Harry Potter - The Demon Seed

by Hieronymouse

VERY explicit, mainly Hermione-centric, with a slightly different title so I could post it. All our heroes return to Hogwarts, only to find someone who isn't what they seem wants to bring back You-Know-Who. Who is the impostor? Where did they come from? And what does a lesbian urophiliac Hufflepuff have to do with it?

Harry Potter and the Demon Seed

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This fic diverges somewhat from canon since:

a) The Sorting Hat was set ablaze in the last novel, unlike the last movie, and I've decided to remain mostly true to the novels (though the bit where the glass reappears and traps Dudley in the snake enclosure was both hysterical and inspired, and should've been in the first novel, and Hermione admitting she felt good for belting Malfoy was also a classic...and I will never forget Arthur asking seriously about 'the function of a rubber duck'!);

b) Hermione still bears the awful scar Bellatrix gave her in the movie - not canon, but certainly poignant, dramatic and effective, the poor lass;

c) I did love poor Neville's portrayal in the second movie - even then I thought sympathetically, hang in there, Neville, your day will come, and I was right, too, which is why Harry remembers a certain unfortunate incident courtesy of that prat Lockhart (who got his just desserts);

d) All our heroes return to Hogwarts, not just Hermione. I just couldn't write it any other way.

Plus I'd had no idea about this until I read it on the wiki. :)

Who says Harry wouldn't pay back the Dursleys? Lily was always kind and generous, and Harry is as much his mother's son as he is his father's, if not more so. I loved writing Vernon's bit - it made me laugh.

Some spells, curses etc. are my own. I hope I haven't taken too many liberties. This is fanfic, after all.

I'm afraid I've gotten a bit sadistic again, I freely admit it; a similarly perverted character appears in my Next Gen fic, which I'm still working on. But in self-defence, even by the (low) standards of Death Eaters, Bellatrix Lestrange was purely and simply a monster. Her (non-canon) daughter is, if anything, worse.

Ditto for the orgy, but it shows how base and perverted Death Eaters are, something the books and movies didn't make clear.

I'm not sure I'll ever forgive the movie omission of the Quidditch World Cup in Goblet of Fire; I'd have loved to see it being played by professional teams such as Ireland (who, if you'll recall, won by 10 points even though Viktor Krum caught the Snitch) and Bulgaria, rather than students. I would've liked to see the Veelas, too. 😁

Madam Hooch's pedigree? Well, she could have been Muggle-born, and as adept as Hermione. I'm assuming here that she is. So there. 😋

Nancy Friday and her books are in fact real. Look her up on Amazon. Try not to be shocked. 😋

Girls like Carrie White, Hermione and Joanne are unfortunately not rare, a quick Google search tells me. The majority of girls are told by their mothers, often other female relatives and/or friends, about periods - when they start. It's the general medical opinion that girls should be informed beforehand, but in some respects the Grangers are a typical family. Certainly they are here, though Hermione's parents are more open about periods and sex.

I hope the lezzie scenes aren't too explicit; let me know, yeah? But I thought there should be a Harry Potter fanfic dealing with sexuality. I once knew a girl who was the subject of five bets, i.e. her friends tried to guess which of five people - one a girl - she would go home with...and they all won!

Introducing Hagrid (RIP, Robbie) was a real pleasure to write. But he persists in his viewpoint; he's as daft as ever! I couldn't resist the bit with Norberta, it made me laugh!😄

I also loved writing about Hermione's first encounter with Diagon Alley and the Sorting Hat. Of course she would read ahead!

Is Professor Filius Flitwick gay? No idea. For this fic, he is. 😋

Also: Hermione is not gay. Her semi-lesbian scenes were written purely for fun. Girls and women often kiss in my fics. Deal with it. 😋

But seriously, everyone feels affection or even lust for their own gender now and again. I freely admit I have myself - I once saw a bloke with (I thought) a beautiful bum, and I found myself getting a hard-on. I'd always considered myself as strictly hetero, so I was as surprised as anyone.

No, I did not let on. At the time, I kept it to myself. :)

People change more between the ages of 18 and 22 than at any other time in their lives (I certainly did, though I'm 57 now), so I honestly think portraying Hermione, 19, as wavering sexually is realistic. Anyway, even if it isn't, this, again, is fanfic. Please don't shoot me, Joanne. 😋

The Burrow

Early morning, 1st September, 1999

For once the school year started pretty well with Molly's cheerful call upstairs: "Breakfast, darlings, and do have a shower first!"

"Do we have to?" Ron mumbled; he'd never been much of a morning person, unless there was Quidditch practice.

Harry, though, was different. "We were promised, Ron." For once he was cheerful - a normal day at last! He'd spent a while talking to the Ministry of Magic; they'd felt he could understandably do with a rest, but suddenly Albus Dumbledore had appeared in Dilys Derwent's picture frame and taken over the conversation. He'd marshalled such persuasive logic that it now seemed absurd for Harry and the others not to return to Hogwarts (and no-one felt they could or should argue with Albus Dumbledore, even if he was dead!). He was looking forward to it.

So was Hermione; already modestly dressed, as always - not for her the blatant showing of cleavage (not that she had that much, as she was small-breasted), because although she wasn't opposed to the notion per se, Ron might get ideas, and he had plenty already! - she peeked in without knocking and sighed in fond exasperation. Ooh, these two in a morning..."Come on, you two, or you'll never get the shower!"

"What is it Dean says?" Ron moaned. "A lick and a promise? Can't I just use a flannel?"

Hermione was trying not to laugh as she scolded, "Ronald! Your mother will know!"

But Harry was levering himself out of bed; Mrs. Weasley's breakfasts and other meals were to die for.

And at least this time, no-one would be expected to die. Not today. Hopefully not this year.

(It was a forlorn hope, but he didn't know it yet.)

---

"Good morning, dears, oh, Ronald, you do look a mess," Molly fussed when they came downstairs, but she had a kiss on the cheek for everyone and a hug for Hermione as well. She thoroughly approved of their newfound relationship, given Hermione's studious nature ("She's a swot, you mean," Ron risked, and accepted Hermione's indignant swat with good grace). She'd never been much of a student herself, which was why she encouraged her offspring so much in that direction. A lady like Hermione would, she firmly believed, be good for him.

Even if sometimes she isn't so much of a lady, Harry thought, smiling at the memory of Hermione belting Malfoy a good one - and seeing it twice, thanks to the Time-Turner Hermione had requested from the Ministry. "That felt good," she'd admitted, and he'd grinned.

"I don't care what I look like as long as there's sausages," Ron mumbled. Harry, Hermione and Ginny exchanged fond looks; they all knew what Ron was like in the morning, and they loved him anyway. They all gathered at the table and tucked in; Harry was trying tea for once, decided he preferred coffee, and swapped with Hermione, who was following suit in the opposite direction.

She waved her new wand briefly over the cups to remove any possible saliva - she wouldn't have for Ron as they often swapped spit (which she thoroughly enjoyed!) and she wasn't a total stick-in-the-mud, but Harry only smiled. Hermione's parents, returned from Australia, their memories newly and flawlessly restored, were both dentists, so they would have approved. She would happily have followed in their footsteps if not for the whole magic thing. They'd felt privileged to receive the Great Grey owl and its accompanying letter explaining things...

---

The Granger Residence

4th June, 1991

"That explains a few things around the house," her Dad sighed after reading the introductory letter. "I knew I'd fixed the car!"

"I couldn't help it, Daddy!" Hermione protested shrilly. It was true; she seemed to have an unfortunate effect on carburettors. One time the wretched thing had actually vanished. Both he and the mechanic were baffled - carburettors went wrong, yes, but usually they were at least there.

"I know, darling, I know," he smiled, hugging her.

"So much for Eton," her mother groused, not meaning it. In truth she was thrilled for her beloved daughter.

"Mother, I simply can't go to Eton now! What do they know about witchcraft and wizardry?! No, it'll be much safer for me to go to Hogwarts and learn how to control this magic thing." She looked curious. "I wonder how it happened? I mean, neither of you is magical in any way..."

They exchanged glances. It was time to tell her. "Actually, darling," her father admitted, "there is magic on each side of the family, especially the Grangers. But it comes and goes with each generation. Your mother didn't get it, nor did I, but apparently you have - genes are funny things. Likely any children you have will, too."

"Oh," she said, surprised, "I see. Well," she added primly, "I'm far too young to be thinking about children yet, so I'll deal with that when the time comes. If it comes. Are there books I can read?"

Her parents chuckled. They'd raised a positive bookworm and no mistake; one could hardly move in her bedroom for books and her bed was more of an afterthought than anything else...though if she was to learn magic, that would likely be less of a problem, the Ministry restrictions on underage magic notwithstanding (a cousin had once had all sorts of trouble in that regard). "We'll pay a visit to this Diagon Alley," her father suggested, "and see what we can find."

Once they located it, they found it difficult to tear her away; she was fascinated by everything. The proprietor of Flourish & Blotts, Madam Tempest, was delighted to see Muggle parents in her shop for once and, recognising Hermione's studious nature, smiled indulgently. "They're like that from Muggle - that is, non-magical - families," she told them authoritatively. "Does she read?"

"Everything she can get her hands on," her mother said proudly.

"Well, Hogwarts: A History should keep her busy for a start," Madam Tempest decided briskly, "plus the set books for Hogwarts."

That, however, was just the beginning, and she didn't stop there...

Next came her wand; Mr. Ollivander seemed delighted to see her. "Well, well, a Muggle-born," he enthused. "Come in, come in. This, young lady, is where you will find your wand - or to be more accurate, where your wand will find you. The wand chooses the witch or wizard, you see."

"Hello, sir. I'm Hermione Granger. It's a pleasure to meet you. This is a fascinating shop," she said keenly, looking around, "and it smells lovely. Do you use wood a lot?"

"Such charming manners," he smiled. "Most witches and wizards are pure-bloods - that is, they come from magical families - or half-bloods, who have but one magical parent. You, I see, are entirely Muggle-born, a welcome rarity." He paused, and added distastefully, "There are less complimentary epithets, but I will not speak them here. To answer your question: yes, indeed, a wand is always fashioned from the living wood. There are many different woods which may be used."

"Even rowan?" she asked. "I read somewhere it's always been used for magic in England and Wales." The Dark Is Rising, that is.

Ollivander frowned. "Well, this may be true of the Muggle world, but for true magical practitioners rowan wands are rare. Powerful, yes - rowan was used long ago to craft Weapon Wands; these were employed in the use of, shall we say, more...deadly spells. Nowadays it is not necessary; tamer woods are used, enhanced by the core materials." He gazed at her, and she knew this was a test. "Do you know what those are?"

She nodded; she'd skimmed through the set books, and would read them more thoroughly at home. "Heartstrings of dragons - do they really exist? - phoenix feathers and unicorn hairs." She'd been delighted to learn, from a cursory peek at Newt Scamander's Fantastic Beasts And Where To Find Them, that such supposedly mythical creatures as phoenixes and unicorns really did exist and, moreover, were as beautiful as legend had it. She was so looking forward to meeting a unicorn.

She knew from her parents about the birds and the bees, even at eleven and three quarters, because her periods had started some months ago and they'd explained what was happening and why. To her joy and relief, she wasn't dying, she wasn't even ill.

---

The Granger Residence

Two months after Hermione's eleventh birthday

She'd panicked at first, going straight to her Mum in tears, thinking worriedly but understandably that she was ill and apologising abjectly for staining her knickers red. Instead Mum, bless her, congratulated Hermione on becoming a woman, rather than scolding her, and hugged her reassuringly. Dad, too, knew a few things about it. Together they told her everything she would need to know, from why boys were different to the new, strange but wonderful sensations she would feel from time to time.

"So it's okay?" Hermione gasped in surprise and delight.

Her Mum laughed gently. "Of course it is, darling. If anything it's good news. Oh, we'll need to replace those knickers and buy you some tampons, and perhaps we should have your GP examine you just in case, but that's of no consequence, honestly. It's far more important that you're perfectly fine, darling. And you are, don't worry."

"We should've told you years ago," her Dad admitted sheepishly. "That was a mistake. We can't apologise enough." He looked wry. "Even with a new book or three."

"Does a period...hurt?" Hermione asked in a small voice.

Her Mum gazed fondly at her daughter and confessed, "Sometimes it does. On my side of the family we're lucky, our periods are usually quite light. Now and again, though, we do get bad cramps. There are pills, they help. It's the price women pay for," she hugged Hermione again, "all the joys that come with bearing and raising a child. Having periods - entering puberty - means that you can get pregnant. Oh, not yet," she hastily added, "you're too young yet! But at least it's possible."

Relentlessly logical as always (while thrilled that she wasn't ill or in trouble), she asked quietly, "If it's so wonderful, why didn't you do it more than once? Why didn't you have more children?"

Her mother sighed sadly. "Darling, think back. When you were two or so I had to go into hospital, do you remember?"

"Vaguely," she nodded.

"Well, sometimes things go wrong, and sadly they did. I had to have a hysterectomy. That means the doctors...took out my womb. So I can't have any more children. Not naturally, anyway."

"Oh," Hermione murmured. She realised guiltily that she'd raised an issue Mum would rather forget. "I'm so sorry, Mum."

But Mum hugged and kissed her. "Oh, that's quite alright, darling, it wasn't your fault. And at least I did have a child - a wonderful, clever, beautiful child," she added, smiling through her obvious tears. "You've been a pleasure to raise, and quite a lovely surprise, too - Granger children normally aren't so studious, the way we were. Welcome to womanhood, and I hope you'll give us grandchildren in time, when you meet that special someone, and I know they'll be as beautiful as you are. We love you very much, Hermione."

"We always have and we always will," her Dad affirmed gently.

The heartfelt declaration moved her to tears, and she hugged them both tightly. "I've never doubted it. I love you, too," she sobbed happily.

They told her about breasts, armpit and pubic hair (making it her choice as to what to do about it, pointing out that some women didn't shave their armpits, "and that's quite alright, darling, that's their choice, just as it's yours"), and (trying their best not to blush) about sex - what it was, how good it could be, and how and even why it was done, namely for progeny, for pleasure and for love. Mum even explained gently about female masturbation - what it was, how natural and healthy it was, and why she might want to do it, "in private, darling," her Mum emphasised.

"Do you do it?" Hermione wondered, startled.

The frank answer nearly shocked her. "Hermione, except perhaps for nuns, every woman does it." She glanced at her grinning husband. "Though quite often your father and I do it for each other, for mutual pleasure. Yes, boys and men can do something like it, too."

A little embarrassed, Hermione admitted primly, "I'm not sure I want to know." They laughed fondly.

They were quite right, though; over the coming months she would, quite privately, do it at least twice a day, sometimes more. An orgasm felt lovely.

---

From what she'd been told she knew she was a virgin...but she felt an almost sexual quiver at the idea of meeting a unicorn. She'd read in a Muggle book (she was rapidly learning the terminology she would need) about unicorns and virgins, and she'd been quite unable to stop herself giggling.

"Quite right, well done," Mr. Ollivander nodded now, "clearly a studious young lady, wouldn't be at all surprised if you ended up in Ravenclaw. There are four Houses at Hogwarts, you see -"

"Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff and Slytherin," she recited from memory, "named after the founders. They each take students according to their nature."

"Yes, yes, you have read up on it, haven't you? Definitely Ravenclaw," he approved. "Now then..." He measured her up, though she had no idea what this had to do with wands, and continued, "Let's see...vine wood, I think. Ten and three-quarter inches, reasonably flexible, heartstring of Antipodean Opaleye, an uncommon breed. A useful wand for both Charms and Transfiguration, as you shall see. Well, go on, wave it."

She did, and was startled to see a profusion of red and gold sparks jetting from the end. "Ooh! I think it likes me!" she cried happily.

This was curious indeed, he thought. A witch who could feel her wand, even if she didn't realise it...even Ravenclaws were not so wise, or so open to the new and the different.

A Gryffindor, perhaps? We'll see. Certainly the colours of the sparks were indicative...

But the wand and the new witch clearly suited each other; the young lady was quite right, it did like her. She happily paid seven gold Galleons, thanked him politely and went on her way.

At Hogwarts, the Sorting Hat had a surprise for her.

"Granger, Hermione," the strict, clever Professor McGonagall read out, and she made her way nervously to the Sorting Stool. But a very old man with the most incredible white beard smiled kindly at her, and she was much reassured, liking him on sight. That must be Professor Dumbledore, the Headmaster, she guessed correctly. She sat down, and the Hat was placed on her head.

