself to sleep. Her tired brain would have done the rest. Because if there was any way last night actually did happen, it was only in some alternate reality where scenes from Beauty and the Beast could play out in real life, and Harry Potter could fall in love with Hermione Granger.

Her alarm clock chimed, and she started getting dressed, while mentally preparing herself for battle.

I'm going to go downstairs, and Harry will ask, "How was your date with Dean?" and I'll say, "About as well as expected" and then I'll immediately start a conversation about rockets. Harry can ramble all day about those. I'll sit there, eat breakfast, and forget all about the way he made me feel last night.

Hermione went downstairs, heading for the Great Hall.

Harry stood outside the hall, waiting. His gaze immediately locked onto her, and he smiled, a bit awkwardly.

"Hermione," he said. "Umm…hi."

Descending the stairs, she observed him. His hair was a mess, as usual, though slightly tamed today. Even so, he just seemed sort of…messy in general. Like he was a bundle of nerves and couldn't stand still.

That dishevelled look worked for him, and it wasn't helping her delusions.

"Hi Harry," she said. "So, umm, rockets—"

"I had a great time last night," he said in a rush. "And I want to go eat breakfast with you. Is that okay?"

"Oh," said Hermione. "Of…of course, Harry."

Silently, they walked in and headed for the Ravenclaw table. But before Hermione could sit down, Harry pulled out her chair for her. His eyes were cast down on the floor, his gaze intent, as if there was something there to see.

In a heart stopping moment, Hermione realized. It wasn't a dream, was it?

She took a seat. "Thanks," she said softly.

He sat down beside her, the chair scraping softly as he pulled it in. Trying to remember the usual order of things, Hermione put some food on her plate, filled her glass with orange juice. Beside her, Harry took only a few pieces of cantaloupe.

Oh good, something to talk about.

"Not hungry?" asked Hermione.

"Not really," he said. "I've got a light schedule today, and I can wait until lunch. What about you?"

"I've got to study for my NEWT mock exams, and then duel with Mad Eye this evening."

"Really?" Harry picked up his fork. "Have you reserved a room in the infirmary yet?"

She snorted. "I'll have you know, Harry, I already beat Mad Eye once." She tried not to grin too much. "And on the first try, too."

"Ha, of course you did." Harry chuckled, nudging the fruit around his plate. "I assume you used your signature confetti bomb trick on him?"

"No, I'm afraid that only works on you."

Their banter was easy, natural, and yet everything seemed to hold extra significance. His hand rested on the table beside hers…not quite touching, but she couldn't stop thinking that they might.

"Now, Hermione, about this duelling business with Mad Eye. You might have beat him once, but there's a 99% chance he'll mop the floor with you next time. Take it from someone who hates to lose, he's going to do everything he can not to get shown up by a student again. I recommend you find a trainer, somebody who can help you come up with moves to counter anything Mad Eye can throw at you."

"I could ask Tonks," said Hermione.

"Sure…that's an option," said Harry. "She's fought Mad Eye plenty of times. But how often does she win, that's the question. Can she come up with any tricks that catch Mad Eye off guard?"

Hermione was eating some pancakes, so she couldn't answer right away. She knew he wanted her to ask for his help, but if she were being honest, sparring with Harry brought up some pretty traumatic memories. Just the thought made her shoulders tense, like she was already in a losing battle.

She bit her lip. On the other hand, he's actually probably the best person to help me, and it's a chance to spend more time with him, and maybe figure out what this pulling the chair out thing means…

"Umm…" she said. "Mad Eye wants me to learn some spells, but I may need a practice partner. Can we meet today after class?"

He turned to her, and the look he gave her—like he was searching for something in her eyes—felt like a thrill going through her body.

"I can do that," he said, turning away to eat his food.


That afternoon, Hermione walked into the duelling room with trepidation.

She'd decided to wear an Auror's black robes today. The Beauxbatons uniform was constricting and poor for duelling, and Mad Eye told her she might as well, "look the part."

Harry waited for her in the middle of the room, also draped in his black robes.

Hermione pulled out her spellbook and wand, eying him warily. Technically, they weren't here for actual duelling practice, but Harry had a tendency to get carried away and not even realize it. Not until there were fires everywhere and blood and people screaming.

