The letter from the DOM was waiting on Hermione's desk when she got to work Monday morning. "It would be a great privilege to study you and Mr Potter-Black at your earliest convenience," said the writer, identified only as "Jester."

"Is that an actual surname or just an alias?" she asked Octavia. "It's so hard to tell with wizards."

"It's probably real," said the older witch. "They generally don't use code names outside the Department, and it's a way to publish their research anonymously."

"It appears as if Harry and I might be part of her research, assuming he still wants to go."

"What about you—what do you want?" asked Octavia. "You're not bound to him, after all."

"No, but he's the main event where Light magic is concerned—love in particular."

"Just because you don't go on the radio and announce your deep, abiding love for all and sundry doesn't mean you're not a genuine Light witch," said Octavia sternly.

"I know that. But my teacher says there's a continuum, and I'm somewhere in the shallow end."

Octavia raised one eyebrow. "Did she really say that?"

"Well, just the continuum part. But I wouldn't say no to a more profound version of Light magic. I've had some good moments, but I mostly feel like my old self."

"Are you sure? You seem to be more creative. Like that mad alliance you proposed last week—it was absolutely brilliant, although probably decades or even centuries before its time."

Hermione grimaced, recalling the completely absurd idea that had spilled out of her during a team brainstorming session. It came to her in a whirlwind, and in her mind it felt perfect, but when she eagerly described the complex alliance between Centaurs, merfolk, and emancipated house-elves, her colleagues just stared in shock.

"I sounded like a lunatic! Next time just Stun me if I start talking like that."

"Absolutely not! That was pure inspiration, and one of these days you'll come up with something the world is ready for."

That evening, however, it was Harry who delivered a shock: that Alistair was willing to enter the Veil.

"But why?" she stammered. "At best he'll retrieve a couple of bodies. Or heaps of them, heaven forbid!"

"Blimey, I never considered that! Although Alistair explored a similar space in Macedonia, and he said there weren't any bodies." Harry paused, then added, "I suppose that means we won't have to bury Sirius—which is fine, I guess. Talk about depressing!"

His tone was light, but Hermione saw the sadness in his eyes. "I'm sorry," she said, stifling the urge to hug him.

"No, it's all right. And in answer to your question, I honestly don't know why I want Alistair to go there."

"You want closure," she said simply, and Harry nodded.

"I do. And Alistair's perfectly willing, so there's no reason not to."

"Do you think Jester will allow it? Or whoever decides that sort of thing?"

Harry shrugged. "I don't know about Oberon Tate, but I doubt we'll have trouble with Jester, considering her letter."

"What about it?" Hermione began, until her brain caught up. "I knew it! She wrote you a love letter, didn't she?" Harry denied it, but Hermione cut him short. "Oh right, you receive scores of actual love letters. But she's drooling over the chance to study you, admit it!"

"Something like that," he said sheepishly. "But she mentioned you as well."

Hermione sniffed. "In the last line?"

"Er, no—the postscript. But she seemed sincere."

When Davina arrived for their Light Arts lesson, they asked what she thought about Jester studying them. "Is it safe?" asked Hermione.

"I should think so. In fact, I didn't tell you at the time, but Jester invited me there several months ago."

"So, you've met her! Is that her real name?"

"Yes, Celestine Jester. Although I knew her at school, when she was Celestine Rowle."

"Rowle! But that's a Dark family."

Davina's expression was almost haughty. "And so? My family leans Dark." Hermione realised her blunder, but Davina just smiled and said, "You're not wrong, though. Because she's definitely not a Light witch."

Harry seemed to deflate. "So, we shouldn't go?"

"I didn't say that. All I said was that she wasn't a Light witch, and I'm using the term in the strictest sense." Davina looked Hermione in the eye, as if to challenge her.

"Do you mean she wants Light magic but hasn't broken through yet?" said Hermione, unsure where Davina was going.

But Harry clearly knew. "And she can't!" he blurted. "Because she's too deep into the Dark Arts!"

"Well spotted!" said Davina. "Five points to Slytherin."

Hermione was faintly disappointed not to have got the answer herself, but Harry's grin made up for it. "Does this mean she's looking for a cure?" he asked.

"She didn't admit it, but that was my impression. And no, I didn't tell her you've removed a Dark Mark."

Hermione felt another whirlwind of ideas beginning to form. "But imagine if we could erase damage from the Dark Arts," she began. "Give people a clean slate, then see how they change." Her eyes shot open. "Malfoy! That's why you're friends with him! He changed when you removed his Dark Mark—that has to be it!"

Harry grimaced and said, "Er, no—he's still kind of a wanker. I think I just caught him at a low point. Oh, and he no longer worships his father."

Davina smiled indulgently. "Hermione, I admire your enthusiasm, but there's no shortcut to Light magic. At least not on the scale you're imagining."

Hermione was, in fact, imagining something large-scale. "But if Harry could heal a Dark Mark–"

"He also could have killed that boy. What Harry did was remarkable, but I don't see how he can repeat it."