A voice with a refined accent spoke in her ear. "Right, yes, let's see. Oh, a Muggle-born, that makes a nice change. Mmm, you've been reading a lot, as you do...Ravenclaw would be the obvious choice, I think. Very studious, aren't you?"

"I try," she answered. She'd always done extremely well in school, despite the usual label of 'swot '.

"Yes, the clever, bookish sort usually go to Ravenclaw. They have a saying -"

"Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure," Hermione recited.

"Oh, yes, very good! It's their house motto, you know, inscribed on the lost Ravenclaw Diadem, and you do know, don't you? Yes, you've prepared, much more than students usually do. Be Prepared, eh?" the Hat joked, but she knew it wasn't mocking her, though she had been a Girl Guide...until that unfortunate fight with Betty Edwards. The first punch - and it was a punch - was thrown by Hermione.

She'd clearly been in the right, and even the Troop Leader had said so, but Girl Guides weren't expected to argue or fight, and so they were both expelled, though the Troop Leader had sounded sorrowful as she said it, to Hermione at least. She'd cried that night; she'd loved the Girl Guides. She still missed them.

"So should I be in Ravenclaw, then?" she asked.

Now came the surprise; the Hat didn't reply straight away for well over two minutes.

Partway through this, she inquired uncertainly, "Um...hello?"

"Still here," the Hat answered thoughtfully, "still thinking..."

"Oh, well, do try to be quick, won't you?"

"No rush, dear, no rush, but it'll be for seven years, so I have to get it right. I'm not going anywhere until I determine where you're going."

"Oh," she replied, subdued.

Finally it said slowly, "Mmm...normally I'd say Ravenclaw, yes, like a shot...but you're a hard worker, too, aren't you? Of course that'd be expected at a Muggle school like Eton - high standards, they have, so I gather from young Justin Finch-Fletchley, and quite right, too...but hard workers usually go to Hufflepuff here, just as Helga was. Mmm. Which quality is uppermost? Where to put you...? Oh - oh, that's interesting...a distinct streak of bravery, do I see? Yes, yes, and it's strong, too, yes, very strong, and clearly dominant - hidden at first by your intelligence, but now I see it...

"Mmm, you weren't in the least bit afraid to stand up to that awful Edwards girl, and, oh my, she was a year older and five inches taller, wasn't she? But that didn't stop you...left her with a bloody nose, didn't you?" it said almost admiringly.

"Well, she was wrong! I had to do something, she wouldn't listen to reason!" Hermione protested.

But the Hat only chuckled. "And you were right, too. Determined to defend your viewpoint, and in the right, even though it cost you. A shame it devolved into a scuffle, but even old Godric knew, even as a child, that sometimes there really is no other way...yes...well, you were nearly a Hatstall, but, yes, it's quite clear now...GRYFFINDOR!" the Hat cried out aloud. Not quite a Hatstall, as Professor McGonagall explained later, some sixty-eight seconds short - Hermione knew what the Hat had meant from Hogwarts: A History.

"I, too, nearly went to Ravenclaw," she confided, "but after some five and a half minutes the Hat put me in Gryffindor - where, Miss Granger, you will be most welcome," she finished with - almost - a smile.

As many would later learn, it suited Hermione extremely well. The Hat was, once again, quite right...

---

Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions

28th August, 1999

Though she was delighted to see them (and, like most of the wizarding world, immensely grateful), Madam Malkin fussed over the fitting for their school robes. "I've never had to make robes for eighth-years before, you know." She tutted over Hermione's figure. "Last time I saw you, young lady, you hadn't much up top, or hip-wise, and now look at you! And you," she added to Ron, "you've gotten tall! Ridiculous! If it weren't for the Ministry dispensation..."

"Sorry," Hermione giggled, "I take a small B-cup now. It happens when a girl's nearly nineteen."

But the woman sighed fondly and smiled at them. "Only joking, darlings. Without you...well." She shivered, then smiled again. "Good riddance, I say! Right, then, let's see...free or not, they have to fit - oh, no, no," she added firmly over Hermione's protests, "on the house, I absolutely insist! You," she addressed Ron, "saved a cousin of mine in the Battle, so I absolutely won't hear of you paying! That s final!"

"Nice one, Ron!" Ginny grinned; she and Luna were there for moral support, plus Xenophilius now had an official printing press for the Quibbler and his daughter was visiting. He had been exonerated by the Ministry; whilst Harry and the others talked with him, he'd clearly been acting under duress, as his daughter calmly insisted. Her disarming honesty made her status as a kidnap victim abundantly clear.

"Oh, yes," she nodded, "I was kidnapped off the train, and I was probably going to be tortured to death by Bellatrix - they were threatening Daddy, and I think they meant it." For once she frowned. "She wasn't quite right, was she?"

"More like bloody mad, I'd have said," a Ministry official managed, utterly nonplussed at Luna's laissez-faire attitude towards torture and murder. Harry, trying his best not to laugh, knew they'd never encountered anyone remotely like Loony Lovegood. Her entertainment value was immense, and she was a dear friend - and an ace witch to have at your back in a firefight. Few people would cast defensive spells whilst smiling, but she did.

And she never missed. Her aim was deadly. At least three Death Eaters never saw Azkaban thanks to her.

One, in fact, was behind her, on a broom - and she hadn't even seen him. As the Stunning curse, aimed backwards, knocked him off his broom and he fell, breaking his neck, Harry was startled to see her turn, smile and say vaguely, "I thought he'd be there."

The Prophet reporter was stunned, but Harry had seen it, and said so.

The Ministry official didn't quite know what to make of her - then again, who did? - but her testimony was undeniable, and so Xenophilius was found not guilty and released without charge. It turned out his biggest concern was how his Dirigible Plums were doing.

"Plums," the official said incredulously, shaking his head in bafflement.

Harry and his friends laughed hysterically. Luna smiled in a vague and pleasant way.

They received a bushel of fresh plums the next day, and laughed anew. Molly made a kind of fruit stew; they actually tasted quite nice. "They're not to everyone's taste, it's true," Molly reckoned, finishing hers, "but these are definitely at their best - I wouldn't expect anything else from the Lovegoods, they're such dears," she finished fondly.

---

Bill and his ("Expectant!" he grinned proudly) wife Fleur paid a visit the day before they left for Hogwarts. She was delighted to see them, and they her. "Charmant, tres charmant, mes excellents amis," she beamed, hugging them. They could clearly see that, yes, Fleur had a little baby bump, and the ladies in particular were ecstatic.

"You know what the Hat will say when he or she goes to Hogwarts - 'Ah! Another Weasley!'" Ron joked.

There was fond laughter. Even Ginny, who hadn't liked Fleur much at first, was delighted at the prospect of a niece or nephew (Victoire was first, and sure enough the Hat sent her straight to Gryffindor).

Harry remembered the tense night they'd had soon after Bill had been savaged by Fenrir Greyback...

---

The Burrow

Midnight, two nights after Greyback's attack

"There's no need for this nonsense, my Bill is not a werewolf!" Molly snapped.

The Ministry official, Thelonius Fabre, sighed. "Mrs. Weasley, we're taking precautions, as I explained. Now it's true that Bill was bitten by a werewolf who was not in his transformed state, so I grant that it is unlikely he will change...but even you will admit that it is not impossible. The situation is almost unprecedented - and in the unlikely event he does change, it's best to get a handle on it as soon as possible, for his sake as well as that of his family. The Werewolf Support Services staff are here to help."

"But -"

He looked pained. "I would rather not do this, but we have no choice. We must expose him to moonlight under carefully controlled conditions, just in case," he emphasised that last.

"Non!" Fleur cried fiercely, and grasped her beloved Bill's arm protectively. "Even if 'e is a werewolf, I do not care! I love 'im! Je l'aime toujours!" she declared fiercely. The two Aurors present looked sympathetic, one near tears. While their job of subduing Changed victims was a necessary one, they hated it.

"I know," Thelonius replied gently, apparently understanding her French, "and I don't doubt your sincerity for an instant, mademoiselle. But the law of this land states that we must be sure. In either event, Bill will not be harmed, I promise you; the Aurors are here to subdue him should he change, not to hurt him. They are highly trained and very professional, and they care. Please stand back from him. Please."

Fleur looked as if she would refuse, but Bill kissed her and said softly, "They're right, love. It'll be fine." She reluctantly nodded, crying, and slowly moved away.

"Merci tres beaucoup, mademoiselle," Thelonius said. "Right. Aurors ready?" They confirmed it, aiming their wands. "Wolfsbane Potion?"

"Here," Arthur replied, holding up the goblet.

"Very well. Bill, on my command, please step into the moonlight. I shall watch you closely for signs of change. Ready?"

Bill nodded determinedly. Harry and the others held their breath.

"Now," Thelonius said softly. With that, Bill stepped forward and the moonlight illuminated his face.

The witnesses watched carefully. Nothing seemed to happen.

After a minute Molly demanded, "Well?"

Thelonius exhaled. "Normally it would happen straight away, I've seen it. Sandra, what do you think?"

The last woman, Sandra Wilcox, staying carefully out of the moonlight (though she had, of course, taken Wolfsbane Potion as usual and in case of accidents), growled, "Having been bitten by Greyback myself when I was eight, I'd say I'm the expert...and you're worrying over nothing. Oh, there are minor changes - his hair and nails seem a little longer, and his eyes are a bit more yellow - but Bill, what do you think? What do you feel?"

"I could murder a raw steak," Bill quipped, and the tension broke with a laugh.

"You see, there ees nothing wrong with 'im!" Fleur gushed, as relieved as anyone, and hugged him. "If my Bill would like a raw steak, zen a raw steak 'e will 'ave, avec le plus grand plaisir, mon amour!"

There were cheers, and the Ministry team congratulated Bill ("A true Gryffindor," one complimented him). Molly didn't hold a grudge.

"Just in case, eh?"

"In ninety-nine near misses out of a hundred, it is unnecessary," Thelonius admitted. "But we can never tell which case will be the hundredth. Better safe than sorry, eh? At least now we know for certain: Bill has been peripherally affected, to a very minor extent, but he is definitely not a werewolf. You, your family and - mmm, she's lovely, isn't she? - the young lady are all perfectly safe."

"Well, alright," Molly conceded, shaking his hand.

Harry and his friends were still celebrating when she ordered, "Right, off you go to bed - don't argue, Ronald! Or you, Ginny! Bed!" Then she smiled kindly at Harry. "You do need your sleep, dear, so off you go. Good night."

Mock grumbling, they went. They'd never had any doubts, but it was really nice to know for certain Bill was okay.

---

As usual, Hermione had her nose in a book; this time it was Wandlore And Wand-Making, by George Samuel Ollivander, Garrick's great-great-grandfather. In her other hand she held her new wand, presented to her in its case with some ceremony by a house-elf by the name of Gonni. "My master, Mr. Ollivander, required me to deliver your new wand, Miss Granger," the elf had announced three days ago on his appearance. "There is a period of transition in becoming accustomed to a new wand; I understand your last one was...unsuitable," he finished tactfully.

Harry wondered about the legality of it; apparently Hermione was rubbing off on him. "What about Clause Three?"

"I am not carrying the wand so much as delivering it; I came straight here from Master Ollivander's shop. Apparating was quicker and more secure than delivery by owl. If there is a violation, it is only for the few seconds it takes to hand over the wand to its new owner."

"It's good to be concerned, Harry, but the Clause isn't taken that seriously by anyone other than the Ministry - it's not as if Gonni intends to use it." She sobered. "Besides, I do need it. I'm still trying to forget the last one." Hermione shivered at the awful memory. The walnut wand had belonged to the late, unlamented Bellatrix Lestrange, and she'd hated it. It felt too much like her. But the new wand was much like her old one, much friendlier, and custom-made. Gonni was pleased to instruct her in its use, and she was delighted by how well they suited each other. The wand seemed almost...eager.

"Still getting used to it, I need the practice," she informed them airily now, and they all knew what that meant: a stickler for perfection, she and the wand were 99.9% ready for Hogwarts, not quite 100%, but they certainly would be by the time she arrived. "It was really nice of Mr. Ollivander to send his house-elf with it," she smiled at Gonni, who tipped a funny little hat, smiled back and vanished. "Vine wood again, quite firm, ten and five-eighths inches - just a little bit shorter than the old one - with heartstring of Hebridean Black, this time."

"Ooh, bit stroppy, those, Charlie says," Ron cautioned. Charlie had worked a lot with dragons, so he would know.

"True, but they make really good wands," Hermione said proudly. "It was free, too." They all knew why, of course; Garrick Ollivander owed his sanity and/or his life to Hermione and her friends, and a wand cost only a few Galleons anyway. But every little helped.

"He remembers every wand he ever sold," Harry recalled, "so he'll remember your old one. Couldn't he just make the new one the same way?"

Hermione looked at him severely. "Well, of course he could. But he's a craftsman, Harry,not a production line, you can't expect him to repeat. Besides, every wand is unique, so I wouldn't get quite the same results if he remade my old wand. It wouldn't be as good, honestly." She looked sheepish now. "Um, it's in the book, and that's how I know." She chuckled at the old-fashioned look Harry cast towards Ron: here she goes again!

"It was a pleasure to construct, an even greater pleasure to send, and I am sure it will suit you well, dear lady," the note with it said, smiling.

He'd been right, too; the wand chooses the wizard or witch, and this one had apparently chosen her with no small degree of enthusiasm. In no time she was casting spells delightedly, all the old favourites. She'd had to tone down the fire-creating spell quite a bit, though; the wand was a tad...overzealous at times. To be more accurate, the first time she cast the spell with the new wand she was shocked to discover it was too close to Fiendfyre for her liking, burning far too fiercely, and her friends burst out laughing.

"Oops, I've overdone it! Oh, goodness, that's really fierce, isn't it!"

"That'll be the core," Harry told her; he'd read a bit about wandlore, too, and had found it fascinating, the way different materials came together to focus and direct the magic, some working better than others. The current wands were the result of centuries of research and experience. The Ollivanders were considered the best, and Garrick the best of those. His probable successor, his son Arthur, was doing very well, researching new materials; he believed bone might be the next in thing. Never metal, though; a wand had to live. Wood was always the basis of a wand.

Harry grinned; it was nice to see Hermione casting an imperfect spell for once. "I'd better use Aguamenti on that fire." He did, and the fire was soon out. Hermione smiled her thanks, and studied her wand ruefully. It seemed to snigger.

"Don't tell Malfoy you're nearly casting Fiendfyre, he'll pitch a fit!" Ron quipped merrily, and even Hermione saw the funny side of it.

Gonni, who'd been taught a few things about wandlore (in accordance with Ministry rulings he was permitted only to offer advice on wands and never, ever to use or even touch one), put her straight; the core was indeed responsible for the wand's...exuberant behaviour.

Wands made with heartstring of Hebridean Black were more powerful than the norm owing to the fiery temper of the dragons in question; the old wand had had heartstring of Antipodean Opaleye, a more amenable breed. Once Hermione understood this she was able to reduce the intensity of the spell, and soon her fires were burning in a much more controllable manner.

"Thank heavens for that!" all three of them burst out in unintended synchrony, and laughed as they realised. Gonni merely smiled indulgently; wizards and witches sometimes had strange ways, he understood. These wand-carriers, though, had together destroyed the Dark Lord, He Whose Name Was Often Still Not Mentioned Even Though He Was Dead. Master Ollivander had commanded him in no uncertain terms to accommodate the lady in whatever fashion was required, and he was glad to do it even without such firm orders.

Especially since she had fought, sometimes literally, for the rights of elves. Thanks to Ministry legislation, their lives were now much easier; for the most part they were treated as servants rather than slaves.

Some, like Gonni, were even paid.

"One day at a time, " Hermione said.

"Sweet Jesus," Harry quipped.

Hermione giggled, then both laughed at Ron's nonplussed expression. He tended to have it whenever his two best friends shared a Muggle joke. She took pity on him (while still laughing) and explained who Meriam Bellina was.

"Sort of the Muggle version of Celestina Warbeck?" he hazarded.

"Not...exactly," Harry grinned, while Hermione laughed harder.

---

Platform 9¾

10:50 am

There was an extremely pleasant surprise on the platform: a grinning Rubeus Hagrid. "Alri', Harry?" he boomed.