She was already having war flashbacks to their many fights together for Quirrell's Army. Harry dropping her entire army with 2 soldiers. Taunting her and forcing her into crawling along the castle walls to chase him. Encouraging his soldiers to run rampant with spying tactics, his chaos infecting and sabotaging her own army. He singlehandedly made that game a source of stress that lasted the entire semester, and every attempt to spar since then seemed to dredge up those old wounds.

So she was not looking forward to this meeting, not with everything else on her plate, and she wished she'd just told Harry so from the beginning.

"Hermione," said Harry. "Ready?"

Reluctantly, she nodded.

He approached her casually, as if not sensing at all the doom she was feeling. "So, which spells does Mad Eye want you to learn?"

Hermione hesitated a moment, then handed him the list.

He scanned the paper, his eyes going wide. "What in the—" He glanced up at her. "Is this Defense Against the Dark Arts, or just Dark Arts?"

"It's a special training program," explained Hermione, frowning. "I knew they were a little dark, but I assume they're not illegal to cast…are they?"

"Umm, so it's not Necronomicon level bad, but I've only seen these spells in books from the Restricted Section." He studied her. "Mad Eye wants you to use these in a duel against him?"

She nodded, suddenly feeling a lot more insecure about this plan than before. Harry wasn't shy about using dark spells, and if even he was nervous…

Harry cleared his throat, tapped a finger against the spell list. "You know, the surest way to get the upper hand on an opponent is a surprise attack. If Mad Eye is expecting you to use these spells, and you don't know what spells he'll be using, well, that puts you at a disadvantage, doesn't it?"

"I suppose," she said, blinking. "What do you suggest?"

He rubbed his chin, taking a few moments to consider. "Are you able to cast wordless or wandless magic?"

"Well, I've tried to learn," said Hermione. "Several times, in fact. It hasn't been working for me."

Hermione extracted a heavy tome from her pouch, showed him the first bookmarked page. His eyes rapidly scanned it, and she already knew the disappointing contents:

Casting Wordless, Wandless Magic

Practice the spell with words (30 mins)

Practice wordlessly (30 mins)

Practice without a wand (30 mins)

"Soooo is that it?" Harry turned a page. "Oh, great, there's an entire treatise on the meaning of the word 'practice.'"

"I know, right?" said Hermione. "It's completely useless, and none of the other textbooks I tried were any better." She drew her wand, making the motion for Incendio without speaking. "I followed all the steps, practiced every day for hours on end and see? Nothing happens."

"Hmm, that is a conundrum," said Harry. "How can be that—after hours of practice—Hermione Granger still can't do something absolutely perfectly?" He snapped his fingers, and a torch burst into flames across the room. "What is this world coming to?"

She stared at the torch, then looked back at him. "That was a trick."

"Nonsense, if I were to trick you, I would be doing something much more surreal than lighting torches." He put a hand to his chest. "Not that it was me, of course, that would require me being better than you at something." Another torch lit up. "Must be a ghost in here then. Ohh, do you feel a chill in here?"

She felt a soft wind batting against the hem of her dress, and could tell by his teasing smirk that he was going to milk this for all it was worth. Her face flushed bright red. "How did you learn to do wandless magic, anyway? Did Quirrell teach you?"

"No, actually," he said. "I trained myself over the course of several gruelling years." He reached into his bag and drew out a leather-bound journal like it was a national treasure. "Fortunately for you, I happen to have written a book that distils all the choicest information from countless masters of the craft. With my help, it will probably only take you—hmm, let's say a month or two to master a few wordless spells."

Hermione stared at the book, biting her lip. "Can I look at it?"

"Of course, my young padawan," said Harry. "But first, you have to say the magic words. 'Please teach me, Harry.'"

She raised her eyebrows at him. "Are you serious?"

"Oh, definitely," he said, with nonchalance. "A master wizard is really only supposed to reveal their secrets if the student asks properly."

It took her a few moments to realize he wasn't kidding, as he held the book with all that tantalizing knowledge in the air. "This is silly. You know, that right?" He just grinned at her, and she swallowed. "But umm…please teach me, Harry."

Wordlessly, he handed her the notebook, and she flipped through the pages, amazed at the amount of detail. There were even sketches. "You wrote this, Harry? It's just like a textbook."