"I'm not suggesting he repeat it," said Hermione, growing impatient. "But maybe we can harness whatever's in the Love Room. Love is Harry's chief Light trait, after all."

"Hermione, listen!" snapped Davina. "There is no shortcut to Light magic, at least not in a vacuum. If someone makes the leap, it's because they were ready. And for most people, that's gradual."

"But I hadn't even heard of Light magic!"

"No, but you'd heard of compassion, and sacrifice. And, most importantly, you loosened your grip on the entity you call 'Hermione' long enough for wisdom to break through."

The whirlwind in Hermione settled. "Yes, of course. Although I feel more or less as I used to," she said, a little glum.

"Then perhaps a visit to the Love Room will help. For me it was like a shot in the arm."

"Er, am I likely to fall to pieces?" asked Harry.

Davina assured him he wouldn't, and they went on with the lesson. Before leaving, however, she revealed she'd written to her parents. "I swallowed my pride," she admitted. "And believe me, it never gets easier."

"How did they take it?" asked Hermione. "Did they write back?"

"My mother did, which meant she had my father's permission. We're meeting later this week." Davina sighed and said, "I'm not exactly looking forward to it, but it'll be a good chance to unearth old conditioning. Can't hide forever from the things that upset us, now, can we?"

It was a familiar tenet of Light magic: the need to integrate the hurt parts of the self. "I suppose Harry will get the opportunity when his portrait arrives," said Hermione. "How much longer will it be? Didn't the artist say January?"

"Er, yeah," Harry mumbled. "About that ... I actually got the portrait a couple weeks ago."

"You did? Why didn't you say so? Did it come out all right?"

After a stammering explanation, which left Hermione and Davina in stitches, Harry led them down to the dining room. "Banthora, do you know where Jamie is?" he asked the kindly, grey-haired witch.

"He's right over there," she said, pointing beyond the edge of her canvas. "I hosted a garden party this afternoon, and he and some of the guests are lingering over cards. Shall I fetch him?"

In short order, a perfect likeness of Harry sauntered into the frame, and Hermione nearly gasped. And I thought Harry had a swagger! she thought, noting Jamie's positively feline body language.

"Hermione!" he exclaimed. "And Davina! I'm glad Harry finally told you I exist."

The real Harry scowled and said, "You didn't give me much choice, did you?"

"Don't blame me—blame the Potter hair. And maybe Light magic. Davina, what say you?"

Davina's expression suggested she, too, was bowled over by Jamie's presence. "You definitely have the Light charisma," she said, staring at him. "Can you glow?"

"Can I glow?" he laughed. "Watch this." Jamie waved his hands and the frame filled with darkness. "Sorry, Banthora—I need to set the stage first."

"No need to apologise, my dear," she said, barely visible in the shadows.

"Let there be light!" cried Jamie, and he lit in an instant. "And here's the best part." He pressed a glowing finger to the surface of the canvas and traced a small circle with wings. "Look familiar?"

"Yes, I'm a Seeker, same as you," said Harry. "Only I do the actual work."

"Can you do this?" Jamie asked. He pursed his lips, then blew on the glowing image he'd drawn. An illusory Snitch appeared in the room, and the real Harry reflexively grabbed it, only it dissolved into light. And when he uncurled his fingers, the Snitch was gone.

"Bravo, well done!" said Davina, clapping her hands. "I'd award points to Slytherin, but you strike me as more of a Gryffindor."

"Oh, I'm ambitious as well," said Jamie, with a cheeky half-smile.

"How did you do that?" exclaimed Hermione. "I've never seen a portrait manifest something in the real world!"

"I'm sure there's a lot you've never seen," he said, his voice lower than before. "I hope you'll be painted before too long—maybe Harry can spot you the gold. Because you definitely need to be immortalised, especially with your hair like that."

Hermione absently patted the unkempt cloud, and she could tell without looking that it was sparking. "Harry, I've been saying for a while that you're a devil, but now I have proof," she said, reluctantly turning away from the portrait.

"The artist really captured my manwhore phase, don't you think?" said Harry acidly.

"Hermione, why didn't we ever hook up?" Jamie continued. "I remember you crying any number of times in the tent—especially at night. I could have just crawled into bed with you and let hormones do their thing. Or am I missing something?"

"You're missing a Horcrux," said Hermione, deliberately ignoring the rest. "Two, actually: the locket and the one in your skull."

"Oh, right—apparently those things really kill the mood. And we both have other partners now, so it's kind of a moot point. But get your portrait painted, and I'll take care of the rest."

"Jamie, stop chatting up Hermione!" ordered Harry. "Hermione, I'm so sorry—he doesn't share my thoughts."

"I know, don't worry. And Jamie, I'm flattered, but I don't see you or Harry that way," she said, resolving not to hang her future portrait near Harry's until it was thoroughly trained.

When Davina left, they drafted a reply to Jester, asking to bring Alistair with them. "We'll have to arrive after sunset," said Hermione, "but it gets dark so early this time of year."