"Hagrid!" Hermione squealed delightedly, and they all hugged him (not difficult, given the size of him). "Oh, it's wonderful to see you again!" she cried happily.

"Ar, an' 'ow's my favourite Muggle-born, eh?" Hagrid ruffled her bushy hair fondly.

"I'm very well, thank you, and looking forward to this year," she bubbled.

"I never thought I'd be seein' yeh all back at 'Ogwarts, what wi' all tha' fuss! An' special dispensation from the Ministry, no less!" he beamed.

"How are you getting on the train?" Ron wondered. It seemed impossible.

"Oh, I'm not, goin' to be Apparatin' wi' a friend later," he answered merrily. "They've finished rebuildin', didn' take long wi' the help o' magic."

"Are you still teaching Care of Magical Creatures, Hagrid?" Harry grinned at the sight of his biggest friend.

"Aye, that I am, an' this year we're expandin', got some great new creatures," he exclaimed proudly, "even a dragon, wouldja believe! Charlie Weasley popped in for a visit, an' he brought Norberta with 'im - turns out she's stayin', Harry, the Head sez she's gonna be our new guard dragon, ain't no Death Eater gonna get past 'er! An' she's appointed me as 'er keeper, on account o' she knows me! Great, isn' it?!" he enthused, grinning broadly.

The three exchanged glances. They'd always loved Hagrid, still did, and never was there a more enthusiastic teacher of the subject; Newt Scamander would've been proud. But they'd never quite seen eye-to-eye with his (or Newt's) somewhat skewed viewpoint; they persisted in referring to the most terrifying monsters known to wizardry as 'interesting creatures'. Hagrid had kept an Acromantula as a pet in his third year, and wrestled werewolf cubs. He'd even tried to raise a dragon in a wooden house, a foolish venture at best if ever there was one.

You had to love him, though.

He waved cheerily to them as the train departed for Hogsmeade.

---

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry

The Great Hall, that evening

Everyone present knew Professor Minerva McGonagall, of course, even the apprehensive first-years.

Since Albus Dumbledore's tragic death at the hands of Severus Snape (though persistent rumour had it that he was in fact dying anyway and his death was actually part of his plan) and the ignominious abdication of the latter, she had been serving as the Headmistress of Hogwarts. Not everyone in the Ministry of Magic was keen on the idea given her irascible attitude, but the Minister, one Kingsley Shacklebolt, had insisted on ratifying her appointment.

"Besides," he'd quipped to some of the younger members, "you all remember her from Hogwarts, I'm sure. Would you argue with her?"

---

Ministry of Magic, Minister's Office

Three days after the Battle of Hogwarts

(and two days after the wild celebrations, which even Muggles noticed!)

One minister, Daniel McBride, had tried...briefly. "Albus was well-known as, ah, eccentric," he began feebly, "and so -"

"McBride, you were an indifferent student at best in your mis-spent time at Hogwarts - particularly in Transfiguration as I recall - and I see little has changed!" she snapped (and the note-takers, both women, tried, not very hard, not to giggle). "Had he possessed ambitions in that direction, Albus would have become the Minister of Magic and the question, such as it is, would not arise!"

"There is no question, Minerva," Kingsley intoned in his slow, deep voice. "I for one can think of no better candidate."

"Hah! Sense at last!" she observed triumphantly, but he didn't miss her sly wink.

And that, as they say, was that.

---

Some of the seventh-year students, however, seemed a tad out of place...because they were a year older than they should have been. The same was true of at least two former sixth-year students newly admitted to the seventh year, one in Gryffindor, the other in Ravenclaw.

The Ministry had recognised the...unusual circumstances they'd faced in their final/sixth year and had granted them special dispensation to retake their final year, or actually take it in the first place. Besides, the notion of Harry Potter, Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley not attending Hogwarts was simply out of the question; it was the least the Ministry could do.

After all, they'd saved the world. They'd put an end to Voldemort, a.k.a. Tom Marvolo Riddle.

And no-one, absolutely no-one, would dare argue with Molly Weasley - not after she'd single-handedly destroyed Bellatrix Lestrange in a climactic, legendary duel to the death. Songs were being sung about it. Essays and treatises were written. The account was now required reading for seventh-year students and/or postgraduates; the Standard Book of Spells, Grade 7 had been hurriedly updated. MACUSA, Beauxbatons, Durmstrang and the Daily Prophet were positively raving about it.

All Molly said was: "That's what you get for trying to hurt my little girl!"

The Sorting with the Hat (somehow unscathed even though Voldemort had set it on fire) took place. Towards the end, Harry smiled when one particular girl with an expression of utter mischief put on the Hat (after the Headmistress had read out, "Wright, Ann," and a little voice had piped up cheekily, "That's Anne, with an 'e', Professor!", earning a mild glare), and immediately it actually said out loud for once, "Well, you're a troublemaker and no mistake, you little rascal, so the only place for you is SLYTHERIN!" The girl took off the Hat and ran to her table, giggling.

That had to be Ian Wright's daughter, Harry thought fondly. 'A little terror', he'd said she was, and Harry could well believe it. He had a feeling she'd be an inveterate practical joker - lots of havoc, mayhem and mischief in a small, giggling curly-haired brunette package.

Over the next few months, he was proven right. Very demonstrably right.

Unusually for a Slytherin, Anne had no malice in her...only an overabundance of cheek. She was especially skilled in Transfiguration; Professor McGonagall would often say in the staff room, "A precocious but adept student...if only she would behave," she would then sigh. The other teachers, holding similar views and knowing how bright the child was, would chuckle ruefully.

(Though there was some initial concern about Anne entering Slytherin, as she was a half-blood, she quickly proved herself very capable of self-defence - whether with magic, with her acerbic tongue...or with practical revenge jokes. Filch, who'd seen precocious students like her before - namely and most notoriously the Weasley twins - moaned, "Oh, Gawd, not another one!"

Harry and his friends laughed. Anne continued with her practical jokes, even on Slytherins. Horace sighed, "I really don't know what to do with her. A class clown she is, yes, to the bone - but she has more points to her credit than taken from her, and she's very bright." He managed a chuckle. "She certainly brightens things up here!"

Upon hearing about her, Snape's only comment was: "Are you quite sure she is not Fred Weasley somehow reincarnated?")

The Headmistress gave them a short speech, welcoming the first-years, assuring them sternly that nonsense of any sort would not be tolerated under her aegis (Anne, giggling, thought: "We'll soon see about that!") and that the Forbidden Forest was still living up to its name, and finishing with:

"You may note our somewhat distinguished students who are a year older than the norm. They are the Heroes and Heroines of Hogwarts, however much they dislike the title." She looked especially stern. "You will show them the respect which is their due. You may be very sure I shall hear from the house-elves or the Prefects if you do not. Indeed, one is a Prefect, and another is Head Girl," she added, looking proudly at Hermione.

She continued: "Without them, without their bravery, initiative and dogged determination, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry would no longer even exist in its current form. They have done more for this school than anyone else, with the possible exception of Albus Dumbledore, since its creation more than a thousand years ago. Modest they are to a fault -"

"Speak for yourself," Ron quipped, to laughter.

"- but the fact remains. True, they are not demigods, nor should you treat them as such. Nevertheless you will respect them." She cleared her throat. "One final matter before our banquet commences: I should like to welcome a new teacher in our midst, one Peregrine Greythorne, late of the Auror Office; he shall be teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts at Beginner, Intermediate and Advanced levels."

There was polite applause as Greythorne stood...and stood. He was some two metres in height and not slightly built with it. His craggy face looked as if it'd been assembled from assorted bits by a nervous first-year who wasn't all that sure of what he was doing, though he was not unhandsome despite his scars. His hair was midnight black, his eyes a clear grey, his nose reasonably straight and patrician; he looked fortyish, though in this case looks were deceptive - he was actually ninety-six.

He rumbled, "Thank you, Professor. I am well aware that this post was jinxed by Voldemort -" he waited patiently for the shocked gasps to subside, "- when he was refused it, but for one thing he is dead, and for another," he smiled grimly, "you will find it takes considerably more than a mere jinx to put off one such as me." He maintained the grin. "To put it simply, I am not going anywhere. The Ministry in its wisdom has seen fit to place me in this post, and thus in this post I shall remain unless and until I am officially removed. Which is not going to happen.

"So," and now his grin turned merry, "you're stuck with me!"

Except for Hermione and Harry, the students and even some of the teachers laughed. He sat, and the Headmistress declared, "Let the Feast begin!" With that, the five tables were laden with the most delectable food, courtesy of the busy house-elves (even Winky, who had sobered up, gone clean and was now happily serving Hogwarts; apparently she was a whiz with a dishcloth).

The students and teachers tucked in, and Ron said past a chicken leg, "What's wrong, you two?"

Hermione sighed, mildly exasperated. She loved Ron to bits, she'd loved him for years, but he could be so dense at times. "Ron, Professor Greythorne is not here just to teach. He's come here straight from the Ministry. From the Auror Office, no less. So what does that mean?"

Ron shrugged. "Means they're taking the subject seriously for once, and thanks to Kingsley they've put someone there who knows exactly what he's doing - someone who's actually fought Dark wizards. Works for me." He finished the leg with relish and started on another.

She sighed again. On the face of it her boyfriend was quite right; the subject was vital and thus should be taught by someone experienced - and who better than a former Auror, who had actually used the defensive spells he would teach? But she knew the Ministry and knew there was more to his appointment than that.

So did Harry, who was tucking into a delicious steak pie. A Hogwarts spread was always first-class; the house-elves really knew their stuff - especially Kreacher, who'd been delighted to join them (and Harry was sure from the unusual but tasty tang that he'd had a hand in baking this brilliant pie). "Mmm, yeah. Ron, Hermione's saying he's here for a reason. Want to guess what it is?"

Now Ron sighed. Despite what his friends might think, he wasn't stupid. A bit slow on the uptake sometimes, okay, but he knew what they meant. "He's here to protect you, isn't he?"

"Oh, now he gets it," Hermione groused, but not without a fond look. She was pleased to see the banquet included more exotic dishes such as bouillabaisse (more of Kreacher's handiwork, no doubt, but she liked it and so she wasn't about to complain).

"Yeah, but from what, though?" Ron inquired reasonably. "The main man -"

"You can say his name now he's dead, Ronald!"

"Fine - Voldemort is dead and gone, so what's the problem?" he asked. "I reckon the Ministry's got the wrong end of the stick. Wouldn't be the first time, would it?" he pointed out acerbically.

He had a point, they knew - Harry had once been considered an Undesirable, among other things. But Harry wasn't so sure Ron was right, not with someone as competent and sensible as Kingsley in charge. "There's still the Death Eaters."

"Dead or in Azkaban," Ron shrugged.

"Not all of them," Harry demurred quietly, "and a few of them were nearly as bad as him."

"Well, alright," Ron conceded, "but without him - alright, without Voldemort - they're nothing really, are they?"

"The Ministry doesn't think so," Hermione murmured, sure of herself and her facts, "and that's why he's here."

---

Unfortunately she was absolutely correct. At another table, whilst relishing filleted salmon, a certain student watched her carefully but unobtrusively out of the corner of one eye.

Better watch her. She's clever, so she's a danger to the Plan. Not, the figure giggled to itself, that that'll stop me!

The salmon was truly delectable.

---

Advanced Defence Against the Dark Arts

9 am the next day

As they took their seats, Professor Greythorne surprised them by saying, "I will not be taking a register. Anyone who should be here had better be, and I know who should be here. I will rely simply on Miss Granger's prodigious memory - is everyone here who should be, Hermione?"

Hermione looked quickly around the class. "Yes, sir, and no-one is here who shouldn't be, either." Ginny and Luna had been excused their sixth-year exams - their performance in the Battle of Hogwarts was considered more than sufficient coverage (particularly as they were both underage at the time) and the Minister had insisted. Professor McGonagall had heartily agreed, and so both went on to their final year. "That's nice," Luna had commented vaguely, smiling. As always she was off with the fairies, but Ginny had only chuckled and thanked them.

"As I already knew," Greythorne nodded, "but it never hurts to test a student's powers of observation. Very good, Miss Granger - five points to Gryffindor." He looked at the class. "I need hardly point out that this is your final and by far the most important year of study."

"Why bother, then?" Ron wisecracked.

Greythorne frowned. "Five from Gryffindor for cheek, Weasley - but five back because you have a point," he allowed. "I am firm but fair, as you will see. This last year will be by far the most intense, and it will be primarily practical - which does not mean you may neglect your study of the theory," he sternly added. "The sad truth is that there are still Dark wizards and witches at large, and you may need to defend yourselves and/or loved ones, or even Muggles, from them. I shall teach you, therefore, from my experience.

"Now," he continued, "some of you will of course require less education than others, because you have actually faced Dark wizards and witches in combat. I look particularly to: Mr. Harry Potter; Miss Hermione Granger; Mr. Ronald Weasley; Miss Ginevra Weasley; Mr. Neville Longbottom; and Miss Luna Lovegood - the Heroes and Heroines of Hogwarts. There are others, of course, but there is little time to name them."

Their reactions were varied: Hermione and Neville merely nodded, Ron preened, Ginny chuckled, Luna looked politely amused...and Harry sighed.

"I wish people would forget that," he complained mildly.

Greythorne looked at Harry. "Interesting. It would appear the Boy Who Lived does not believe his own hype. Good. I can't stand smug heroes."

"We're not heroes," Harry insisted. "We just did what had to be done, sir."

"Harry," Hermione gently pointed out, "that's practically the definition of a hero."

"Quite right, Miss Granger," Greythorne approved. "We who served in the Auror Office have been called heroes - and many other, less complimentary things -" he noted ruefully, "but we, too, did what had to be done...and not without cost, sometimes," he added soberly, recalling the loss of Alastor 'Mad-Eye' Moody.

Harry bowed his head, remembering Fred, Remus Lupin, Nymphadora ("Call me Tonks!") and too many others who had fallen in the Battle of Hogwarts. They were the heroes, he thought miserably. Even Regulus Arcturus Black, an unsung hero of sorts if ever there was one, whom Harry had never even met but who would, he was sure, have done the right thing. Who had, in fact, by defying his master and stealing the Slytherin Horcrux, leaving a fake in its place. Without him, they might never have recovered and destroyed it.

But Ginny, who knew from his face what he was thinking, took his hand and squeezed reassuringly. "I'm proud of them, Harry, and I know you are, too." She kissed him.

"Save that for later, Miss Weasley," Greythorne rumbled, but he smiled. He well knew how much Ginny loved Harry, and that he loved her as fiercely. A little public affection never went amiss, so long as they didn't overdo it. It wasn't as if they were having sex in the classroom.

Not that he'd put it past Ginny Weasley, the mischievous little minx. He'd heard about her tendencies, as well as her volatility. On a dare in her third year she'd once streaked around Hogwarts; Professor McGonagall had given her an evening's detention, then retired to her office...to laugh. Colin Creevey had snapped a picture (Muggle-style, fortunately, to preserve what little modesty she possessed) which showed Ginny in all her nude finery, her long red hair blowing in the breeze.

Laughing, she'd threatened to hex him. His brother Dennis still had it; even at the age of thirteen, Ginny was gorgeous, showing the nascent curves Harry would come to love. Considering her complete nudity, as per the unwise Slytherin dare, it was reasonably modest, showing part of her shapely bottom...and her merry grin. Her mother didn't know whether to chastise her or cheer her on; Molly had had her moments of rebellion at school, too.

No Slytherin had ever dared Ginny again. She would take any dare, a Gryffindor to the core, and she wasn't afraid of anyone. He was sure teaching her would be fun.

Doubtless exasperating, too, but fun.

"As a compromise, Mr. Potter, will you accept that you and your friends are considered to be heroes, however mistaken you might believe the appellation to be, and leave it at that? We do have a lesson, and time marches on. A year is not as long as some might think."

Harry looked resigned, but agreed. The lesson proceeded, and everyone learned a lot about Shield Charms and ways of determining whether a drink had been spiked, whether by magical or Muggle means; the practical was more fun, as usual. At the end, Greythorne pronounced, "I think that'll do for today, and every House has accrued points; we'll leave homework for now." Everyone looked pleased, until he grinned evilly. "Plenty of time for that. Class dismissed," he finished, and added, "Mr. Potter, I should like a word."

Harry, Hermione and Ron exchanged glances, but Harry wasn't surprised. "I'll catch up," he told them. They nodded, Hermione touching his arm, and left.