He cleared his throat, and she could see a flush creeping down his neck. "Thank you.

Professor Quirrell once told me that, 'One of the Requisites to becoming a powerful wizard is an excellent memory.' Unfortunately, I'm not as gifted in that department as you are, Hermione. So, I made it a practice to write down everything I considered important, so I could find it again later. I hope my neurotic levels of notetaking will help you."

Hermione thought back to how he always seemed to have a different notebook on hand, scribbling something or other into them. Just how many did he have? If it kept growing, he'd have an entire library before long.

Harry moved so he was standing beside Hermione, looking over her shoulder at the pages. "One of the things lacking from many textbooks is the mindset you need to cast wandless magic," he said. "It essentially boils down to this: we're taught to do magic using wands and spells because they focus our energy. It's sort of like how the phosphorus sulfide on the tip of a match makes it easier to light the wood. With wordless or wandless magic, you're trying to make it so that you are both match and kindling, like starting a fire with two sticks."

Hermione nodded; she liked that analogy. "But how do you get to that mental state?"

"Well…I've always had a theory about how magic works in a wizard's body. Not widely held, mind you. We absorb it, passively, through the environment."

"Huh?"

"Magic is everywhere. It has to be. Spellcasting may ignore the laws of physics on a variety of levels, but I'm taking conservation of energy to my grave. The energy to create matter has to come from somewhere, and it has to be both substantial and consistent. I can't think of any one source that could explain it, that all wizards share in common.

"So, I suspect the source of magic is not found in only one thing, but in everything—wizards are just the only ones who can use it. Think of it like magical dark matter. It doesn't interact with the physical world in any way, and it remains completely inert until a wizard casts a spell. Then you just 'struck a match' in a manner of speaking."

Harry pulled out his wand, letting it roll between his fingers. "Wizards and witches use wands to cast spells, but really, there's nothing all that special about wood encased around a phoenix feather, or a unicorn's hair. Children cast accidental magic without wands—or words—all the time. Some schools of magic specialize in arcane spells that don't even rely on wands. It's a crutch, basically."

He set his wand down. "So, we must replace the crutch with the truth. Once you discard the idea that you need a stick or fancy words to cast magic, and firmly believe and accept that you are the magical element, it becomes possible to cast spells without it."

He paused a moment, then she felt his hand touch her shoulder. "Just remember," he said. "Your ability to manipulate magic is more powerful than you realize. You can break your wand, and you can lose your voice, but your magic will remain inside you, always. Don't be afraid to use it."

Her eyes flicked up to meet his, but he was already turning away.

Hermione watched him open a notebook, flip through it, seeking something. She studied him with a searching gaze.

This duelling session was going much differently than she expected. By now, she'd assumed they would be firing off spells at each other, trading blow for blow. Harry would be using tricks to 'teach her strategies' because 'Mad Eye won't go easy you, so neither will I' and Hermione would be annoyed and screaming at him to stop rationalizing excuses to show off.

But now she realized she hadn't been fair to Harry. He wasn't a know-it-all first year anymore. He was still brilliant, and maybe a little too proud of himself, but he'd become warmer and more patient with others. She'd seen it time and again, especially when he was working with the Bayesian Conspiracy. He was like a proper teacher now, even better than Professor Quirrell had been. She felt her heart tense at the thought. He really would be a great man someday.

Harry came back over, showed her a page in one of his endless journals. "Here are some first year spells we could try to cast wordlessly. They'll take less time to master than harder spells; however, you can get creative with them and trip up your opponent. I could even make you a list of cheats if you want, I practically come up with them in my sleep."

She examined his list of spells, searching for one that would be useful in battle. Pointing near the middle of the page, she said, "How about his one?"

Harry glanced over and nodded. "Shall we begin, my padawan?"


The rest of the afternoon passed quickly. Harry and Hermione practiced wordless Wingardium Leviosa for the next forty-five minutes, and Hermione's pillow was the first one to wiggle a little. Beaming with pride, she turned to Harry, who let out a laboured sigh.

"Beating me again, I see."

"Oh come on, you're letting me win," said Hermione.

"Ms. Granger," He looked a bit offended. "We are testing to see how long it takes to successfully perform wordless magic using a new spell, aren't we? You know I would never compromise an experiment."