They posted the letter with Lysander, since the jackdaws were asleep, and Harry accompanied Hermione back downstairs. "Really, I'm sorry about Jamie," he said. "I keep telling him I'm only interested in Fiona, but he pointed out he doesn't actually get to be with her—all he gets are my memories. So it's really not fair for me to prevent him from sleeping around."

"I'm sure he'll settle down eventually," said Hermione. With a smirk, she added, "After all, you did."

"Oi!"

"Sorry, I couldn't resist." They reached the fireplace, and before leaving she asked, "Do you mind if I tell Ryan about Jamie? He already knew you were getting a portrait, but naturally he didn't tell anyone."

Harry sighed. "Yeah, go ahead, and tell him Janet knows too. I'd hoped to keep it a secret, but clearly that's not in the cards."

She went straight to Ryan's flat and told him about her day, including the decision to return to the DOM. "The Love Room, eh?" said Ryan. "May I come?"

"No, but I'll find you as soon as we're done. Davina said the Love Room's like a shot in the arm, and I want to share it with you."

Ryan nudged her cloud of hair. "Are you still hoping I'll catch Light magic?"

"That's not what I was suggesting. More like, I'll probably be very affectionate." She emphasised her point with a kiss, then pulled away and said, "Although you have a new rival."

She told him about Jamie, and it was a testament to their relationship that Ryan wasn't upset. "Harry's painting's gone rogue?" he asked, laughing. "And he's a walking erection?"

"I wouldn't have phrased it like that, but yes," said Hermione, equally amused. "Harry says he's been shagging his way through Grimmauld Place."

"And he calls himself Silvercock—fantastic. How soon can we start taunting him about this? Over the pitch, that is."

"Soon, I suspect. I didn't point this out, but I'm sure Phineas Nigellus already told the other Hogwarts portraits. Revenge, you know."

Next, Ryan told her about his day, and he showed her the latest Quidditch memoir he'd bought. "I never read them growing up, since I preferred Muggle fiction, but it's a surprisingly good genre. Although they're not exactly highbrow, I'll admit."

Sports books were the sole exception to Hermione's lifelong bibliophilia, but out of politeness she examined Ryan's latest find. "150 Points: A Seeker Tells All, by Alistair Wood," she read aloud. "I wonder if he's related to Oliver."

"He actually played for the Cannons at the end of his career, which was a disaster, of course. But he also played in the 1960 World Cup final, and he has strong opinions about what makes a good captain."

"That might be useful," she said, idly flipping through the book. "What do you think of that Charms text, by the way? I'd still like to borrow it when you're done."

"Maybe you should take it now. I don't know if I'll have time this week."

"Really? But I thought you needed it for your research proposal."

"Yes, but another week won't make a difference." The music had stopped, and Ryan got up to put in a new album. "Any requests?" he asked, indicating the rows of CDs.

"That Charms book," she said, and they both read for the rest of the evening. In the morning, however, her mind was full of Light magic—specifically, how hers compared to Harry's.

"I know he got a head start," she complained to Ryan over breakfast, "but I'm wondering how long it'll take me to catch up."

Ryan nearly choked on his cereal. "Are you joking?" he said, after downing a glass of milk. "You're worried you've fallen behind in a practice so rare and powerful that people thought it was a myth?"

'It's not actually that rare, once you know where to look. Really, it's been hiding in plain sight.'

"I'm sorry, let me rephrase that. You're afraid you've fallen behind in an esoteric practice you'd barely heard of six months ago and have nevertheless become the poster girl for?"

"That's just it—I feel like a fraud. I'm probably the best-known Light witch in England, except maybe for Davina, but I've barely scratched the surface. Certainly not compared to Harry."

"I'm not sure I agree with your premise. But setting that aside, why does it even matter how you compare? Should I feel bad that I'm not the most popular Cannon? Or that Harry usually scores more points than I do—unless it's a three-day match, of course."

Hermione shook her head, wishing she could make Ryan understand. "Forget it, I'm being silly," she said, dropping the subject. But it came up again during her private meeting with Davina that afternoon.

"Do you think I'm advancing quickly enough?" she asked.

"You're off to a solid start, I think. The Potions experiments with Lucinda are a good use of time while you're still looking for a research topic."

"Not my research—my own Light magic. I feel like I'm still in the shallow end."

Davina was silent a moment, then asked, "Is this the same shallow end a certain Unspeakable is desperate to enter?"

Hermione made a face. "Yes, I know, I'm incredibly lucky to have Light magic, or any magic at all, really. But I've always been driven, and I hate feeling like I'm falling behind."

"Behind whom?"

"Not Harry," she said quickly. "But compared to other Light Arts practitioners, my mental state is still awfully conventional." Davina asked what she meant, and Hermione said, "I'm less in my head than I used to be, and lately I've become more creative. But otherwise it's the same old Hermione: over-analysing things and looking for problems where they mightn't even exist."

"Like with your Light magic?" said Davina, amused. "Relax. Everyone has different strengths, and you'll eventually see how they all fit together." Hermione still wasn't convinced, but also she knew she was whinging, so she put it to rest.