Once they were alone, Greythorne waved his wand and intoned, " Securus Maxima," and the door locked. That was a new one, Harry thought.

"As you've doubtless guessed, we have privacy - no-one can get in, and until I lift the spell, we can't get out. It is of course the precise antithesis of Alohomora, and far more secure than Colloportus."

That sounded like a useful spell under other circumstances. But he had a timetable - and this year, he decided abruptly, he was damn well going to stick to it. So it was time to ask for release.

Of course, it wasn't that simple. Nothing ever is.

"Sir," Harry pointed out, "I have a lesson with Professor McGonagall -"

"- who has been apprised of the situation and agrees with the necessity," Greythorne interrupted mildly. "Miss Granger will be asked to take notes for you. I wanted to advise you about current events at the school."

"That's why you're here," he shrewdly surmised, unsurprised. "So Hermione was right."

The teacher nodded gravely. "Very perspicacious, that one. A keen sense of political awareness. If she doesn't become a teacher, odds are the Ministry lies in her future." He sighed. "Always trouble with you, isn't it?"

"Voldemort is dead, sir." Harry looked grim. "I should know." I saw it. I did it. Well, he did, anyway.

"True. But will he stay dead?"

"Sir?" Harry asked uneasily. Dammit, would it never be over?

"The Ministry has heard a fairly substantial rumour to the effect that one of his followers is abroad at Hogwarts under a disguise, and intends, somehow, to resurrect him." He held up a hand. "I know, it seems impossible. Even for us, death is final. But consider, Mr. Potter: for what, other than evil and murder, was Tom Riddle best known?"

The words "Of course, he was probably the most brilliant student Hogwarts has ever seen" echoed in his mind from six years ago, though his second year seemed so very far away now. He didn't doubt it, though, not coming from Albus Dumbledore. "Well, he was a brilliant student, sir."

"He was indeed. He continued learning even after he left. There is a blank period of several years in his life; no-one seems to know where he went or what he did, though it is known he consorted with the very worst of our kind and was more...reptilian when he surfaced, almost snake-like. Doubtless he learned much of the Dark Arts. Given that, is it impossible that he somehow learned how to defy death? You tell me, Harry."

Harry considered all he'd learned, and the depth of Voldemort's knowledge...and sighed in defeat. "No, sir. It's possible. I haven't a clue as to how, but I suppose he might come back," he admitted reluctantly. "He did before, when everyone but Dumbledore thought he was dead."

Greythorne nodded soberly. "He did indeed. The Ministry and the Auror Office are taking even the vague threat seriously, Harry. Better safe than sorry. So as you have surmised, I will be keeping an eye on you and the students this year. One thing we know and another we suspect: the impostor is not, as might be expected, in House Slytherin. Nor is he or she believed to be in Gryffindor."

"Too obvious," Harry agreed, "the Houses are rivals, and always have been. No, it'll be a Hufflepuff or a Ravenclaw."

"Professors Sprout and Flitwick have been apprised," the older man nodded. "They too will watch carefully."

"How much can or should I tell my friends?" Harry carefully asked.

Greythorne sighed again. "It's always the question, isn't it? By rights you should tell them nothing, but they will ask...and how often have you come unstuck keeping secrets for their sake, eh?" He shook his head. "On the other hand, there's safety in numbers. So tell them everything." Somehow he chuckled. "I suspect you would anyway."

Harry too chuckled, ruefully. No, keeping secrets never ended well, and the truth always kept coming out sooner or later - usually sooner. It was all very well being noble and trying to protect them, but they were capable and had faced danger before - and they were still here. No, he would tell them. They deserved to know. Ginny, at least, would be furious if he didn't tell them. He wasn't about to forget the Bat-Bogey Hex.

He didn't think she would use it on him, but he couldn't be sure. In some respects - most notably her temper, for example - Ginevra Weasley was very much a stereotypical redhead.

"Forewarned is forearmed, Harry. All the same, watch yourself and your friends. Even the possibility of Voldemort returning cannot be dismissed, not until the threat is confirmed as a false alarm."

Which it might be, Harry thought, but Professor Greythorne was right - he shouldn't take the risk. "I'll be careful, sir," he affirmed.

The ex-Auror smiled. "Good lad," he approved.

Then Harry hesitated. There was something about Professor Greythorne's wand that made him...uneasy. "Sir, may I see that?"

Greythorne shrugged. "Certainly." Harry took it carefully. Thanks to Mr. Ollivander and Hermione, plus his own reading, he knew a bit about wands. He didn't recognise the wood; it was red, beautifully polished and had a thin line of pure gold, apparently inlaid. In his hand it felt...threatening. He'd never felt that before from a wand.

He had the feeling that it was saying without words: I tolerate this only because my master allows it. You had best put me down...now.

Nervously he took the unspoken advice (?), and Greythorne picked it up.

"Professor," he asked carefully, "which wood is that?"

Greythorne answered solemnly, "Rowan, Harry. Mountain ash. It is said, by Muggles at least, to be the only wood the Dark does not love and, indeed, cannot use. This, Harry, is a wand Garrick was very reluctant to make, many years ago, but given the nature of my profession I had to insist." He paused. "Claiming it was not without...incident."

It was something he would much rather forget...

---

Mr. Ollivander's shop, Diagon Alley

Seventy-three years ago

"Welcome to Ollivander's," Garrick enthused. "It is seldom indeed that I see anyone other than new Hogwarts students - and an Auror, no less," he observed shrewdly. "Twelve and a half inches, utterly inflexible - lignum vitae, of all the woods it might have been. Heartstring of Peruvian Vipertooth, very interesting."

"A fine wand, to be sure," Peregrine Greythorne agreed, but added, "but now, Garrick, I am here in my official capacity. I require a...different wand. Grindelwald's followers are on the rise, as you know. The Ministry feels that certain Aurors, such as myself, should be...armed accordingly. It is for that reason I am here. Unusually I have a precise mix in mind: thirteen and three thirty-sevenths inches; utterly inflexible; heartstring of Hungarian Horntail; inlaid with gold from a Romanian Longhorn...and seasoned with a drop of unicorn stallion blood."

"Oh my," Garrick murmured. "And...the wood?" he inquired...knowing, and dreading, the answer.

Greythorne looked both solemn and grim. "Rowan."

Ollivander sighed. "You know of the wands of which you speak. None have been made in centuries."

"Which, it is believed, is why Aurors tend to come off worse," Greythorne rumbled. "Many have died, Garrick. At least one, the poor soul, would in my opinion be better dead, such as she suffers. I have concluded that this is necessary." He placed a gentle hand on the older man's shoulder. "I know full well the cost to you, my friend."

"To make a...weapon...I...please, I should not."

But the Auror was implacable. "Your skill is legendary, as is your morality, and I salute you. But I fear I must insist - or consult Gregorovich."

"Who will be far less reluctant," Garrick sighed. He nodded grudgingly. "Very well. A rowan wand it shall be."

He was true to his word. Some hours later he handed it to his visitor, who accepted it. There was a rushing sound, both wand and wizard trembled, and the wand produced a huge spray of red and golden sparks which persisted for rather longer than usual.

Greythorne shuddered, but nodded. "It is done. We are bonded, now and forever. A splendid wand," he congratulated the craftsman.

"Yeah, very nice," a mocking voice sounded. "Alright, 'ands up!"

A nondescript - but scruffy - individual had entered the shop behind them. "Ooh, never seen one like that before, should be worth a few Galleons! Right, 'and it over!"

The Auror looked distastefully at the miscreant. He was holding what appeared to be -

"Yeah, it's a gun, innit - kind o' wand Muggles use on each other, but it's bloody good. C'mon," the man ordered.

But to his surprise the Auror seemed more amused than frightened. He'd seen - and even used - guns. Very clever devices, they were. "Mmm. Smith & Wesson .38 Police Special," he remarked idly. "As guns go, it's quite effective, I grant you - very accurate at short range. Do you seriously think you can threaten a wizard with it, though?"

The man looked nonplussed at Greythorne's knowledge, but rallied, grinning. "You wouldn't be the first I've offed! Oh, they're all alike, think a bullet won't 'urt 'em, but they're wrong - a bullet don't care if you're a bloody Muggle or not, they croak just the same!"

"You confess to the murder of other wizards?" Greythorne inquired sharply. Then he smiled...dangerously. "So be it. But I warn you -"

"Oh, 'ere we go!"

"Please," Garrick pleaded, "think about what you are doing!" He was speaking more to Greythorne than to his would-be assailant, though the latter didn't know that.

"- you would be well advised not to even touch it. But," he shrugged, "if you insist..." He handed it over.

Garrick, knowing what was coming, hid his eyes. The criminal grabbed the proffered wand.

A number of things, none good, happened after that.

He froze, his eyes bulging. The wand vibrated in his hand...which began to bleed. He tried and failed to release it. The vibration increased.

The man screamed.

"It is no more than you deserve, murderer," Greythorne pronounced coldly. "I gave you fair warning. Let justice be done." He knew that Weapon Wands such as this one were far more aware than most - and equally aware of those who held them. The innocent, ignorant or mischievous would at least be warned. The malicious, burned.

This one...

He moaned as he began to disintegrate bloodily. When he died the wand cast a spell of its own to destroy what was left of him, hardly a trace of him left. It remained in the air, floating in a haze of ash which rapidly dissipated.

Peregrine Greythorne intoned, "So perish all enemies of wizardry." He took the wand. It wasn't even warm. "Its first victim. Thank you, Garrick."

"Horrible," Garrick whispered.

The Auror sighed. "But just, nonetheless."

---

"And I held it in my hand," Harry murmured.

But Greythorne smiled. "There is no evil in you, lad, and the wand sensed it. Still, it would have given you a shock had you not put it down. It is unusual in that it never changes its allegiance, never. It is mine, now and forever, and it will and must be destroyed when I die, because no-one else may ever use it. Doubtless Miss Granger could tell you more, but this is known by learned wizards and witches as a Weapon Wand.

"Such a wand had not been made, or even used, in centuries. Its primary purpose is in fact to destroy Dark witches and wizards." He looked bleak. "And I assure you it has destroyed more than its fair share in its time. Rowan, thirteen and three thirty-sevenths inches, utterly inflexible, inlaid with a thread of gold from a Romanian Longhorn, heartstring of Hungarian Horntail...and seasoned with a single drop of unicorn blood, freely given by a great stallion, possibly the largest our world has ever seen. It is a weapon almost equal in power to the fabled Elder Wand."

"Which does exist, sir," Harry said quietly. "I am its master."

He raised an eyebrow. "Indeed? Where is it now?"

"For a whole bunch of reasons, sir, I'd rather not say," Harry shook his head.

Greythorne gazed keenly at him. "Good reasons, I'm sure." He exhaled. "Very well. I won't press you, lad. That'll be all. Off you go. Securus Liberatum." The door unlocked in response.

Harry nodded and rose. Before he departed, Greythorne added, "Oh, one more thing...you've been very shrewd and even wise...and brave, I might add. Only a few may even touch a Weapon Wand, let alone pick one up. Sixty points to Gryffindor."

The youth relaxed, grinned and took his leave.

He arrived in Transfiguration and began an apology, but Professor McGonagall merely smiled slightly. "I am fully aware of the circumstances, Mr. Potter. It is a wise precaution. If you will be seated, we may continue."

His friends naturally started in with questions, but Harry forestalled them, saying, "Later."

It was as well he did; the lesson was intense and packed, as he'd expected. When they were done with that and Potions, they met in the Gryffindor common room and Harry related what Greythorne had told him. "Bloody 'ell," was Ron's rueful comment, shaking his head. "And there was me thinking we were done with all that."

"We were, Ron. At least...I thought we were," Harry returned bitterly.

"Harry, Ron," Hermione pleaded worriedly, "if there's a chance, even the tiniest chance that the Ministry is right for once...do we dare lower our guard?" She took their hands; the gesture was meant to be comforting. But she nearly flinched on touching Harry s hand...it was cold. She knew what that meant. He was taking the threat seriously...and it scared him.

Ron looked resolute. "Well, we're not the innocent reckless kids we used to be. Whoever this impostor is, he's in more trouble than he can handle!"

"Or she, Ron," Hermione couldn't help pointing out fairly. "The Ministry isn't sure."

"And who says there's only one?" Harry wondered grimly. "Also...Hermione, he has a Weapon Wand."

Hermione gasped in horror. Ron, clueless, asked, "A what wand?"

She whispered, aghast, "They...they're very rare. Only a few were ever made. There's an account of a wizard, over six centuries ago, who used one, in The Rise And Fall Of The Dark Arts. They're mentioned in Magick Moste Evil. Horrible stuff, Harry." She shivered. "As wands go they're very nearly self-aware. It must've been awful for Mr. Ollivander to make one. It's the wizard equivalent of a tactical nuke."

"And for those of us who aren't Muggle-born, or brought up by Muggles?" Ron inquired dryly.

Hermione faced him. "It's no joke, Ronald. To put it in wizard terms...if you wanted to and if it would let you do it, you could use that wand to level Hogsmeade, smash it flat, and kill every living thing - with one curse."

"Bloody 'ell," Ron gulped. That he understood.

"So they are taking it seriously," Harry concluded, and Hermione nodded uneasily. A thought occurred to him. "Hey - that Securus thing. I've never heard of that spell. I don't even remember seeing it in the Half-Blood Prince's book." The portrait of Snape had explained, with his eidetic memory, which spell did what over the summer. They weren't all malicious.

Most, he admitted, but not all.

"Securus Maxima? Oh, no, it won't be," Hermione shrugged, glad to change the subject. "That's one of mine."

They both stared at her. "Do what?" Ron spluttered.

"It's a new spell I invented," Hermione told them casually, as if making new spells was nothing in particular. She looked back at them. "What?"

They looked at each other, then burst out laughing.

"What?!"

---

The Headmistress's Study

That evening

"You realise, of course," the Headmistress remarked severely, "that conversation with any former Head is a privilege. When the Head in question is Albus Dumbledore...well. Were it not that my excellent friend has made it clear you are to be admitted at any time, I would likely refuse even the Boy Who Lived, with all due respect to everything you have achieved - given that, as Headmistress, the final authority is in fact mine. Be that as it may, this audience is not awarded lightly."

"Of course, Professor," Harry nodded solemnly.

She sighed, and smiled as fondly as her stern features were capable of. "Take your time, Harry. I know it is important." She turned to the statue. "Liquorice Allsorts!"

The gargoyle sprang aside to reveal the spiral staircase. Some things never change, Harry thought, nearly smiling.

He opened the door and entered carefully. It didn't look much different, except for the two new portraits: Albus and Snape.

There had been furious debate as to whether Snape should be included as a headmaster of Hogwarts, but Harry for one insisted. He explained Snape's true story, his heroism, and warned there would be trouble if it wasn't done. He didn't specify what trouble. He didn't need to. The Minister decided nothing could be denied to the Boy Who Lived, and so a portrait of Severus Snape was commissioned, painted and placed in the study.

"Hardly a surprise," Snape's portrait said dryly as Harry sat.

"Now, now, Severus," Dumbledore chided mildly, "though it is indeed no surprise to see him, Harry - the destroyer of Voldemort, no less - is entirely welcome."

"I suppose," Snape shrugged, but Harry wasn't fooled. He'd seen the real Snape in the Pensieve. "Good evening, Potter."

"And a very nice evening it is, too," Dumbledore said gently. "How are you, my dear boy?"

"I'm fine, Professor," Harry replied, then hesitated. "All things considered."

"Ah, yes," the portrait nodded, "the Ministry's warning, delivered by the inestimable Peregrine Greythorne. You are, I trust, on your guard? Invisibility Cloak at hand?"

Harry nodded; it was safe in his robe pocket. He also had the Marauder's Map and a Galleon Hermione had altered for him; with her extraordinary magical talent, she'd modified a Dumbledore's Army coin such that he merely had to breathe her name or Ron's on it and the similar coin each carried would instantly warn them both. The same was true in reverse. She really is an amazing witch, he thought, hardly for the first time. He wasn't sure if she'd modified the Protean Charm or come up with something new, as she often did.

No wonder she's Head Girl, he mused proudly; she'd received the owl at the Burrow and was ecstatic. As for Head Boy, Neville had made his gran proud all over again. But after the way he'd slain Nagini, nobody argued it even though the Head Boy and Girl were in theory supposed to be of different Houses. Harry had always thought, right from his first year, that Neville's day would come, and come it had. He damn well deserved it. He's a true Gryffindor. Godric would've been proud, too. I know Professor McGonagall was.