While she continued practicing, Harry went to his bag and pulled out two lunchboxes. Inside were sandwiches, crisps and a bottle of juice. They took a break to eat, which passed for the first two minutes in total silence.

Harry cleared his throat. "So yesterday, while we were talking, Remus Lupin said that he knew about the Factionists rallying against me. He said he would help me get any information I wanted about the situation. Think we should include him in our group?"

Hermione nodded, chewed and swallowed. "I think we should. He's been working in the Ministry for over 10 years, he fought against You-Know-Who, and he's also a nice person. I'm glad he wants to help."

Harry shifted so he was sitting criss-cross. "It's made me rethink a few things. Maybe we're not alone in this, and there are others who will listen to reason. I could try to bring it up to McGonagall, and if she supports our investigation, then we've really got traction."

Hermione couldn't stifle a smile. "Well, if Remus is joining our team, then Tonks will gladly throw in her support. She's head over heels for him."

Harry blinked. "Really? But isn't he like 15 years older than her?"

"Thirteen, but it doesn't matter. She's decided he's the one for her, and she's going to throw hearts in his direction until he asks her out." She chuckled, pulling her arms around her knees. "Tonks has always been a direct sort of person."

"That's one word for it," said Harry.

"Well, I kind of agree with her. Dating shouldn't be complicated. It would be so much easier if I could go up to my crush and say, 'Excuse me, I think you're cute and I like you. Want to go out on a date?'"

Hermione said this jokingly, but the air seemed to change as soon as she said it, filling with unspoken tension. She glanced over at Harry, but he was staring at the floor between his knees.

"I think courtship evolved as a form of loss prevention," he said. "Men aren't always so great at figuring out how women feel, so they want to be sure before they lay their hearts bare. Getting rejected is terrifying, after all. But then again, so are relationships in general."

"They are?" said Hermione.

Harry nodded. "Oh, they're the worst. Think of it this way. You've been driving your car all your life, and things were going just fine. Then suddenly someone gets into the passenger seat and starts demanding you take them places, and you have to adjust course because someone gave them access to the gas and break pedal. And the worst part is, they won't leave unless you push them out of the car and you can't do that of course because you don't want them to get hurt."

Hermione laughed, she couldn't help it. "Only you would compare romance to a carjacking."

Harry looked quite serious. "But you can see the comparison, right? You're letting a person—a stranger—into your heart. You're letting them change you. It's hard to heal from that fundamental shift if it doesn't work out. Which, by the way, tends to happen quite frequently, like an emotional car accident."

"I see what you mean," said Hermione, never realizing how deeply Harry thought about these things. "I suppose that kind of vulnerability can be scary. So I guess you have to find someone it's worth taking that leap for, who will steer your life in the right direction." She smiled at him. "Maybe then it will be exhilarating, not terrifying."

There were a few beats of silence before he smiled at her, in a soft melting way. "I suppose you're right. When you decide the person is worth the time and effort, you do everything you can to show them you care for them, to win a place in their heart. Hence, the evolution of courtship."

She blinked. This feels a bit strange. Why is he saying all this to me…

DING DING

Oh no.

Hermione's "Does he like me?" sensor came back online, adding one point to the 'yes' column.

She wasn't sure how she felt about that. She'd decommissioned that mental process for a reason. But try as she might, she couldn't help putting together clues to see if his feelings had changed, and how much they'd changed, and why they'd shifted…

He isn't breaking eye contact while you're talking? Two points. Cleaning up your trash? That's at least half a point. What's the chance he'd flinch if you touched his hair right now? No, we don't have enough credits for that yet.

Hermione grimaced. She didn't care what her dumb sensor said, she needed to take this slow. Like a snail crawling over molasses slow. Something about the situation was making her nervous, like holding a live bomb, and she needed time to figure out why.

"Well, can't sit around all day," said Harry. "Come on, let's go practice so you can make me look good in front of Mad Eye."

He jumped from his seat to give her a hand up. She took his hand and—in spite of herself—she felt a little thrill go down her arm, and her heart stirred with warmth the rest of the day.


A few days later, Harry still felt completely clueless about this whole "courtship" thing.