Late that night she got a note from Harry, stating that Jester had agreed to their request and they would return to the DOM on Thursday. "We'll meet at Penumbra and head over together," he wrote, and Hermione smiled at the thought of turning up at the Ministry with a vampire, just as everyone else was heading home.

It was only her second time at Penumbra, and her first time to enter alone. The bar was nearly empty, and not even the hostess was there, but a pallid young man told her Alistair would be up shortly. "He's still feeding," said the man, "but you can wait here."

Harry arrived next, looking elegant as always. "And to think, you used to just wear jeans and trainers everywhere," she observed.

"I almost wore them tonight, in case Sirius pops out. Don't want him to fall back through the Veil from shock," he said, with a hollow laugh.

His smile was more like a grimace, and Hermione said, "Are you all right?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. And I'm fully aware that no one comes back from the Veil. Hence the Death Eater robes."

"At least they're not battle robes this time. Is that a nod to the Love Room?"

"It is. I'm even wearing jasmine," he said, indicating his boutonnière. "They're Fiona's favourite flower, after all, and I'm sure I'll be thinking of her."

"My goal is not to think at all," said Hermione. "Just soak in it, maybe get a taste of the Harry Potter experience."

"Potter-Black," retorted Harry, scanning the room for Alistair. "By the way, do you think we'll have to go into the Death Chamber? Or can we stay in the Love Room the entire time?"

Hermione was struck by how vulnerable he looked. "You don't need to go, unless you think it would be helpful somehow."

"I should go," he said, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. "Rip off the plaster, integrate trauma and so forth. Maybe Light magic will make it easier."

Alistair soon arrived, and for a moment Hermione didn't recognise him, since his cheeks were positively rosy. "Forgive me, I've just gorged myself," said the vampire. "I want to anchor myself in the world of the living, before passing into parts unknown."

"How long will you be inside the arch?" asked Hermione. "Is it just a pop-in-pop-out affair, or will you explore?"

"That all depends on how time works. It varies from space to space—my little jaunt in Macedonia felt like ten minutes, but several days passed on the outside."

"Several days!" exclaimed Harry, but Alistair shook his head.

"It won't be that long tonight. I've made some enquiries, and it'll be a few hours at the most. Possibly much less. But come—we can use my Floo."

Within minutes they were in the Atrium, stating their names and presenting their wands. "Alistair Cross," said the vampire, and Hermione nearly snorted. "Ironic, I know."

Inside the DOM, they were directed once again to Oberon Tate's office, and the Head Unspeakable introduced them to Celestine Jester, a rail-thin witch with severe black hair. Is that what Harry calls the Dark Arts sneer? Hermione wondered. Her sneer wasn't active—it was more like the lines of her face had formed around it. But she also looked brittle, and Hermione had an inkling she was ill.

Jester outlined a plan to bring Alistair to the Veil, then study Harry and Hermione—first in her office, then in the Love Room. "Unless you and Miss Granger would rather skip the Death Chamber entirely."

"No, I should go," Harry said. "But please, keep my reaction confidential."

"Not to worry," said Tate. "This is the Department of Mysteries—we keep everything confidential. The only witnesses will be Unspeakables, and yourselves of course."

With that, Jester ushered them back into the circular room, which didn't spin, and she confidently reached for a door. "Wait," blurted Harry. "Please, just a moment."

Hermione was already holding his hand, and she watched him close his eyes and take a deep breath. He's expanding into awareness, she realised, wishing she could also do it at will. She summoned her compassion and silently offered it to him. You're safe and well-loved, and the Horcrux is gone, she thought, with an ache for how much he'd suffered.

"Go ahead," said Harry. "I'm ready."

"No, you aren't," said Alistair. The vampire approached and looked Harry in the eye. "May I?" he asked.

Harry nodded, and at first Hermione didn't know what was happening. But when Harry locked gazes with Alistair, she understood: He's using his charisma to calm him. Harry's grip on her hand softened, and warmth climbed up her arm, prompting her to wonder how the vampire had done it.

"Thank you," said Harry, sounding much more relaxed. "And yes, now I'm ready."

Jester opened the door, revealing the vast and dimly lit chamber. Harry looked straight at the Veil, but Hermione was struck by the amphitheatre-like benches, which she realised were for spectators. I could never watch an execution! she thought, but she knew that wasn't true. I could have watched them execute Umbridge. Or Bellatrix Lestrange. Her eyes flitted to the great stone arch, with its fluttering curtain, and its darkness acknowledged her own. I may be a Light witch, but I'm not free from darkness.

They slowly walked towards the Veil, and as they drew closer she began to hear voices. Last time, only Harry and Luna had heard them, but this time she did too. She couldn't quite place the voices—whispers, really—and she began to speed up.

"Careful," Harry said, pulling her back. "I hear them too, but it's not real."

Alistair chuckled and said, "It's ironic you need a vampire to anchor you in the world of the living."

"Bollocks, you're the one who can't die," retorted Harry, and Hermione was amazed he could laugh this close to the Veil.