"Only a true Gryffindor could have pulled that out of the Hat, Harry."

And only a true Gryffindor did. What a stroke that was, Nagini's head clean off - and he'd never even seen a sword, never mind used one.

He almost smiled at the memory of the second-year Neville swinging from the ceiling, courtesy of escaped Cornish pixies, asking plaintively, "Why is it always me?" He's come a long, long way since then.

Then Dumbledore interrupted his train of thought. "Of course, you now have two additional guardians."

Harry smiled. "Kreacher, yeah," he nodded, thinking of Sirius and how much he was missed. Then he realised, and frowned. "Two? Who's the other one?" he asked curiously.

"Why, none other than Crookshanks," Dumbledore answered brightly. "You are aware of his family history?"

"Well, I know he's half-Kneazle," Harry nodded, and frowned again. "And I reckon he's a lot smarter than he's letting on. But beyond that," he shrugged, "no, sir, not really."

"From his coat markings, he is clearly the son of Greymalkin," was the reply. He smiled gently. "You could not of course be expected, being a mere toddler, to remember the family cat, but such she was."

"Our cat?" Harry blurted, startled. "I mean, my family's cat? I - I know from Mum's letter that she and Dad had a cat, but I never knew what happened to it. Her."

"Alas, Voldemort happened to her," Dumbledore told him soberly. "You see, that night Greymalkin was off on her usual nightly peregrination. She returned to find the house ruined and your dear parents deceased. Pets owned by wizards and witches tend to be of higher intelligence than usual, and she was a very clever cat indeed. She recognised why he had targeted you, and moreover, she acknowledged her responsibility.

"She hid until she could obtain transport to Privet Drive, where I deposited you. I confess I have no idea as to how she knew or, for that matter, how she travelled to Surrey, but," he smiled, "cats do have their ways. Once there she took on the role of a stray, always watching over you. But alas, she was nearing the end of her natural lifespan, and so she resolved to bear kittens who would assume the mantle of guardian. She met and became enamoured of a Kneazle who was passing through. Sadly, she had but one kitten, but he was intelligent even by feline or Kneazle standards. Greymalkin raised him to adulthood and then passed on.

"Crookshanks bided his time, then made his way to Diagon Alley; specifically to the Magical Menagerie, where he could wait for you in comfort, some six years before you embarked upon your third year."

"So - he was there for six years?" Harry gasped, incredulous.

"He is nothing if not patient, Harry. Of course it was Miss Granger rather than your good self who encountered him there, but it suited him, as you and she are close friends. I espied him about his midnight peregrinations - he is very much like his mother - and, recognising his markings, I was most reassured. The rest is history, as they say." He smiled again.

"Wow," Harry marvelled, and resolved to have some kinder words for Crookshanks next time he saw him. Small world.

"Plus you have, most commendably, expanded your circle of friends beyond your first two," Dumbledore added, still smiling. "You two and Miss Granger bonded over that unfortunate business with the mountain troll, but do you recall how you first befriended Ronald?"

Harry always smiled at the memory, one of his fondest. "I bought the entire sweets trolley on the train, and gave him half."

"And first pick, at that," the portrait observed merrily. "However, it was not that gesture, kind and generous though it was, which endeared you to him. No, it was the fact that this famous boy reached out to - forgive me - a nobody, and saw him as an equal. In truth, Harry, Ronald would have been just as happy had you bought him nothing more than a single Chocolate Frog. It was ultimately the gesture of reaching out, not the reward, which mattered to him. The amount you shared was merely the icing on the cake.

"True, having a half-share in the entire trolley was triple-thick chocolate fudge icing, with sprinkles, fresh cream and a cherry on top, mind you, but still it was just the icing," he said warmly, with a twinkle in his eye, and Harry chuckled.

"That," Snape observed, "was exactly as Lily would have behaved."

Dumbledore sobered. "Quite true, Severus. Lily's best qualities were unfailing kindness, compassion and generosity. You did her proud that day, Harry, without ever knowing it, for you did exactly what she would have done."

"It was why we remained friends - until I foolishly joined the Death Eaters," Snape told Harry quietly. "There is little I regret more."

Harry chose not to possibly make him uncomfortable with the memory of what he'd seen in the Pensieve: Snape holding his dead mother and weeping bitterly for her loss. It was that memory more than any other which had truly endeared him to Harry...and given him the strength he'd needed to face Voldemort, as he'd known he must, in the Forbidden Forest.

"But why Ronald?" Dumbledore asked, though Harry was sure he, somehow, already knew.

"His Mum was really kind to me when I didn't know how to get onto the platform," Harry fondly recalled, "and I'd never had anything to share, or anyone to share it with," he admitted, "so sharing with someone felt nice." Dumbledore looked very pleased at that. "I could easily afford it - Hagrid showed me my vault in Gringotts, the money my parents left me."

"Didn' think your parents left yeh with nothin', now, did yeh?" he'd rumbled softly. It was more money than Harry had seen or even imagined in his life.

He nearly laughed at the memory of what he'd done since with some of it...

---

Number Four, Privet Drive

7th August, 1999

Harry had never expected to be back here after he'd fled. His aunt, uncle and Dudley were back, having received word, courtesy of the Ministry, that it was now safe to return and that Harry was well. Petunia had tried not to show how relieved she was at that last piece of news.

And now here he was again. He rang the doorbell, and Dudley answered. His face jumped in surprise. "Harry!"

"Hey, Big D," Harry grinned, using Dudley's nickname. They shook hands warmly. "Wow, you've got quite a grip." Dudley looked a lot better these days - big, yes, but not fat. He'd grown a bit. "Are your Mum and Dad in? I need a word." He smiled. "Don't worry, it's safe."

"Is, uh, what's his name -"

"Voldemort," Harry told him quietly. "Yeah, he's gone. For good, this time. The Dementors won't be back either."

Dudley looked relieved. "Good to hear. Yeah, they're in, come in. Mum! Dad! Harry's here!" he called cheerily, opening the door wide. Petunia came bustling to the door. "Dudley, dear, what do -" She braked abruptly. "Harry..." she breathed, shocked. She'd never expected to see him again, especially given the circumstances of their parting.

He couldn't summon affection for her but, he made himself remember, she was his Mum's sister, and however reluctantly, she had taken him in...fulfilling Dumbledore's clever plan. "Hello, Aunt Petunia."

She gathered herself. It wouldn't do to be impolite to a guest, whoever he might be. Still, she asked, "Why are you here? I thought you had your own house now?"

"I do," he nodded, "but there's something I need to settle with Uncle Vernon."

Petunia looked guarded, but conceded, "Well, alright. But no funny stuff," she warned.

Harry grinned. "No funny stuff. I didn't even bring my wand." It was true; he'd left it with Kreacher.

---

Number Twelve, Grimmaud Place

An hour ago

"Kreacher is most honoured, Master. But of course Kreacher is not permitted to touch it, the Ministry has decreed. Kreacher would not wish to defy the Ministry."

"That's true, Harry," Hermione put in, "clause three of the Code of Wand Use: 'No non-human creature is permitted to carry or use a wand.' Some Ministry officials take it as far as even touching a wand, though I think that's going too far. Well done, Kreacher," she smiled kindly.

"That's okay," Harry too smiled, "I'll just put it in this drawer," he did so, "and you make sure no-one gets at it, alright?"

The house-elf bowed. "While Kreacher lives, he will permit no access, Master. Your wand will be safe." He reverently touched his locket, a present of sorts from the late Regulus Arcturus Black. "On Master Regulus's locket, Kreacher swears it."

Harry well knew the power house-elves could wield, and so he was reassured. "Thanks, Kreacher. I'll be gone for a few hours."

Ron looked uncertain. "They're Muggles, Harry. Okay, they're family, but...well. Muggles."

"That's true. But I have to do this." Harry put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "For my Mum," he finished quietly.

"Oh, right," Ron mumbled uncomfortably, but then looked resolute. "Right you are, mate. Go for it."

"See you soon, Harry," Hermione and Ginny said simultaneously, giggled and hugged him together, then Ginny kissed him.

What a send-off from two gorgeous witches, Harry chuckled to himself, and set off for Surrey.

---

They went in. Everything looked smaller somehow.

Vernon was reading the paper as Harry entered the living room, and looked up. "Oh. It's you," he grumbled.

"We can at least be civil, Vernon," Petunia chided. "Tea or coffee, Harry?"

"No, thank you, I'm not staying," Harry told them. "This won't take long." He took a Gringotts bank draft out of his pocket and handed it to Uncle Vernon.

He frowned. "What's this?"

"It's my back rent," Harry explained. "I never knew the danger you three were in by giving me houseroom, and, well, I'm sorry. I thought I should pay you back. I was here for sixteen years, so it's twelve thousand Galleons per year. I can afford it, what with the money my parents and my godfather Sirius left me - plus it's grown a lot with interest and a few investments. I thought it was fair."

He almost grinned at the memory of one "investment": Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. Even after Fred's death the business had thrived and was now looking to expand into Hogsmeade and perhaps even the States, going from strength to strength. George and his new partner Dean had paid him back and then some, the "loan" of his Triwizard Tournament winnings becoming an investment.

Vernon brightened a bit. "Oh, well. That's different." He frowned. "Didn't think you lot needed money. What's the exchange rate?"

"Actually, I've no idea," Harry confessed. "I was told at Gringotts - that's the wizard bank - that you can take that to a senior manager at any Muggle bank, and they'll honour it. Money works much the same in our world, we need it just as much."

"Hmm," Vernon grunted. "Well, I've nothing else pending today, we might as well go to the bank." He looked uneasy. "How were you planning on getting us there?"

Harry tried, and failed, to picture his uncle on a broomstick or a Thestral.

He chuckled. "The car will be fine, Uncle Vernon."

The trip was quite uneventful, but for Harry it was nearly fun. He hadn't travelled much by Muggle transport, and while wizard methods were certainly faster, this was almost as much of a pleasure. He thought wistfully of his Firebolt, and resolved to get some practice in with Ron, Ginny and - if he could persuade her - Hermione.

---

Barclays Bank, 29 Borough Street, London

Two hours later

"Good afternoon, Mr. Dursley," the painfully young and very pretty bank clerk greeted him, recognising him as a frequent customer. "What can we do for you today, sir?"

Vernon grunted, "I need to speak to a senior manager, if that's all right. It's...confidential," he added, with a glance towards an impassive Harry.

Dhara Patel smiled brightly. "Certainly, sir, I think Mr. Ian Wright is free."

"Thank you."

Once seated before Ian Wright, Vernon began, "Well, it's about this bank draft my nephew gave me. Not even sure it's real, to be honest, he's a bit of a joker!" he laughed a little nervously. He handed Wright the draft.

The man looked carefully at it...and the oddest expression crossed his face. "Mmm."

Vernon nodded knowingly. "Yes, I thought so, it's nonsense, isn't it?"

But the bank manager looked at him levelly. "Mr. Dursley, I assure you it is nothing of the kind. On the contrary, it appears to be genuine. We'll be very pleased to honour it."

Vernon looked surprised, then pleased. "Oh, really? Oh, well, that's good. Not much, though, I suppose?"

"Given the current exchange rate of roughly five pounds to the Galleon, Mr. Dursley, it rather depends on whether or not you count almost one million pounds as 'not much'," Wright answered, frowning.

Vernon turned pale. "I - I beg your p - pardon?!"

"To be exact, it's £5.10 to the Galleon, so it works out at £979,200," Wright confirmed.

The plush carpet was soft as Vernon, fainting, thudded into it.

Wright shook his head ruefully as Harry laughed. "Doesn't deal well with magic, does he?"

"Not very, no," Harry chuckled. "He'll be all right."

"I have a daughter just starting at Hogwarts in September," Wright confided. "She's a little terror. Kept turning the hamster into, well, I'm not sure what it was, before the Ministry turned it back."

"That'll be the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad," Harry nodded. "They help to keep the whole thing quiet. Well, as quiet as it can be," he finished wryly. "Was it a yellow fluffy ball with a very long tongue?" he guessed, and Wright nodded. "That would be a Puffskein. Harmless, and popular with kids. A friend of mine has one." He fondly recalled Ginny with the miniature Puffskein courtesy of her brothers. She still had it. "I'll look forward to seeing her at Hogwarts."

"Just be sure you duck," Wright replied ruefully. "A little terror, I swear. What she'll be like with a wand, I shudder to think."

Harry laughed. For all his disparagement it was clear Mr. Wright loved his daughter, and quite right, too.

But I'll be sure to duck, he chuckled to himself.

"So if you'll just sign here, Mr. Potter," Wright smiled. "One of the witches mentioned you. I, um, know about the scar." He indicated.

Harry also smiled, and signed; so did Wright. The moment he did, the charm imbued into the draft was triggered, and the goblins at Gringotts, carefully reading the draft's now-active counterpart, transferred the equivalent credit as their signatures appeared, all £979,200 of it, into Vernon's account. Job done. In truth the major Muggle banks were well aware of Gringotts, and regarded wizard-Muggle transactions as good - but highly confidential - business. Given the favourable exchange rate, they were quite right.

The gold, sent from Harry's vault, appeared in the Barclays vault, and finally the charm transfigured the Galleons into ingots. Gold bullion, in whatever form and whatever its source, was always most welcome.

"A real pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Potter," Wright shook his hand. He keyed the intercom. "Dhara, could you take care of Mr. Dursley, please? He's had a bit of a shock."

Harry chuckled at the understatement.

---

"Money, however, matters little to you," Dumbledore observed kindly.

"No," Harry shook his head firmly, "you can't buy friends - not real friends. I've learned that much in seven years - I learned in one day. And we didn't ask Hermione to lie for us, she did that on her own. Without her, we might both have gotten in trouble." He looked wry. "Then again, I suppose later we did."

"Exactly," Dumbledore nodded. "Those two in particular are true friends to the end."

Harry hesitated. "Sir...I wanted to ask about Mr. Ollivander."

"Ah, yes," Dumbledore nodded, "the very first time you met, he unintentionally made you...uneasy, shall we say."

Harry had never forgotten Ollivander's solemn words:

"The wand chooses the wizard, remember...I think we must expect great things from you, Mr. Potter...after all, He Who Must Not Be Named did great things - terrible, yes, but great."

But Dumbledore again smiled gently. "What he meant, Harry, was this: to do the things he had done, Voldemort would need prodigious skill and vast knowledge, and the things he did could be carried out only by a great - if terrible - wizard. He did not, I am sure, mean to frighten you."

"Oh." He'd always wondered. It was something of a relief. "I wasn't sure I liked him much." He sighed. "I was wrong."

"Not for the first time, nor the last," Snape dryly remarked. Dumbledore chuckled.

"So do take care, won't you? Of yourself, and your friends."

"Yes, sir," Harry nodded, and turned to Snape. "Sir...there were a few things I didn't say over the summer. I'm sorry for what happened." He smiled slightly. "And you were a brilliant actor - I never even suspected you knew my Mum, or that you were putting it on." Now he looked sombre. "I really wish things had been different."

Snape merely looked at him. "Things were as they had to be, Potter. I could see no alternative, and Albus approved my imposture. Certainly the D - Voldemort," he managed, "never penetrated my disguise, even with his prodigious skills in Legilimency. The cover was extremely effective, as efficacious as it was risky." He sighed. "Nonetheless, I too wish there had been another way. I should have liked to acknowledge Lily's only son." He looked sad. "She was a dear friend, for years. I miss her."

Dumbledore gazed on him with sympathy. "Ah, Severus...she would have been most relieved at your change of heart. You were very much a key player in the drama, even though you were, of necessity, not fully aware of your role. If not for you, I think it is true to say that Voldemort would never have been destroyed." He smiled, dismissing the concern. "I trust, Harry, that accounts of the excellent and tragic part Severus played will be revised accordingly, and the record set straight."

"I'll make sure of it, sir," Harry swore. "Everyone will know, if they don't already, that Severus Snape was a hero."

"Oh, please," Snape rolled his eyes, but Harry knew now it was an act. A good one, but still an act. The Hat had made a mistake for the first time in a millennium, just as it had with Pettigrew - he should've been put in Gryffindor, and the little rat in Slytherin.

"My Mum would've been proud of you, sir." Harry was sincere.