The next two weeks before Spring Break were crucial. To win her over, Harry would have to find ways to maintain Hermione's interest during the crush of exams. If he failed, he would have to wait until after they came back, where there would be the additional obstacle of preparing for the third Triwizard task.

As a way to map his progress, he'd decided to test the love language strategies and see which one was the most successful. Some part of him suggested that maybe it would better not to turn his entire courtship into an experiment, but when he asked that side of himself, 'Well, what do you suggest then?' it had no response and was consequently ignored.

So he began right away. For Quality Time, Harry made sure to sit with Hermione at every meal, and to study with her as often as possible. He was attentive and kind, though he'd stopped with the chair thing. He listened and asked questions about her day, attempted to make her laugh, and did anything he could to make her smile.

For Gift Giving, he'd tried packing snacks for her to eat while they were studying, and he even gave her a vase of blue flowers. He said it was to help 'Make studying more pleasant,' and she seemed to appreciate the gift (though to be honest, she seemed more confused than anything).

He'd even tried Words of Affirmation, though that wasn't something he was naturally good at. It was much easier to do something to show he cared. Still, he could at least give her compliments. "Your hair looks nice, Hermione."

She shrugged, "Well, it's been behaving better lately."

"I think it's always pretty, though," he said.

That made her blush.

Courting Hermione was wonderful and frightening all at once. For months, he'd held back everything he felt for her, so giving in to that was almost a relief. But it was still impossible to gauge what she was feeling.

She was kind and accepting of his attentions, even saying up late into the evening. Then again, who didn't stay up late studying during exams? His brain catalogued every time she would lean in close to show him a passage in a book, or touch him without needing to. Once, when they were studying really late, she leaned against his shoulder and rested there for a few minutes, and he heard her mumbling sleepily, "I could do this every day." It melted something inside him, and made it hard to sleep that night.

But in spite of all that, he was still clueless. It was like his brain wasn't primed to understand other people's feelings, especially romantic ones. For every clue he gathered, he could find an alternative interpretation that fit just as well. Hermione was kind to him, sure, but she would be kind to anyone. He didn't have any results that showed she preferred him to others, or that she found him attractive. Sometimes, she even seemed scared of him, though he had no idea why. It was a challenging puzzle, and figuring this out would take time.

And he only had two more weeks.

He needed to hurry up. Maybe it was time to take things to the next level…whatever that was.

The next day, Harry met Hermione for studying. While they worked, she rubbed her neck, making groans of discomfort.

"What's wrong?" asked Harry.

"Training with Mad Eye," said Hermione, grimacing. "He's not taking it easy on me, and when his spells land, they hit hard. It's really doing a number on my back."

Harry empathized. He'd used to get muscle cramps while duelling. He'd studied a few muscle relaxing spells that he could use to target the pain, but he'd always wished he could just…

He froze, his mouth going dry.

"Hermione," he croaked out finally. "I could…umm…"

She raised her eyebrows, and he felt the words tumble out. "I could give you a back rub?"

It didn't help his nerves at all that her response was to frown at him.

"It's not really that bad," she said.

"But you can't even sit up straight," observed Harry.

"Well," she insisted, drawing herself straighter with a wince. "Have you ever even given someone a massage before?"

"Well…not exactly." The look of complete distrust on her face made him backpedal hard. "It's okay, if you don't want one, I mean…I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

He went back to his book, furious with himself for opening his stupid mouth. Well, Physical Touch is completely off the table, ah ha ha ha I'm dying. "Anyway," he rambled. "You should do something for the pain, if it's bothering you this much. There's different methods, but I have a salve if you want it. I never use it anymore."

Hermione was silent for a few moments, staring blankly at her open book.

"It's not a muscle cramp," she said softly. "So I don't think it would help. Thanks for offering, though."

A few seconds later, Harry set down his book. He'd almost missed it. Of course it wasn't a cramp. Hermione's body could recover from any injury, and was spell resistant to the point it was unfair. However, Mad Eye had a predilection for certain types of dark magic…

"Hermione…" he gazed at her, the word a question.

She bit her lip, then rolled up the bottom of her shirt. A large purple mark, dark and raw, stretched across her lower back. It looked bloated, the skin cracked and peeling. Harry had seen it before only in pictures, usually on corpses: a wound from a dark hex.