He and Alistair actually exchanged banter as they walked the rest of the way. The vampire made digs about the Boy Who Lived, and Harry taunted Alistair about his age. "Do your thralls ever pull you aside and say, 'Mate, stop hoisting your trousers up to your tits,' or 'No one says 'pip pip' anymore."

But they were silent when they finally reached the dais, and even Alistair's charisma couldn't lift Harry's mood. It was the last place he'd seen Sirius, after all, and even though Harry wasn't panicking, he was clearly downcast.

"Whenever you're ready, Mr Cross," said Tate to Alistair. "An Unspeakable will be here at all times, in case anything unusual happens."

Harry was pale in the dim light, and he grabbed Alistair's shoulder. "You don't have to do this," he said. "I won't hold you to it."

"I already said I would, and my word is ironclad," said the vampire. "And I must," he said, with a long look at the arch.

He walked through it without hesitation, leaving the four humans behind. Tate pulled a book from his robes and sat down on a nearby bench. "I'll take the first shift," he declared. "It'll be a nice break from paperwork, and if I'm lucky I'll be here when he comes out. Hot off the presses, you know."

Jester turned to leave but Harry was still rooted in place, staring at the Veil. "Are you all right?" asked Hermione, her voice gentle.

"No," he rasped. "You can hear them, right? I heard them before, but until Alistair entered ..."

"Yes, I hear them. But you helped me resist, remember?"

"Did I? That must have been Alistair's doing." His eyes were still locked on the Veil, and a tear rolled down his cheek. "You know, this is Sirius's grave. I should have sent Alistair in with flowers."

Relieved he was expressing grief and not panic, Hermione said, "He loved you terribly. And he'd be so proud of who you've become."

Harry barely seemed to hear her. "I took his name. I'm remaking the Blacks a Light family, just like he asked." With something like a snort, he added, "I even took Seth Black to the Boudoir. Sorry about that!"

It took Hermione a moment to realise he was apologising to the Veil and not to her. "I'm sure he'd have thought it was hilarious. And you joined Pratt's for the best possible reason."

"I know, but ..." He wiped his face with his sleeve. "Imagine if he'd never been to Azkaban, and I grew up with him ..."

"I'm so sorry you didn't. You deserved so much better," she said, remembering the dusty cupboard she'd insisted on seeing.

"Yes, but so did he ... twelve years in Azkaban, and three in hiding. He deserved a life too."

And you finally have one, she thought. "You don't need to feel bad that you get to live and he never did."

"I don't exactly feel bad. But god, it hurts knowing his life was practically over at my age." He looked again at the Veil and said, "Remus shouldn't have stopped me—I could've pulled him out. I should have trusted my instincts."

She didn't point out that his instincts had led them to the DOM in the first place. "Come on, we should go to the Love Room. This is probably just the arch talking."

He glanced at Jester, who seemed keen for them to leave. "Of course, you're right—let's go."

The circular anteroom felt almost cosy after the Death Chamber, and Jester led them down another corridor to her office. The room wasn't large, and it was dominated by a bookcase, which Hermione drifted towards automatically.

She was shocked by one of the titles. "Inner Workings of the Light Arts! I thought that was lost!"

"No, but it's useless," said Jester scornfully. "They all are. You can read all you want about the Light Arts, but until you crack the code it's just words." She gestured for them to sit down, then said, "I'll be frank: I want to know how you did it—how you broke through."

Jester looked surprised by her own bluntness. "Forgive me, I've grown rather obsessed with Light magic since your announcement several months ago," she continued, addressing Harry. "All Unspeakables are obsessive, and I daresay I'm worse than most."

Harry seemed reluctant to speak, so Hermione began. "For me it happened during a conversation with a very peculiar friend." She told Jester about her dinner with Luna and the events leading up to it. "Davina says it was similar to a Muggle practice called Direct Inquiry, which comes from the Vedic tradition."

"Yes, I'm familiar with it. I've even done it, with a so-called expert, but I got nowhere. 'Who am I? I'm Celestine bloody Jester—stop asking!'"

"Right. Unfortunately, it doesn't work for everyone."

"The question is why it worked for you." Jester leaned closer, and for the moment she seemed uninterested in Harry. "I've read about you, Miss Granger, and you're not entirely sweetness and light. What you did to Dolores Umbridge, for example, setting the Centaurs after her."

Harry sprang to her defence. "You can't blame Hermione for that! She did it to protect us, and so I could rescue Sirius!"

"No, I was ready for them to kill her," admitted Hermione. She'd never said it aloud, but deep down she knew that when she lured Umbridge into the forest that night, to show her "Dumbledore's secret weapon," it could have ended with Umbridge's death.

"Did you admit that to yourself at the time?" asked Jester. "Or was it only after you became a Light witch?"

Harry appeared to have the same question, but there was no judgment in his eyes. "No," said Hermione. "I didn't think about it again until the final year of the war, when we were planning to infiltrate the Ministry. Our target was Umbridge, and I realised I wished the Centaurs had finished her off. I tried to feel bad about thinking that way, but I couldn't. Admittedly, there were other factors at play—we were living in a house full of Dark magic—but some of the darkness was definitely my own."