Snape actually smiled - a small smile, to be sure, but it was there. "Thank you, Harry." He'd never used Harry's first name before. "Remember what I taught you - in Potions and, particularly, in Defence Against the Dark Arts."

Harry nodded. "I will. Good night, sirs." He rose and left.

"He is very much like his mother, Severus," Dumbledore said softly as the door closed. "He embodies the best of Lily in all things."

"And his father," Snape opined ruefully. "He was in detention almost as frequently as James was."

"True," Dumbledore chuckled, "and most times, with you, as I recall."

Snape too chuckled, wryly.

"But James was nothing if not resolute, and Harry follows in his footsteps. It is that quality more than any other which will see him through."

"Let us hope so," Snape murmured with foreboding. "You were ever the schemer, Albus..."

"Guilty as charged," the old man admitted.

"...so who is the impostor, might I ask?"

Dumbledore sighed. "That, Severus, is as yet unclear, I am afraid. He or she will surely reveal themselves in time."

Snape made no comment.

---

Next day was the first Quidditch match; normally it wouldn't have been so early, but Harry knew (thanks to Kreacher) the Slytherins had been practising over the summer, and his team didn't really need the practice anyway. Professor McGonagall was cautiously enthusiastic.

Harry had resumed his position as Seeker and Captain; Ron was the Keeper; Ginny was the head Chaser, with Elaine Bancroft, a new but skilled and enthusiastic third-year, and the fifth-year half-blood Yvonne Riddle (thankfully no relation, plus she was a stunning honey blonde - why are the Gryffindor Chasers always so lovely, Harry wryly wondered, is it a tradition or something?) backing her; and Jimmy Peakes and Ritchie Coote were back as Beaters. They discussed tactics in the changing room.

"Right," Harry began, "we're up against Slytherin first -"

"They're going down!" Jimmy yelled keenly, clashing bats with Ritchie.

"Yeah!" Ritchie returned.

Harry chuckled indulgently. "Save the enthusiasm for the pitch, lads." They grinned. "There's been changes in the Slytherin line-up, and Professor Slughorn told me they've promised to behave." He looked grim, but his eyes were merry. "So watch yourselves. I don't expect any serious trouble -"

"And if there is we'll handle it, Harry," Ginny grinned. The other Chasers nodded and looked eager.

"- but then again, there's that impostor Greythorne mentioned," he cautioned, "so the crowd may give us grief." They looked more sober at that. "It's practically a new team, so don't expect the old tactics, all right?" They nodded. "Right, let's get out there."

"And WIN!" the others cried, cheering. Harry grinned broadly. Even Ron had a new confidence; then again, he'd earned it with the last brilliant game he'd played. Harry wished he'd seen it. Weasley is our King...

---

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry

The Quidditch Pitch

"GO, GO, GRYFFINDOR! GO, GO, GRYFFINDOR!" the spectators cheered as the players took their positions. Some, seeing Ron, chanted, "Weasley is our King! Weasley is our King! He won't let the Quaffle in! Weasley is our King!" Ron grinned and waved from his Cleansweep Nine.

Madam Hooch was as brisk as ever. "For this first, early game, I want it nice and clean." As usual, she didn't say 'or else'.

As usual, they all got it.

"The Quaffle is released," Dean Thomas, the guest commentator, enthused, "and the game begins!"

With that, they were off.

Yvonne was the first to catch the Quaffle, and sped off with it. A Bludger flew towards her, but Ritchie swung his bat and connected; the Slytherin Keeper, Vernon Dawes, barely ducked in time as the well-aimed missile raced towards him. From his vantage point above, Harry grinned. Things were starting well.

Until a Bludger came flying at him, struck by a Slytherin Beater; he ducked. Whew, that was close. Haven't even seen the Snitch yet.

Undeterred, though, the Beater tried again. Harry easily dodged, but he doffed a non-existent hat. She was good, he decided. Better keep an eye on that one, she's trouble.

Yvonne passed to Elaine; she nearly missed it, but recovered smoothly. She was jostled by Ian Waite, but retained her grip, passing suddenly to Ginny - who threw the Quaffle at a Slytherin goal. But Dawes reached out and caught it, passing it to Waite.

"Well, good save there from Dawes," Dean conceded. "Slytherin has possession, no, wait, Bancroft's got it, the Chasers are moving fast, good use of the Hawkshead Attacking Formation - and GRYFFINDOR SCORES!" he cheered, as did the Gryffindor spectators.

Elaine squealed in proud excitement; it was her very first goal in an official match. Ginny and Yvonne congratulated her, and Harry gave her a thumbs-up. In just under two minutes they were ten points up.

But the Slytherin team took it in their stride; there was all the time in the world, plus 150 points at stake if Susan Wheeler caught the Golden Snitch. She was a third-year - petite, but fast. Like Harry, she rode a Firebolt - and like him, she knew how best to use it. He did not underestimate her, nor she him. She'd heard the stories, especially of Harry's first year, when he caught the Snitch by practically swallowing it.

---

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry

The Headmaster's Study

Ten minutes after Harry's first victory

The Slytherin team had appealed to the Head, whose final decision it was, but Captain Oliver Wood, whose Quidditch knowledge was almost as encyclopaedic as that of Professor McGonagall or Madam Hooch, said dismissively, "Doesn't matter. It wouldn't have mattered much if he had swallowed it - the Rules of Quidditch, sir, say the Seeker catches the Snitch. Nowhere does it say the Seeker has to catch it in the hand, only that he has to catch it. Look at Roderick Plumpton - in 1921 he caught it in three and a half seconds, in his sleeve!"

"Wood is quite right," Madam Hooch declared, "and so the result stands: Gryffindor wins."

"I agree," Dumbledore pronounced. "Well done, Gryffindor."

"Very well," Snape conceded sourly. "Doubtless there will be another time."

"Don't count on it, Professor," McGonagall warned. In an aside to Wood, she added quietly, "Well argued there, Wood. Twenty points to Gryffindor, I think." He grinned; Snape scowled.

Dumbledore smiled gently. "One hundred and fifty points well-earned there. A sign, one would think, of things to come."

He was absolutely right, but no-one knew it yet.

---

So when Harry suddenly spotted the Snitch and went after it, so did she. Unfortunately neither had noticed what was happening behind them.

One of the Slytherin Beaters, the one who'd earlier given Harry so much grief, whacked a Bludger, unseating Yvonne, who was trying to cover. Luckily she didn't fall far, but she was severely winded by the impact. The Beater chuckled, feeling cocky, and nonchalantly used the Bludger Backbeat on the second approaching Bludger.

In all fairness, she couldn't have foreseen the consequences.

Harry used a well-timed blow to deflect Wheeler, who was forced to back off, and he triumphantly caught the Snitch - only to have the flying Bludger strike him in the midsection.

To everyone's horror, he fell off and broke his arm, a compound fracture. The Beater gasped in dismay and swooped down to where Harry lay, near-unconscious. She tried not to vomit, but there was blood everywhere. "Merlin's beard, Harry, I - I'm sorry, I never meant to - Mike! Help me carry him to the hospital wing!"

"Do what?!" Jones gaped. "He's a -"

"Do it or I'll hex you into next week, you bloody troll!" she screamed, desperate. Hurriedly he dived and joined her.

Ginny plunged down in fury, yelling, "Get away from him, you -"

"I'm trying to HELP!" the girl cried, and to her shock Ginny saw she meant it; subdued, she fell back. The usual crowd of players and spectators gathered around Harry, trying to see; the Slytherin Beater was verbally cursing them.

"Let me through, let me through," Madam Hooch ordered sharply, pushing the crowd aside and giving Harry a rapid assessment with her decades of skill. "Mmm, nasty break there - you'll be alright, Potter - hospital wing, and be quick about it!" she told the Beaters.

"One, two, three, lift!" the girl instructed urgently, trying not to cry.

---

Madam Pomfrey's verdict was swift as always. "Not as terrible as it looks, Potter, and at least the bones are still there this time - oh, why do you lot insist on playing that wretched game, I don't know - right, we'll set the bone, a night's Skele-Gro and a couple of days' rest, and you'll be right as rain," she decided. "Think yourself lucky - it could've been worse, has been sometimes. I remember one time Terry Boot broke - well, never mind," she finished briskly.

With a finely-developed sense of priorities - albeit in the wrong direction, just the way Wood had been - a recovered Yvonne asked anxiously, "But does the result stand? Gryffindor 160, Slytherin zero?"

"Less twenty points for inappropriate fussing, Riddle, but I suppose so," Madam Hooch conceded, looking stern; Yvonne nodded, abashed. Of course the Seeker's injury took priority.

Hooch relented. "On the other hand, players do get caught up in the game, so make it ten points," she allowed. "Enthusiasm is a good thing, as long as you don't let it get the better of you. Young people do get carried away." She barely smiled. "I was young myself once, believe it or not. Didn't know one end of a broomstick from another, being brought up in a Muggle family. Oh, yes, I'm a Muggle-born, but like Miss Granger I am no less skilled for it. One of these days a team will find out to their cost just how skilled I am!"

They shared a chuckle.

"No, he'll be alright, Poppy knows her stuff, and Gryffindor did win. Nice try there, Wheeler, you're coming along," she added professionally.

Wheeler looked pleased even though Gryffindor had won, and anyway it was early days yet. Ginny scowled; she was a traditionalist, and in her book Gryffindor and Slytherin were rivals, if not enemies - end of.

No-one noticed the single Slytherin player slipping away.

---

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry

Hospital Wing

"Madam Pomfrey?" an uncertain, tremulous voice was heard. "May I see Harry Potter?"

"May I ask why?" the head nurse inquired sharply; the Headmistress, with whom she had briefly spoken, had given direct, explicit orders to keep her charge safe. Not that she needed them; her training at St. Mungo's had thoroughly instilled the healer's mindset into her. She would keep him safe at all costs even if Voldemort himself showed up, impossible as that was, and she would jolly well do her best to give him what for.

The Slytherin Beater, Anya McLaren, looked down. "I...I wanted to apologise. I was showing off; I didn't mean for him to get hurt. Please."

Poppy looked surprised; Potter was the Gryffindor Seeker, so surely the Beaters had it in for him. But McLaren was clearly near tears; her remorse was genuine. She softened slightly. "Very well, if he consents. Ten minutes, no more," she finished sternly. "He needs his rest."

McLaren nodded, and moved to the bed. "Hello."

Harry sat up, surprised. "There's a turn-up," he said neutrally.

She sighed. "We're not all like Malfoy was, Harry. Ambitious, yes, I'll admit that, but some of us - a few of us - don't step on other people's toes, or at least we try not to. I'm sorry. I didn't even need to hit that second Bludger; I was...showing off. It got you hurt. I honestly didn't mean to. I'd rather we won by being crafty than by cheating - or causing injuries." She looked guilty.

Harry was about to reject this overture out of hand, the old reflex, until he saw her eyes full of tears, as green as his own...and realised she meant it. Dumbledore's gentle lessons about tolerance sprang to mind. He knew he was falling for the old stereotype of Slytherin = Evil. They couldn't all be like that. Clearly they weren't - any more than Anne was, he remembered.

At least Anya wasn't, he saw now. She was rather prettier than the typical Slytherin. Taller than him, two years younger, and with - he couldn't help but notice - a very nice figure, sculpted by intense Quidditch practice. With the exception of Ritchie, Beaters were always well-built. She was, he decided, actually very pretty. Not as pretty as Ginny, but nice. She'd have no trouble finding a boyfriend.

"Or girlfriend," he could almost hear Hermione's politically correct admonishment, "at least one Ravenclaw - Rebecca Moore, I think, a sixth-year anyway - is a lesbian, and good for her, I say!"

He sighed. He'd held too many grudges in his life; he didn't need another one. "Apology accepted, Anya," he acknowledged, shaking her hand; she looked relieved and pleased. She really was a skilled Beater; until the hit, she'd kept him busy. And come to think of it, wasn't she one of the people who carried me to the hospital wing?

"Hey, did you help bring me here?"

She nodded. "I hate the sight of blood, but you needed help. Mike Jones and I carried you, he's the other Slytherin Beater, a fourth-year." She looked sour. "He wasn't too keen at first, until I threatened to hex him into next week." She looked abashed. "Won't happen again." Anya smiled wryly. "Not that we'll lay off you, of course, but I'll be more careful, I promise."

He shook his head. "Wouldn't expect you to lay off, Anya. Quidditch is a rough game, people do get hurt sometimes." He smiled. "I think Madam Pomfrey would rather we didn't play it at all." They shared a wry chuckle.

---

"What was she doing here?" Ginny demanded on seeing Anya leaving.

"She came to apologise for putting me in the hospital wing," Harry shrugged. "I think I've made a new friend."

"Harry, she's a Slytherin," Ginny warned.

"They seem to have turned over a new leaf since Crabbe was killed, Parkinson got expelled and Malfoy left," he opined. "They're not so bad these days. Could be worse, anyway. They were worse," he recalled.

Ginny had her doubts, but she let it lie for her boyfriend's sake. Then again, he was right; it seemed Slytherin were a little more subdued, at least on the Quidditch pitch. Perhaps they weren't all bad, she conceded.

"She's pretty for a Slytherin," Ginny noted.

Harry shrugged as well as he could with a broken but rapidly-healing arm. "Really? Hadn't noticed," he fibbed.

Ginny almost didn't glare. Almost. "Harry...you know what they say about redheads."

He grinned. "That you're randy?"

"No...well, yes," she allowed, but finished, "They say we're jealous...and they're right. Beater or not, she'd better watch herself. I've got things up my sleeve apart from the Bat-Bogey Hex, you know."

He decided he didn't want to find out, and reassured her by kissing her.

Across the ward Poppy didn't let anyone see her fond smile. Kids.

She'd seen young Potter far too often in his time at Hogwarts, usually owing to a Quidditch injury. Oh, the poor lad - the sooner the Ministry bans that dratted game the better, she thought, hardly for the first time. But she wished him well with Miss Weasley; she was so pretty and, Poppy had to admit, skilled on a broomstick.

He's the spitting image of his father...hmm, yes, and I saw him far too often as well - but more for magical mishaps than Quidditch injuries. Not that there weren't any, of course.

She's nothing like Lily Evans was, bless her. I'd hope she'd try to talk him out of playing Quidditch - if she wasn't a Chaser and just as mad keen as he is!

---

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry

Outside the Slytherin common room

The next day

Hermione proved herself to be an excellent choice for Head Girl right from the start. As she was passing the Slytherin common room on her way to Advanced Potions, she noticed a very little girl, surely a first-year, sitting alone. Her robes were Slytherin, and Hermione could see she was trying desperately not to cry. She sat next to the girl and said gently, "Hello. You look upset, what's wrong?"

"I...I don't know," the girl said in a voice as small as she was. "I...it hurts," she whimpered. "I think I'm ill. Please help me."

"Well, if you're ill you should go to Madam Pomfrey," Hermione began, but then she thought: Wait...that's exactly what I said to Mum, when I...oh, now I understand. "What's your name?" In fact she knew this was Joanne Williams, but it never hurt to be polite.

"Joanne Williams," she whispered, "I'm in Slytherin."

"So I see," Hermione smiled. "Hermione Granger - I'm the Head Girl, and I'm here to help. Joanne, is there blood? Between your legs?"

"How - how'd you know?!" she gasped.

Hermione stroked her dark brown hair. "In 1991 I was the same way, and my parents didn't tell me, either. They meant well, though. Joanne, it's perfectly alright, honestly. You're having what's called a period. But it's perfectly normal for a girl to bleed between her legs, and sometimes it hurts. Come on, try to stand up, and we'll go to the nurse, alright?"

They stood, the younger girl wobbling a bit. She ventured uncertainly, "But...you're a Gryffindor."

"True, but labels like that don't mean much when you're frightened. A Head Girl has to rise above inter-House rivalry. I've been where you are now, and I know how it feels." She looked at the little girl with sympathy. "It really hurts, doesn't it?" She nodded miserably. Hermione told her softly, "You don't have to be brave and try not to cry. That's my job," she quipped, "I'm the Gryffindor here."

Joanne gave in to little sobs, while trying not to laugh. She'd always been taught by her father that a Slytherin and a Gryffindor couldn't have anything in common, and she tried to explain this. But Hermione gently told her, "Joanne, sometimes even parents can make mistakes. He's wrong. We do have things in common: we're magical; we wear the same general style of robe; we attend the same school...and for us women at least, we all have the same pains every month. This way."