Harry stared at the mark, at the writhing darkness barely contained by her fragile skin. A tight, burning fury rose in his chest. "What happened?"

"Mad Eye was testing my abilities while duelling," said Hermione, her gaze on her shoulder, not quite looking at him. "We learned that most cuts don't leave scars, but dark hexes do." Her eyes flickered in a blink. "He said there's a healing potion, but he wants me to wait a few days before taking it, in case it heals on its own."

Harry took a deep breath, exhaled through clenched teeth. He understood well enough what Mad Eye was doing. He knew Hermione's partial spell resistance could withstand a dark hex 10 times worse than this, and that if it couldn't then it was better to know now. But seeing that poison writhing under her skin, a toxin that was burning her from the inside out, and his own Dark Lord Revenge quotient shot up so fast it broke the meter.

His hand reached out and gently touched the spot on her back, as if seeking a way to heal it. She stiffened.

"Does it hurt?" he asked.

"Yes…sometimes," she said softly. "It is a dark hex, after all."

He exhaled again, carefully pulling her shirt back down, then turned to face her. "Hermione, I'm not going to lie. Performing a litany of dark curses on Mad Eye sounds really good right about now. I mean seriously, what the hell is he thinking?"

She smiled a little. "You don't have to worry. Mad Eye is tough, but he isn't cruel. He even said, umm, that he fought the dark wizards for three days with a dark curse along his backside. So I think he's trying to make me a strong Auror like him."

Harry rankled. "Sorry, Hermione, but if that's what he told you, that's complete bullshit. You know, there's a reason dark hexes are prohibited by the medical board for duelling, the consequences of even one missed shot are—" He stopped, Hermione shaking her head, her hand resting on his shoulder. "Okay…I'll stop talking if you just tell me: are you okay with this? Because if you're not, then just say the word, and I'll make it stop."

She nodded. "I am, Harry. But thank you."

Hermione pulled him into a gentle hug, as if willing him to relax, that everything would be okay. He was surprised that it worked, sort of. When she pulled away, Harry reached into his bag and pulled out a slim book. "These are healing spells," he said, handing it to her. "I got it from one of the Hufflepuff quests. They're useful for field medicine, with a whole section on treating dark curses. If you don't want to use it now, fine, but…just in case."

She pressed it in her hands, then slowly opened it, leafing through. He settled in beside her on the couch. "This one might help," he said, leaning close and pointing. "It puts someone in magical stasis. I think it's supposed to keep an injured person stable for emergency transport, but it can also be used locally to stop the spread of dark curses. Coin-e go foil."

"Coinnigh go fóill," she corrected him, with a smile. She flipped through a few more pages, stopping on a picture of a dancing skeleton.

"Ahh, this one," he said. "Heals a bone fracture within a few minutes, anywhere but the cranium or spine. I used it before, but hopefully you won't need it, since you start healing an injury after 1.2 seconds anyway."

Hermione flipped through a few more pages. "Faire oíche," she murmured, the spell name musical on her lips.

"It means 'Night watch,'" said Harry. "It gives you a burst of energy when you're feeling tired."

"So, it's a Pepper-Up potion without the side effects," she beamed. "We could use it to study! Wait…why didn't you tell me about it before?"

Harry leaned back against the couch, hands behind his head. "I may or may not have needed a way to best Hermione Granger and her time turner."

"Hmph. No wonder you're never tired when we study." She tapped her wand against his chest. "And knowing you, you've probably already used it once tonight. What happens if I cast it again?"

"I won't sleep," he said, grinning. "But if you cast it on me, then it's only fair I'm allowed to reciprocate. Neither of us will sleep all night."

She blushed a little and put her wand away, murmuring, "Not in your butchered Gaelic. I don't want you to grow me a brand new unicorn horn."

They settled down into a comfortable silence, Hermione flipping through the book as Harry read over her shoulder. He occasionally said the spell names wrong, and she would correct him and shove him lightly on the arm. "You're doing it on purpose, now."

As she read, her eyes shone with interest, and he soon wasn't looking at the book anymore. He could imagine, quite vividly, what it would be like to slip his arm around her, kissing her shoulder and cheek while she studied to her heart's content.

Finally, with a contented sigh, she closed the book.

"That was very interesting. Thank you, Harry," she said, passing it back.