"And it wasn't an obstacle to becoming a Light witch," said Jester, mostly to herself. "Do you regret it now?"

Hermione sighed. "No. I doubt the Ministry would have targeted Muggleborns the same way without someone like her. Bellatrix Lestrange hated Muggleborns, and so did plenty of others, but they lacked the vicious precision of a bureaucrat," said Hermione with distaste.

Jester frowned and said, "So darkness isn't an obstacle. And yet, not everyone can overcome it." She was jotting down notes, and Hermione saw her write, "Threshold?"

"Hermione's not dark," Harry said. "Not the way you're thinking. Everything she does is from a sense of justice, or for a higher goal. And I'm sure she's never used hatred of Dolores Umbridge to power her magic. Honestly, I'm darker than Hermione is, since I'm the one who actually practised Dark magic."

"You cast a few curses!" said Hermione. "That's not the same as training your mind for years on how much you hate someone!"

"Didn't I? I hated Draco for years, and during sixth year I was positively obsessed with him. No wonder that curse worked on the first try."

"Harry, that wasn't all you! Your link with Voldemort–"

Jester inhaled sharply. "You were a Horcrux, weren't you?"

In the same moment, Hermione said no and Harry said yes. "Yes," he repeated. "When he tried killing me as a baby, his soul was unstable and a piece of it broke off," he said, touching his scar. "Although by the end I'd learned to close off the connection." He explained how his grief over Dobby's death finally taught him how to seal his mind against Voldemort. "Although Dumbledore would have called it love."

"Your dominant Light characteristic," she said admiringly.

"Er, seems like," Harry mumbled.

Next, Jester ran a series of magical tests and diagnostics. Amazingly, she used an instrument to study their Patronuses and, to no one's surprise, Prongs exceeded the device's measurement scale. "Harry, you're truly a Light Arts prodigy," she said, after confirming the reading was accurate. "It's no wonder you were prophesied to defeat a Dark Lord."

Harry smiled weakly, and Hermione suspected he was tired of Jester's praise. "When can we see the Love Room?" she asked. "I'd like to see how it affects my Patronus," she added, secretly hoping to get a better score this time.

"Soon, very soon," said Jester, closing her notebook. "But first, a confession." She looked down at her hands, which were wrinkled and thin. "I'm ill. Very ill, in fact."

The obvious question was "How long?" but Hermione knew better than to ask. "I'm so sorry," she said, "Is there no treatment?"

"For now there are potions, which is why I'm still able to work—without them I'm flat on my back, with no energy at all. But eventually they'll stop working. And the worst part is that it's not terminal." She paused, then said, "I'm currently sixty-six, which means I have plenty of time ahead of me. And I'll be completely exhausted."

A picture formed in Hermione's mind. She won't have any distractions, except for books and the radio, or the occasional visitor, and even those require energy. "So you want Light magic, for the mental benefits?"

"Precisely. I realise death is always an option, but I'd rather find a way to enjoy living. And Light magic would seem to provide that."

"It's not always easy when I'm tired," said Harry. "But you're right—Light magic would definitely help."

Jester nodded, then looked at her hands again. "I'm sure you can guess the problem."

"The Dark Arts," said Harry gently. "You're not the first person I've met with that problem."

"Have you found a solution?"

"Well, no. But I'm still new to all this."

It was odd, Hermione realised, for a witch like Jester to be asking them for help. She was a pure-blood, after all, and she'd probably supported the Ministry during the war. But now, in her hour of need, she was acting as if they were her only hope.

"There's always a chance," said Hermione. "It's mainly a question of training the mind. Are you familiar with concepts from Muggle brain science? Because neuroplasticity–"

"I know about neuroplasticity," said Jester sharply. "But it's much harder for wizards, because I haven't just trained my thoughts—I've trained my magic. I'd practically need to start from scratch if I wanted to unlearn it. And still there'd be no guarantee it would even work." With a huff, she added, "There's a reason the Dark Arts are so popular—they're much more predictable."

"Let's see what happens in the Love Room," said Harry, standing up. "I'll gladly hold your hand, or try to share my experience as much as possible."

"Your wand," said Jester, in almost a whisper. "I know I shouldn't ask."

Harry shook his head. "I'm afraid not. It's nothing personal, I swear. But I had a mishap with a Dark wizard using my wand, and it could have killed him."

Jester closed her eyes heavily. "I understand." She opened a drawer and pulled out a small silver key. "Follow me."

She led them back to the circular room and unlocked a door like all the others. Hermione recalled the first time they saw it, and how they were unable to enter; even Harry's magical knife from Sirius had melted on contact.

Before entering, Jester said, "There's no point telling you what to expect, since experiences vary, even from day to day. I've seen people cry, or go catatonic, and I've heard of couples ripping each other's clothes off."

Harry laughed, but Hermione froze. Obviously she didn't fancy Harry, but he was undeniably fit, and they had a strong connection where Light magic was concerned. Do not lose your head, she silently told herself, and she deliberately brought Ryan to mind.