"Won't you miss a lesson?" she asked uncertainly, though grateful for the help.

"Some of it, yes, but it's far more important to help a fellow student," Hermione answered briskly. "Besides, I'll soon catch up."

Joanne had trouble walking, but Hermione supported her. She felt only sympathy for the poor girl; as her mother had predicted, she occasionally had really bad cramps, and only a hefty Pain-Release Spell would do. She hoped the nurse or Professor Slughorn would teach Joanne.

A first-year Ravenclaw student saw them and remarked, "I thought Slytherin was the enemy?"

"You thought wrong, Briggs," Hermione shot back shortly. "A Head Girl can't take sides. At least I don't. To prove it, five points from Ravenclaw for forgetting that. Some things," like period pains, "rise above inter-House standing."

Will Briggs looked surprised and apologetic. From that point on, every Ravenclaw student took her seriously - and quite right, too.

---

Hospital wing

"Madam Pomfrey? Could you help Joanne, please?"

Poppy bustled over to them. "Well, what seems to be the trouble?"

"Her first period," Hermione confided. "She didn't know."

The head nurse chuckled. "Oh, that's of no account, dear, you're far from the first and you won't be the last. Come over here and sit down."

"But it hurts," Joanne cried plaintively. "What's happening to me?!"

Never had Poppy Pomfrey looked so kindly and sympathetic as she gently explained, assuaging the girl's fears, helping her clean up, and gave her an elixir to ease her pain. Gradually Joanne's expression changed from worry to fascination. "Every girl bleeds?"

"Every blessed one," the nurse confirmed. "Even me, and good grief, it's such a nuisance - but that's all it is."

"It's a change in your life, but I promise it's a good change, Joanne. Among other things, it means you can have a baby." The girl looked alarmed, and Hermione hastily added, "Later, obviously, when you're ready. But you're a woman now." She gently smiled. "Congratulations. In fact...ten points to Slytherin."

Both Joanne and Poppy looked astonished, and with good reason. With those last four words, Hermione Jean Granger had made history as the first Gryffindor student ever to award points to Slytherin, Head Girl or not. But she felt she had to do something for feminine solidarity. She kissed Joanne on the cheek, bade her a fond farewell and hurried to the dungeons.

When she arrived in Potions she apologised for being late, and explained why. Professor Slughorn merely chuckled. "I thought there had to be an excellent reason for your tardiness, Hermione. Such a gracious gesture. Ten points to Gryffindor."

"I already gave ten to Joanne, sir," Hermione told him.

"Indeed?" he remarked, raising an eyebrow. He looked wistful. "Do you know, Lily Evans was always sympathetic to girls having feminine problems, even from Slytherin. So kind, she was, she could almost have been a Hufflepuff. So might you be, dear. I think a further ten points, yes, in Lily's memory. Such a sweet girl." He cleared his throat. "Right, well, best be getting on, this Antidote to Veritaserum isn't going to brew itself..."

---

The Gryffindor common room

That night

"We'll need somewhere to practice defensive spells," Hermione said, and sighed sadly. "The Room of Requirement was so good for that, I wish the Fiendfyre hadn't destroyed it."

But Seamus had a surprise for them. "Aye, don't ye ever listen? An' ye bein' the brains of Gryffindor, too. Ye needn't worry 'bout that, Neville's sorted it. I told ye he was good wi' the Room! He's the man!"

Harry (newly recovered and subsequently released from, i.e. busily shooed out of, the hospital wing) and his friends looked at each other, nonplussed, and Hermione asked, "Um, could you please explain that?"

Sipping from a goblet of pumpkin juice, Neville leaned over and grinned. "It was our first day back. I didn't come on the train, Gran brought me a few hours earlier. I think she wanted a word with the Headmistress, and I was going anyway - she's always into saving time. Anyway, I had an idea: maybe the Room could restore itself. It's magical, isn't it? So all I did -"

"All, he sez!" Seamus laughed proudly.

"- was to wish for the Room to be restored to the way it was before, and it was! Everything's in there - chairs, brooms, that old Vanishing Cabinet, even," a sly smile, "the empty sherry bottles Trelawney put in there!"

"Why, that's simply brilliant, Neville! Well done!" Hermione cried happily. "Can a Head Girl give points to her own House? I'll try anyway - fifty to Gryffindor for sheer, absolute genius!" The points were indeed awarded.

Ron quipped, "I thought we hadn't seen you on the train! That's great!"

(The Headmistress said later, "The possibility of bias notwithstanding, a Head Boy or Girl may indeed award points to, or deduct points from, their own House, provided they themselves have nothing to do with it. Since this happy event occurred even before you set foot in the school again, clearly it was an independent achievement, and thus the points stand, Miss Granger." She actually smiled. "Very clever, wasn't it?")

"You mean the Room works exactly the way it used to?" Harry chuckled. "Nice one, Neville."

Neville grinned proudly. "Whatever you need, the Room will provide."

---

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry

2nd September, 1999

He was more right than he knew. Just after midnight, a nondescript student of medium height - and, though no-one knew it yet, maximum evil - with light brown hair concealed by a hood, stood before the Room, having arrived early as Neville had, and wished for it to be the place where everything was hidden. The Room obliged.

The student had only just regained the true memories, though as yet no-one had known them even to exist, and was still unsure of things. There was barely-remembered gossip from the fifth year, though the hidden book Snape had supposedly written in was of no concern whatsoever. No, there was something vastly more important in there. At least there would be, if a certain Gryffindor student had slipped up as badly as the student hoped he had.

Once secure inside the student hurried to a certain bust of a certain warlock. There on its head, under a dusty old wig, was a tiara.

Or a diadem.

Oh, yes. I hoped he'd do this. Magic can be so literal sometimes. Well done, Neville...or badly done.

The student touched the diadem almost reverently, then put it carefully into a pocket. So innocuous, yet so vital.

Stage One is complete, and the poor fool doesn't even know what he's done!

Now for Stage Two...hmm, who can I use...? Oh, I know: that Hufflepuff queer, no-one will ever suspect her, the piss-crazy bitch. Perfect.

I'll need materials, though, and time to prepare them. The Death Eaters will help, once I explain who I really am, and who I'm working for...

---

Hogsmeade, near the Shrieking Shack

2:27 am

There were only seven of them left now; the others were dead or in Azkaban, as Ron had said. "Now what?" Frank Baker asked cynically. He'd barely evaded the Ministry after the Battle by using his illegal Animagus skills, turning into a scruffy three-legged Crup. The other six had similarly used Dark magic to escape. For all of them, it had been a close thing. They were stunned to receive the message, more stunned to be told the identity of its originator. To meet here, on the outskirts of Hogwarts, was surely -

"- the last thing anyone in the Ministry would suspect," the voice assured them as its owner stepped onto the path. "Double bluff isn't their forte. The Shack, quickly." A Portkey, a dead toad, was held up and used. They Apparated as ordered, and the mysterious figure told them everything - who she supposedly was, who she really was, what had been done, and what was to transpire by her will and with their aid.

"Are we expected just to believe this?" Baker demanded.

"Believe that the Dark Lord can return? Believe my true parentage? Oh, yes. But if you want proof..." The figure bared one arm and pressed.

To their shock, the Dark Mark appeared.

"It's faded, of course, since I've had it from birth," she told them casually, "but as you know, only true Death Eaters bear His mark. And He certainly can and will return, and He will reward his faithful followers...if you obey me. Do you?"

They nodded eagerly. Except one, who shook her head derisively. "You're deluding yourselves! The Master is gone, and he's not coming back, not this time! The best we can do is to lie low and get the hell out of Britain when we can, as soon as we can!" Eloise Fisk spat. "I've had enough of being a follower! You look after yourself in this life, kid, and I don't give a fuck who you claim to be, Dark Mark or no fucking Dark Mark!"

"A doubter," the figure purred dangerously. "Go, then."

"Oh, I will!" Fisk rose as if to leave. She held up two fingers. "Fuck you, bitch bastard!"

"That," the figure said silkily, "is not what I meant. Foul-mouthed whore, you sound like a drunken Muggle." A wand was abruptly raised. Before Fisk could react - not that it would have helped - the words were snarled with hate and anger: "Avada Kedavra!"

There was a green flash of light, and Fisk fell instantly dead.

"When I said 'go', I meant...'die'," the figure told them with cold malice. She'd thoroughly enjoyed her first use of the Killing Curse. Oh, she'd killed before, in her earlier life, but by far more...conventional means. She'd thrilled to watch Fisk die.

The remaining Death Eaters dropped to their knees, convinced. The overpowered Reducto curse, which caused the corpse to burn and vanish, was hardly necessary to further drive the point home.

"Any further questions?"

Baker had one, asked hoarsely. "What - what must we do?"

Their ruler, for such the figure now was, intoned, "Do you wish for the Dark Lord to return?"

They nodded.

"Do you obey me in all things, young though I am?"

A female Death Eater spoke reverently. "We do. Until He returns, your word is law."

"And if He should command that you obey me as you would Him?"

Together they chanted, "The Dark Lord be praised. Should He command it, we obey you as we would Him."

"We do so now, Mistress!" one fawned. "We have prayed for His return, as He returned before!"

"Yes!" another, Georgina Blake, screamed in ecstasy. "By your will and our aid, let Him return!"

An evil, satisfied smile. "Very good, my friends. Very good. Then listen very closely to what I - we - will need..."

---

A number of well-executed thefts occurred over the next few days and nights. Some of the ingredients needed, however, could be obtained from legitimate sources, and the Death Eaters did just that for the sake of secrecy. They employed a modified form of Polyjuice Potion to disguise themselves, the requisite materials obtained from Muggle captives.

The appearances of the Death Eaters were altered to look older - the captives' ages ranged from very nearly seventeen, in one case (with his 18-year-old sister), to twenty. They discovered it was easiest to take captives from nearby Muggle nightclubs once they were on their way home, often drunk and unwary. Usually hair or nail clippings were used for Polyjuice Potion imposture.

Blood, they found, worked just as well and for longer than an hour, albeit in large quantities. Unfortunately one girl weakened and died after three doses were taken; Blake had proven to be...overzealous. Her life was spared only by her terrified honesty; their ruler considered putting her to death, but settled for chastising her. Plus, she knew, they were Seven now, the ideal mystical number.

The girl was only a Muggle, after all, and she did need the erring Death Eater, so she casually disposed of the body. Since they bred like rabbits, there were plenty more. Indeed, the contrite Death Eater later brought two girls to the Shack, to be used - carefully - in subsequent disguises.

Tasting the blood of one terrified girl, dripping from the deep cut in her naked left breast (every captive, boy or girl, was stripped nude with the Nakedestra Totalus curse, for their humiliation and her enjoyment - it ripped clothes to shreds, tore them off entirely and burned them), the Mistress nodded, liking the use of Muggle blood. "Very good. You've redeemed yourself. In fact," she smiled, "you've done well, to bring a spare."

Gratefully Blake fell to her knees, knowing her error was forgiven now. "Thank you, Mistress. You're gracious. What should we do with them?"

"We'll need them and the others, until we have everything. After that," she shrugged, "do whatever you like with them; if you kill them, make sure the Muggles don't find the...bodies. But..." a sadistic smirk, "leave one for me."

The Death Eater stood and bowed. "As you command." Then, sharing the sadistic tastes of her Mistress and being a lesbian to boot, she asked lustfully, "Boy or girl? For Muggles, the girls are pretty, especially the ones I took. I thought they'd please you."

Her Mistress chuckled as their victims cowered, terrified. "Oh, I don't really care. Boys have cocks and balls, so vulnerable; girls can take more pain. Both are fun in their own way."

"Fun to rape?" Blake dared.

"And to kill," the Mistress laughed evilly.

One girl wet herself. The Mistress noticed, laughed and temporarily freed her, saying, "Lick that up, Muggle. Every drop."

Instead, seizing her chance, the girl desperately raced out, neither knowing nor caring where she was going, or that she was naked. She only knew, correctly, that to stay was to die. She had to escape and find help, somewhere.

"Oops," the Mistress quipped. They let the girl run a few hundred yards down the path, allowing her to think she'd escaped. Then she turned idly to her servant. "Fetch her back."

"Accio Muggle!" the Death Eater snapped, grinning, and the spell caught hold of the girl, dragging her remorselessly back to the Shack.

On the ground, covered in dirt and blood, the naked Inverness girl begged, "Nae, nae, please dinna kill me, please!"

She knelt and caressed the girl's breast. "Oh, not yet, my dear little Muggle. Not yet. Incarcerous! Wingardium Leviosa!"

While they made their way back, the bound girl wept and wet herself again. Both women ignored this. There were much more important things to do first than to clean up, and so they were done.

But the captive girl was indeed forced to lick up her own urine...and, later, that of any other captive.

That was the least of the tortures she would endure, before her brutal rape (by the Mistress, and by two well-hung boys under the Imperius Curse, who were also forced to commit violent buggery with her and with each other, with Death Eaters laughing in scorn as the poor girl of eighteen, previously a virgin, screamed and bled from her labia and her raped, ruptured bottom) and her sex murder - by a boy.

Somehow, even under the Curse, he wept as he killed her, whilst up to his balls (fully eight inches of cock) in her bleeding bottom.

Her blood bathed his penis as, already dying from her terrible injuries, she screamed in agony, humiliation and terror. She knew him and, lacking understanding of the Imperius Curse, vainly pleaded, "Nae, Jamie, please dinna do this, dinna kill me, please!" But in response to a direct command, though he tried desperately to resist, he gripped her head and broke her neck. The girl's head was twisted violently to one side, and more blood spilled out of her mouth as she gasped, wet herself again and died.

And she wasn't the last, not once the Death Eaters' stores were complete. "Ooh, I love the sound of a breaking Muggle neck," the Mistress gloated orgasmically. "Do the boy brat, Frank - while you're up his arse," she added silkily. Baker chuckled, stripped and obeyed, freeing the boy once he was engaged in anal rape, though the lad already knew what was happening and the terrible thing he'd unwillingly done, and was both appalled and terrified. His neck, too, was snapped, but Baker kept thrusting, panting, even as the boy's head lolled limply with open, agonised brown eyes.

It was an appalling gift for his seventeenth birthday, to be raped, murdered and raped again, in that order.

"Filthy bastard," Tamara McGillis cursed in disgust. Obeying the Mistress was one thing (she didn't dare disobey, remembering how Fisk had died), and they were only dirty little Muggles, so she would happily kill them, but even so there were limits; she drew the line at fucking the dead. Even a Muggle deserved a little more dignity than that...a little.

But the Mistress laughed and bade him continue buggering the dead teenage boy. What was a little necrophilia aimed at Muggles?

The rest soon followed, dying in various agonising ways. None of the murdered Muggles were ever found, by design.

Scotland's equivalent of CID, the Specialist Crime Division, looked closely into the disappearances, but no ready evidence was forthcoming...at least, no evidence the Chief Inspector would have believed. Had the Auror Office concerned themselves - as, later, they realised they should have - things might have been different.

Muggles, however, disappeared all the time, usually for innocuous reasons, and thus the Ministry did not investigate. It was an error they would come to bitterly regret.

Once the Muggles were disposed of, the Mistress stripped slowly; she knew at least one of her followers would enjoy it. She softly ordered them to have sex with her and with each other, gender be damned. The three men and three women eagerly threw off their robes and joined the Mistress in a frantic, Firewhisky-fuelled orgy. Though she wasn't pretty and knew it, the men and the lesbian used her regardless, and she relished it.

Some spilled Muggle blood was left; before disposing of that, too, she and others rolled in it, even licking it.

Whilst two men were up her, the bloodstained Mistress conjured a photo and gasped, "Not him! He belongs to the Dark Lord! The others, yes, use them as you will, but not him! Oh, yes, Frank, I love anal! Bugger me! YES!"

The lesbian, being licked out by a woman who was proving her bisexuality, looked at the photo and grinned, moaning in pleasure. "As you...ohh...as you command, Mistress. Don't stop, Diane, don't you dare stop!"

Diane Wallis had no intention of stopping. She'd been pregnant twice during the Dark Lord's reign, both times by raped Muggle men...and she'd enjoyed murdering each unborn child in her womb as they watched in horror, before their brutal deaths. Wands, she'd discovered, were so useful for self-inflicted abortion. Both times the Dark Lord had praised her as the blood and bits of sprog poured out of her vagina.