"No, you keep it," he said, pressing his hands over hers. "You'll be fighting in a lot more battles than me. I want you to have access to it, in case you need it."

Her gaze lowered to their joined hands. They felt so warm and right in hers that he didn't move them, even after he'd held them for what should have been an uncomfortably long time. His thumb grazed her knuckles, and she tensed and pulled away.

"Harry. Umm. Why are you being so nice to me lately?"

Her brown eyes searched his, and the distrust he saw there confused him. "I wasn't nice before?"

"No, you were just…always busy on a project." She swallowed back a frown. "I know it's a little hypocritical of me, since I was too busy for you a while ago. But I missed you, and I felt like you didn't miss me. I would call you, and you'd never answer. Sometimes, it felt like you were ignoring me on purpose. And I just can't help thinking you'll go back to your projects again, as soon as you find a new one."

It hit him like a bolt of lightning, and he didn't know what to say.

"I'm sorry," said Harry. "I didn't realize you felt that way. But I did miss you, and I plan to spend more time with you from now on. A lot more, you'll get sick of me."

"Hmm," she said. "Even after Spring Break?"

"Yes."

"What if…I want to do something besides studying or reading? Silly things like…watch movies or maybe baking cookies?"

His heart hurt a little, that she thought he would be bored. "That's not silly at all," he replied. "I'd like that very much."

She smiled softly down at her hands. "Okay."


Durmstrang, March 10th, 1996

Draco entered the Priestess's chambers—which is what he called the charmed room in Durmstrang—as he did every week. Outside the gold latticed window, leaves fell off the trees in a vibrant rain of colours. He didn't know much about India—or Asia in general—but he knew this time of year was not autumn.

Then it occurred to him—he could be in the southern hemisphere. Not that this made any more sense than being transported north…seriously, the whole thing was weird.

"Draco," said the Priestess, beckoning with her hand. "Please come, I've been expecting you."

He sat down beside her, taking the offered wine. These meetings felt so informal, like having a drink with a friend. But he would have bet his fortune that the Priestess watched him every second with a Slytherin's cunning, calculating and assessing him by an unknown rubric. Draco leaned back in his chair and sipped the wine, but kept a certain degree of tension to his posture. It wouldn't do to get too comfortable.

"So," said the Priestess, smiling lazily. "What did our birds tell you this week?"

His mind flashed back to Romilda kissing him, feeling a rush of shock at the memory. He flushed through his pale skin, knowing it would alert the Priestess, and she would read his thoughts…

He had other informants outside Hogwarts, so he mentioned them first. A few sentences in, the Priestess frowned in boredom. "I see you've gathered information about high wizards, but did they know nothing about the Source of Magic or Immortality?"

"Err…no." His informants were tasked to seek that information from anyone, but it had been astoundingly unsuccessful. Everything everyone did know was anecdotal, repetitive, and useless. "But I do have information about Harry Potter from the Hogwarts candidate. Her memories are well-transferred and completely intact."

"Go on," she said.

Draco folded his hands on his knees, drawing the facts from memory. "Harry is a Legimens and an Occlumens. He can fly, and he is trying to discover the Source of Magic. He has a magic closet…"

"A what?"

"His closet contains magical items, but it's uncertain where they're from, or what the closet contains."

"Very intriguing," she said, then sipped her drink. "Well, I'd like to know what's inside. I do wonder what the Boy-Who-Lived likes to collect."

"Romilda can do it. She just needs a week of bed rest first before we send her out."

"I hope so," said the Priestess slowly. "Anything else?"

"A prophecy. Do you want to hear it? It is about Harry."

The Priestess mulled it over, her dark eyes studying the wall in front of her. She always debated before receiving a prophecy. "Very well."

Draco closed his eyes, replayed the memory in his mind. He had to be extremely careful, even one word wrong would be a critical mistake. "The Boy-Who-Lived shall come into his power, and his enemies shall rise against him. Mid the light of the moon, his sword will shatter, and he will destroy the world and all life in it."

She did not speak for a few moments. When she did, her voice was soft. "When was this prophecy told?"

"I'm not sure. Several years ago, at least."

"Hmm. Mid the light of the moon, you said?"

"Yes."