"Don't start acting like Jamie," she joked. "I have a tall and very possessive boyfriend."

"I survived Ron, didn't I? And don't worry—I'm the good twin, remember?"

Jester opened the door and ushered them into an oval-shaped room with a small fountain at the centre. Hermione expected to be bowled over, but at first she felt nothing. I suppose it's nice, she thought, until she looked at her companions. First was Jester, her face lined with the vestiges of Dark magic. Hermione could see the movement of subtle energy—not with her eyes but with an odd sense of knowing—and she even saw how Jester's thoughts still traced the same constricting pattern.

She uses aversion, thought Hermione, watching the swirling lines of dislike, along with pride in her own magic. No wonder so many pure-bloods scorn Muggles, she thought with dismay.

But the sight of Harry overwhelmed her. As with Jester, she could see the movement of energy, which in Harry's case streamed from the heart. And the groin, she noted with amusement, watching it flow up through his torso. She'd studied enough Light magic to recognise the subtle body, which matched drawings from ancient India. But she also saw the movement of his blood, tracing through his entire form.

"It's your mother's protection," she said, awestruck. At last she understood why Harry had been fated to defeat a Dark Lord: the combination of his mother's sacrifice and his own extraordinary heart was a force beyond imagining.

Meanwhile, he was staring at the fountain. "Is it safe to drink?" he asked Jester.

"No, it's a powerful mind agent. Even the vapours have an effect, as you may have noticed. That's why the room stays locked, since some people find it unbearable."

"It's not unbearable—far from it," murmured Harry, not looking away.

Hermione was almost too mesmerised to speak, but her curiosity prevailed. "Jester, how does it affect you?" she asked, wondering if Dark magic made it unpleasant.

With a slow exhale, Jester said, "Let's just say it's a work in progress. Frankly, if I weren't desperate, I'd never have set foot in here, since I'd heard horror stories. Although I'd describe my first visit as 'challenging' rather than 'excruciating.'"

"But it's better now?"

"It's neutral, which I know is an improvement. Sadly, it's been neutral for a while."

Harry finally turned from the fountain and extended a hand. "Would this help?" he asked.

She took Harry's hand, and Hermione watched the flow of energy between them. Unfortunately, the bright stream from Harry's heart seemed to die midway up Jester's arm. "It tingles a bit in my hand, but then nothing," she said sadly. "That's why I asked for your wand."

In a sequence too fast to follow, Hermione saw Harry's subtle body light up, and his thumb twitched to unholster his wand. "No!" she cried, seizing his hand, and energy rushed through her. Harry turned and their eyes locked, and suddenly nothing else existed: only Harry, herself, and a flood of memories.

"Has anyone seen a toad? Neville's lost one," she announced the first time they'd met. Flash-forward to the Sorting, realising with a thrill they'd be in the same house, followed weeks later by the painful admission she still had no friends. A near-fatal encounter with a troll, then friendship—real friendship!—at last.

Listening to Lavender and Parvati gush endlessly about the Boy-Who-Lived. "Did you see how he held the door for me after class? He's so polite!" They often speculate about who he'll marry one day, fighting over the role of honour until they agree to take turns.

Once, in a burst of annoyance, Hermione said, "You're not even friends with him!" The two girls laughed and said Harry would never be interested in someone as plain and awkward as her. "He'll have his pick of every witch in Britain—why on earth would he want you?"

In the Love Room, gazing at Harry, it all returned to the surface. She'd long since plastered over the wound—"He's like a brother," she'd resolved early on—but there it was, still intact. Not that it ultimately mattered, since she'd fallen in love with Ryan, but her roommates' harsh words still hurt.

Harry also looked stricken, and she vaguely wondered why. "Penny for your thoughts," she said, deliberately using the Muggle saying.

He smiled, and his expression returned to normal. "You know I love you, right? And you as well," he said to Jester. "I'm sorry I can't give you my wand. I truly wish I could."

"That's all right," said Jester, with obvious regret. "But tell me, what are you feeling? Besides the obvious, of course."

"I understand why this room is dangerous," he said, glancing again at the fountain. "I was ready to hand over my wand, simply because you asked. Hermione, how did you stop me so fast?"

"I can see your thoughts," she admitted. "Not literally, but in your subtle body—it's just like those diagrams Davina showed us."

Harry looked down at his torso, as if he might see it himself. "Blimey! Nothing too mortifying, I hope."

She chuckled and said, "I'm sure you'll be shocked to hear you're a Light wizard who's absolutely steeped in love."

"Just my heart, right?" he asked nervously.

"No comment."

Jester asked to take readings, and Hermione was less interested in the results than before. Instead, she watched the interplay of Jester's magic and subtle energy, and an assessment burst from her lips.

"You should cast left-handed," she declared, sounding nearly as bossy as she had as a girl.

"I beg your pardon?" said Jester, clearly taken aback.

"I'm sorry, that just popped out. But I can see it plain as day: whenever you perform magic, you're reinforcing your old thought patterns. Specifically, pride in your magic, and scorn for those who don't have it."