She cast a Tempus spell that he couldn't see, scanned it for a moment, then sighed heavily. "I suppose that answers that question. The prophecy is old, after all." She frowned deeply, her gaze inscrutable for several moments. "Nevertheless, we must take precautions. Tell the Factionists to stop the smear campaigns against Harry Potter. Just in case."

She had a petulant look, like a child whose toy was taken away.

After a few more moments of silence, she said, "When you went to Hogwarts last time, did you find Slughorn's Acromantula venom?"

Draco grimaced, shifting his position. "No, I did not. It was not where his memories told me it would be."

"I see," said the Priestess. "Well, if you ever wish to obtain some—or spider silk, for that matter—there's a giant nest of them a few miles east of Leeds. They'd probably love to help you out. Hogwarts wasn't too kind to them when they were rudely evacuated."

Draco nodded. Then, compelled by curiosity, he asked, "How would you ask a spider for silk?"

She shrugged, "The same way you deal with any monster. Confidently and with weapons." The Priestess took another sip of wine, growing thoughtful. "Draco, would you like to come on a monster hunting trip with me?"


Something was wrong about this place.

In a barren land that stood as a hole between worlds, invisible from everyone, the Priestess knelt down and drew with her finger against the dead grass.

"Do you know how the dementors came to be?" she asked.

"No," said Draco.

"They were a mistake," she said. "Like most powerful magic, they are a ritual that went awry in a catastrophic way. But their existence is something of an anomaly in this world. They are aliens, the price of some other people's folly, and yet here they are poisoning our existence. Doesn't seem fair, does it? But anyway…at least perhaps they can be useful."

She finished her markings, then she slit her palm with a knife, and pressed it against the ground.

"Real power requires sacrifice," she murmured.

A chill rose in the air, a sense of Wrongness that prickled Draco's skin and made him want to scream and hide somewhere safe. A dementor rose up from the ground, its body taking shape into an awful black nothingness.

"I have a proposition for you," said the Priestess, wrapping her hand a handkerchief. "If you're interested."

The dementor whispered something, grating like nails on chalkboard.

"Yes, I know you're starving. You'll be well fed if you perform well for me…no, not him, he's mine."

The Priestess explained the proposal, and then listened to his reply, her pleasant, professional expression never wavering.

"Yes, I understand your limitations. I have access to the Ministry and can provide you entry, once," said the Priestess. "All the details of this excursion will be disclosed in full. I will explain more once your leader accepts the bargain."

But the dementor did not move. Instead, he remained hovering, rasping a final question. Her smile faded.

"Of course…you see right through me. No, we will remain true to our vows, but at least a little chaos wouldn't hurt, right?"


A few minutes later, sitting in the Priestess's room, they were sipping wine as if nothing had happened.

As if nothing had happened.

Draco felt a headache building behind his temples, along with a clammy, cold sensation all over his body, like he'd just gotten stabbed.

Draco let out a breath. Digging his nails into his fist, he spoke, "Why are so many people prophesying the end of the world?"

The Priestess turned to him. "Because it is going to end, I suppose? Or it could just be a very clever metaphor."

"How does it happen?" he asked. "The end."

His eyes met hers, and she smiled indulgently.

"Don't worry," she said. "It is not by my hand. Or yours, for that matter. We cannot cause the apocalypse, only Harry Potter can. However, at this point it's entirely possible we won't be able to stop it. Or perhaps there is nothing to stop at all."

He looked at her, confused.

"Time is a strange thing, Draco. It doesn't like to be messed with, but you could if you wanted to. If you're willing to pay the price. And I tell you, Draco, that prophecy you heard…it has been centuries since a similar one was made. I would know. I was there. I saw what it cost, and who paid it."

She sipped some of her wine. "It is not an easy feat, to survive the death of one world. But two? Why, perhaps it's not delusional to claim myself as a goddess after all." She said this with her usual alacrity, but something about her tone gave Draco chills of warning. "Cycles of death and rebirth, time always renewing itself. Do you ever wish…" she said. "For it all to stop?"

Huh?

Draco gazed at her, unsure how to respond. Her black eyes bored into his, and then she smiled in a way that didn't reach her eyes. "Nevermind, sweet Draco. Perhaps you will find out soon enough."

When he left the room, he was shaking, wondering if he would ever feel warm again.