Jester stiffened. "Of course I'm proud of my magic. How else I am supposed to cast?"

"Are you proud of your breathing? What about your ability to read?"

"That's different," said Jester, looking away. The knots of aversion seemed to tighten within her body, and she gripped her wand more firmly. "I already tried casting left-handed. It didn't work."

Harry reached again for Jester's hand—the left one—and stroked it tenderly. "You're just as magical there as anywhere else," he said, looking deep into her eyes.

You devil! thought Hermione, trying not to laugh. He was plainly seducing her and, based on the movement of Jester's energy, it was working. He caressed her palm with his thumb, and colour crept into her pale, withered cheeks.

"What do you want to live for?" he asked in a low voice.

"My husband," she said, lost in his gaze. "Our children, and grandchildren. And I want to keep working—there's still so much to discover. I don't know how long I'll be able, but maybe they'll find a cure ..."

Hermione watched in fascination as Jester's energy seemed to unfurl. Some of it was clearly desire—Good lord, she's sixty-six!—but there was tenderness as well. Heaps of questions sprang to mind, but Hermione kept her mouth shut, trusting Harry to lead. I have my strengths, and Harry has his.

"Use that," he said. "Your love for knowledge. It's not just for you, is it?"

"No. It's for all wizardkind."

"That's brilliant," he murmured, and her cheeks flushed even more. "Do you think you can cast a Lumos?"

She reluctantly let go of his hand and took up her wand. Nothing happened, and Hermione suspected she was trying to cast wordlessly, as any adult would do.

After a minute, Jester twisted her mouth and said, "Oh, sod it. Lumos."The tip of her wand lit up, and she rolled her eyes. "Back to square one. This should keep me busy for a while."

"Practice in here," said Harry, and she nodded like an obedient child. She attempted a few more charms, with mixed success, then resumed taking measurements.

"You're both clearly Light wizards," Jester said when she was done. "And you've given me plenty to work with. We can leave whenever you like, or wait here until Alistair returns."

They reluctantly returned to the Death Chamber, and Hermione watched Harry's subtle body react to the change of venue. She had no idea how long her new clairvoyance would last, but decided to make the most of it. Unsurprisingly, the light at his heart dimmed as they approached the Veil, and he settled on one of the benches.

"At least I'm not having a panic attack," he said weakly. "That's progress, right?"

"It is. But what are you feeling now?"

"I couldn't even say. This must be what it's like for Jamie—I can remember everything, but it's like it happened to someone else."

They sat for a while in silence, then Hermione said, "That was quite a trick you did with Jester. It was almost like watching Jamie."

"Oh dear—was I inappropriate?"

She smiled and shook her head. "No, you've got a gift. Have you ever considered teaching Light magic after you're done with the Cannons?"

"That's a long way off, I hope. For now it'll just be Patronus lessons—Draco keeps putting it off, but I'll wear him down yet."

"So odd that you're friends now," she said, in an effort to draw him out.

"Yeah, I know. But it feels right somehow. Just like everything we went through felt wrong," he said, gesturing towards the Veil.

"Has he ever apologised?"

"No. He hasn't even thanked me for getting him out of house arrest."

Hermione stared at him. "Are you joking? I was all right with the fact that he's never apologised to me for, well, everything. But he's never even thanked you?"

"He may have thanked me for giving back his wand. But otherwise gratitude isn't his strong point."

"I suppose not. I hope his mother has better manners, although nothing would surprise me from that quarter. She raised him, after all."

"Hermione, don't," said Harry abruptly. "She has apologised—more than once, and I'm sure it was sincere. I realise I'm not an expert on normal relationships, but she feels like family. More than my aunt ever did, certainly." Addressing the stone arch, he said, "Did you hear that, Sirius? I'm completely at ease with Narcissa Malfoy. We even go dancing every fortnight, at a Muggle leisure centre."

There was a loud noise from the dais, and they leapt to their feet, wands raised. "What on earth?" said Hermione, not recognising the man who fell out.

Harry grabbed her arm. "Oh my god, no," he rasped, then Alistair emerged, ghastly pale.

"Sweet Merlin!" exclaimed Tate, rushing forwards. The man seemed disorientated and scrabbled for his wand, which wasn't there.

"No," Harry moaned, and Hermione felt his despair. "No one survives the Veil," he said through ragged breaths.

Tate helped the man up. "It's all right. You're safe," he said, though the man clearly didn't believe him.

"Where's Rookwood? What happened to my wand?" He was looking around frantically, and when he saw Harry and Hermione he drew back. "Impossible!" he cried.

Harry sank back onto the bench, and Alistair was before him in an instant. He placed his hands on Harry's shoulders. "I'm so sorry," he said. "I don't know how he did it, but I had to bring him back."

"Help me," said Harry, barely audible. "Same as before."

With her fading clairvoyance, Hermione watched Alistair dull Harry's pain, then she turned towards the new arrival. So this is Rob Dunning, she thought, overwhelmed both by empathy and awe.