Even by Death Eater standards she was a pervert.

She would, she decided, enjoy abusing the Weasley bitch - get her knocked up by some random Muggle, use an illegal Time-Turner analogue to move her forwards a few months, then, before skinning the ginger minger alive, abort the brat with her wand...or a knife, she gloated as Eric Long spurted into her and she climaxed, screaming. In her heady passion she bit Blake's labia, but the dyke yelled in pain and pleasure, crying, "Again, you bitch, again! Aaah, I LOVE pain! HURT ME! YES! AAAAGGHHH!"

The discarded photo, of a boy in full Gryffindor Seeker uniform, grinned and waved - with no idea whatsoever of what he was in for.

Their debauched drunken orgy continued till the dawn - men with women, men with men, women with women, threesomes and, once, all Seven together in a sweaty tangle of arms and legs. The room reeked of drink, sweat and sex.

Wait until Stage Two is done, the Mistress gloatingly thought as she climaxed with a tongue up her pussy - she neither knew nor much cared whose - they'll really enjoy me then!

---

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry

The Headmistress's Study, that same night

"Nothing," Greythorne growled, dispirited. "Whoever the impostor is, they are lying very low at present. There is not even a hint of untoward behaviour. I have asked the elves, particularly Kreacher, to keep an eye on things. Nothing." He shivered. "And yet all my Auror instincts are screaming at me that I have missed something. It is my belief that I have in fact encountered the impostor already - but failed to recognise this."

"Quite possible," Professor McGonagall nodded soberly, "particularly with the use of Polyjuice Potion. We have already seen," she grimaced, "how effective it can be."

"The false Moody," he nodded. "A major error on our part. Someone should have spotted Crouch."

"Death Eaters have a number of ways to disguise themselves, some more effective than others," Snape pointed out. "Most likely the best strategy would be to do what we did in the Triwizard Tournament with Potter: allow matters to unfold, and then take action."

"Prevention is better than cure, Severus," Dumbledore observed.

"Unless there is no cure," Snape countered.

Ever the pragmatist, Dumbledore did not argue.

---

Then Greythorne received news of - not thefts, exactly, but purchases of peculiar but legal items. In and of themselves they were innocuous, but his Auror instincts were aroused. There had been a few disappearances of Muggles in the general area of Hogwarts; they weren't as far away from Muggle cities as he would have preferred.

Muggle hair and the like was as efficacious in the brewing of Polyjuice Potion as the same ingredients were from witches and wizards. Why Muggles, though? Unless the purchases weren't as above board as they seemed. One - viper venom - was only ever used in Dark magic...of which he knew more than he wished. No, he was sure now that something was going on.

But what?

---

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry

21st September, 1999

"Hey, Hermione," Debbie Grant greeted her saucily, smiling and licking her lips. She was a seventh-year Hufflepuff, but not under suspicion as far as Hermione knew, because unusually she was a Muggle-born - her mother was a librarian, her Dad an office manager; both fitted well into the Muggle world. No, the older girl decided, she was just being herself. Maybe she smiles like that at everyone. I wouldn't be surprised. Even the teachers say her behaviour's sexual.

"Hello, Debbie," she smiled back, gathering her things for the next lesson, Arithmancy. But she was taken aback when the girl stroked her hand, almost a caress.

"Up for a little...extracurricular?" she offered lazily. Her hand moved slowly, sensually up Hermione's arm. The look she gave Hermione was frankly sexual. She wants me, Hermione understood nervously. Debbie was very tall, fully six feet - and at least, she tried not to notice, a C-cup. She was blonde-haired and, Hermione had to admit, classically beautiful. She knew it, too, but didn't trade on it...much.

Debbie was very outspoken for a Hufflepuff, almost brazen or even wanton, but then again there were quiet Gryffindors - and, she'd learned from Harry, non-cheating Slytherins. Takes all sorts, she supposed. Even among Ravenclaws, some were less intelligent than others.

"Um...I hope I don't offend you, Debbie, but I'm really not into girls. I leave that to girls like Rebecca."

The girl shrugged, unfazed, but didn't move her hand, playing with Hermione's robe. "I know, she's a lezzie. Nice, but she's not my type." She smiled lasciviously. "You are, though. You're really cute, and sexy, too. Being so tall, I tend to like short girls. You might be more interested than you think," she urged. She moved closer, clearly intending a kiss.

Hermione stood her ground. "Debbie, it's flattering, honestly, but I have a boyfriend. A boyfriend," she emphasised.

Debbie sighed, disappointed but unsurprised. "You're sure? He doesn't need to know," she teased. "A bit of fun on the side...?"

"I'm sorry, but no, thank you," Hermione declared firmly.

"Can I kiss you anyway?"

She really is persistent, Hermione sighed to herself. But it was nice to be considered so attractive she appealed to girls as well as boys; she'd never had that before. In theory it was a bit shallow to be admired for her looks, but she still liked it. And Debbie's offer was friendly enough.

Surely one kiss couldn't hurt.

But she was mistaken. As their lips met, Debbie deliberately, hungrily slid her tongue into Hermione's mouth, turning the kiss French, and fondled her bottom. Debbie was excited when they broke the kiss, Hermione a little scared.

"Please let me go, Debbie," she warned. She didn't want to do anything offensive - Debbie was just being friendly, even if it was inappropriate - but she would if she had to. "Honestly, I am not into girls. I am not a lesbian." Unseen, she felt for her wand; she would use it if things went too far.

Which they might - she's excited. I really hope I can stop this before it starts...if it hasn't already.

"Can I feel your tits? You can feel mine, I like it." A lecherous smile. "My last lover told me they're a nice handful at 36C, not too big."

"Please don't," Hermione pleaded quietly. Undeterred, Debbie kissed her again, as deeply, and squeezed her bottom a little harder.

I don't want to hurt you, Debbie, Hermione thought, worried. Please stop. Once more, or anything else, and I'll Stun you...

They broke the kiss again, with Debbie breathing heavily, clearly aroused now, her blue eyes bright.

Her perfume was subtle, and nice. Even sweating, she smelled good.

Are all lesbians so tall? Hermione couldn't help but wonder. Debbie, at six feet, rather towered over her; she was a bit on the short side. She was very blonde and, Hermione let herself admit, very pretty, with high cheekbones and pale but healthy-looking skin.

Her eyes were very blue, like Dresden china. A short, cute nose - slightly retroussé, but cute.

The robe had an unusual cut and showed more of her legs than the usual - and very nice and strong-looking they were, too. Her legs told Hermione she kept in trim without being obsessive about it, like a Muggle tennis player. The girl rather reminded her of Steffi Graf in her heyday; she'd seen her at Wimbledon for the 1988 finals and had cheered her on. It was a lovely day out, especially when Steffi won the Grand Slam.

"Mmm, that was nice," Debbie purred sexily, but slowly released Hermione and backed off as slowly. "You're a good kisser, Ron's a lucky lad. But I know when a girl isn't keen. Sorry," she apologised, "I think I pushed it a bit."

"No, that's quite all right," a relieved Hermione assured her, "I'm not offended, really." Now she smiled. "It takes a lot more than a slightly inappropriate kiss and a bit of fondling to offend me."

"No wonder," Debbie noted soberly, "you were tortured, weren't you?" She took Hermione's hand, revealing the 'Mudblood' scar Bellatrix had sadistically carved into her wrist and which the St. Mungo's healers had done their best to remove, to no avail. "Oh, I'm so sorry, love, but the knife must have been cursed, it won't budge," one had told her sorrowfully. They'd tried everything they knew, but her scar was forever - just like Harry's.

"I was, yes," Hermione confirmed very quietly. "I'd really rather not talk about that, if you don't mind." Or even if you do.

She tried not to remember, but as her mild case of PTSD emerged, it all came flooding back...

---

The Malfoy Manor

As Bellatrix is torturing, and intending to murder, Hermione

"You are lying, filthy Mudblood, and I know it! You have been inside my vault at Gringotts! Tell the truth, tell the truth!" Bellatrix screamed in fury, and cut, and gouged, and her helpless victim screamed again and again in agony and terror; she gloated at the sight of the brat's blood. There were many ways to kill, and they worked as well on witches and wizards as they did on Muggles.

True, her master's concerns were far more vital and would be addressed first, but if the Mudblood died under torture, she supposed, there were always the others. Never Potter, though, no - he belonged to the Dark Lord. But she could indulge herself, she decided gleefully, with the Weasley boy. Males were so much fun to abuse.

Or, better yet, the Lovegood oddity; her captors had roughed her up, but she was tougher than she looked, as Ravenclaws often were, and so she could take a lot.

She'd get it, too. Such a cute little thing. It'd be a real pleasure to watch her die.

Bellatrix remembered one, a Muggle of just seventeen, whom her master had idly permitted her to kill; she nearly came at the delicious memory. So much blood spraying, Sectumsempra was such a useful spell when used on Muggles; Snape had excelled himself with its invention...

---

The Malfoy Manor

The day before Charity Burbage's murder

The terrified girl - who was naked, the better to display the wounds and her spurting, jetting blood - screamed in torment as she died, wetting herself, her blue eyes still open and streaming with tears. She was so beautiful in death, covered in her life's blood.

Her identity was entirely irrelevant even before her death, certainly after. She was dead, after all.

The Dark Lord complimented Bellatrix on the spell's use as she fell dead, violated and almost drained of blood, at his feet, and her killer shuddered in ecstasy - as much from the sadistic slaughter as from the praise. "Her mother is next, Bellatrix; she is part of my eventual plan to dominate the Muggle world. She is a minor obstacle, and must be...removed," he declared silkily, casually, as if the death of a Muggle was nothing...which, of course, it was. "See to it."

"At once, my Lord," Bellatrix panted eagerly. She neither knew nor cared much who this bitch was, either; the Dark Lord desired her death, commanded it, and so die she would...eventually - but certainly. Bellatrix loved to kill almost as much as she loved to serve the Dark Lord. This time, though, she resolved gleefully, there would be no magic - just a knife, to terrify her victim even more. She drew it, licking her lips.

"Now you will die, as your daughter died, you filthy Muggle scum," she gloated. Her death would be just as delicious as her brat's death had been.

"No," the equally naked Muggle bitch screamed in wild terror as her tormentor closed in, "please, no! NO!"

"Begin," the Dark Lord commanded coldly, and eagerly she slashed the woman's arm for starters. The blood spurted beautifully.

"AAAGH! NO! NO, DON'T KILL ME, PLEASE, PLEASE! LET ME LIVE! PLEASE!" she begged, but it was futile.

"Without your daughter?" Bellatrix mocked. "Tsk, tsk. I think you should die just for that." She paused. "Don't you agree, my Lord?"

"Oh, yes," he nodded, enjoying the mocking sadistic game. "Such lack of care. Typical Muggle. Kill her slowly."

Bellatrix laughed as she sliced across the woman's belly, barely exposing her entrails and forcing a horrified shriek from her victim. She looked again to the Dark Lord, panting, her eyes wild and nipples hard. Her breast heaved excitedly.

He shrugged. "There is no rush, Bellatrix. We have time. Continue. Nagini - dinner soon, my pet. She will feast on them when both are dead."

His huge snake hissed as he stroked her head. This time the blade was slowly inserted into the woman's torso to cause maximum agony yet minimum damage, the spot carefully selected for such a purpose, like the Iron Maiden of old. There were several such places. Bellatrix repeated the torture elsewhere on the Muggle's body, evoking an agonised shriek every time. So much fresh, living blood, ooh...

The girl's mother screamed as loudly, begged as prettily and as uselessly for her life, cried as much, and died as slowly and even more bloodily. Mmm, even a Muggle's blood tastes good, she thought, licking the bloody long-bladed knife with relish before and after the woman's slow, agonising death. She'd decided to limit herself to killing a Muggle once a day when the Dark Lord ruled all.

Maybe twice. Three times? Mmm...does it matter? They're only Muggles...

But one needed to exercise restraint, save some for later. The Dark Lord had taught her that.

Even being eaten they look good, Bellatrix thought in near-orgasm, as Nagini bit and tore at their dead flesh. Ooh, the cute, innocent-looking ones, man or woman, boy or girl, Muggle or not, always look good screaming, bleeding and dying -

---

Enough! Hermione thought determinedly, recalling all she'd read in the Ministry's grim file on Bellatrix and her victims whilst trying to forget, plus eyewitness accounts from the few surviving Death Eaters before they were bundled off to Azkaban. This was no time to remember such horrible accounts or such traumatic events.

Hopefully there would never be a time.

It was the worst pain she'd ever felt.

And Bellatrix had known...and, Merlin's soul, had relished the knowledge...

Oh, God, no, please, not again, please...!

But against her will the awful, horrible memory continued...

---

The Malfoy Manor, again

"No, no, please," Hermione begged tearfully, her blood staining the knife and the floor, "no more, please, PLEASE -!"

But she saw with horror that the woman was as excited as she was afraid because her master's secret was out, and she wouldn't stop until she had her answers - or until Hermione was dead, whichever came first, and, oh God, she really didn't care if her victim died - worse, she'd like it that way, Bellatrix wanted to kill her...!

Hermione had never needed to pee so much in her entire life. The pain, the agony, was indescribable - not just the curse, though, God, that was bad enough, but the cuts, too, which now formed the filthy word 'Mudblood' on her wrist, red with her blood. She was so glad her parents didn't know, would never know. To them, living with their altered memories in Australia, there was no such person as Hermione Jean Granger.

And soon, no doubt, there really wouldn't be any such person, once she suffered and died in torment...

"What else did you take, what else? ANSWER ME! CRUCIO!" The Cruciatus Curse struck home, lancing into her body and soul. She knew now that no amount of pleading would help.

The curse ripped through her. It did little physical harm, but that was no comfort.

And it was worse than ever, she screamed, sure now that she was going to die, Bellatrix would kill her and enjoy every moment of it, and dear God, poor Luna would be next for torture and murder, she knew, oh, Luna, I'm so sorry, there's nothing I can do to stop her. She screamed in sheer terror and excruciating torment, ready to wet herself, oh God, it hurts so much, she wants to kill me, she's going to kill me, please, please, God, please let me die quickly -

---

Enough! Molly KILLED her! She's DEAD! It's OVER!

And I did NOT pee! Well, not then, anyway...

To her surprise, Debbie gently kissed the scar. The contact felt...nice, soothing. It helped her focus and put the horrible memories away.

She was sure the girl had intended just that, and was profoundly grateful to her. Thanks, Debbie, even if...Thanks.

"My parents were so-called Mudbloods, too," Debbie told her softly. "You were so brave. I'm so sorry that happened." She kissed the scar again.

"T - thank you," Hermione returned shakily. She now saw Debbie's offer for what it was: friendly but hopeful, and she was sure the younger girl would have followed through on it, even...made love with her. But it wasn't to be, and she knew that too. And she had been kind about Bellatrix.

She didn't mean any harm, or offence, Hermione saw now. In her way, she was trying to help. Hermione appreciated that, even liked it.

"Another time, maybe?" Debbie offered pleasantly, stroking and then releasing her scarred wrist.

On taking stock of herself, Hermione discovered to her surprise that her nipples were a little hard, and, yes, she had enjoyed each kiss a little bit. So her innate honesty came to the fore, and she confessed, "Debbie, I'm not refusing you absolutely. I'm not saying never. Things change. Attitudes change, especially at my age, and even sexuality, sometimes, or so my parents tell me. Who knows what I'll be feeling next year? Or you, for that matter?" She smiled. "Rain check, as the Americans say?"

Debbie returned the smile. Apparently they were still friendly. "Okay. I can wait," and her smile broadened into a grin. Hermione sighed in fond exasperation, and they went their separate ways. She was just barely in time for her lesson.

Hermione spent the rest of the evening thinking about their last kiss - and thinking, if she admitted it to herself, how much she'd...liked it.

She tried, really tried, not to picture Debbie naked, her 36Cs out and proud, displaying her gorgeous legs and the silky blonde wetness between them...I've never thought this way about a girl before. What's wrong with me? It's Ron I love. And I do love him. When we're both ready I'll happily spread my legs, and he'll have me, he'll make love with me, and I'm sure we'll both enjoy it.

But...Debbie is beautiful, there's no denying it. She's...sexy. She wants me, I know she does. It's...nice. Flattering. I did like kissing her.

Did I get a little wet? I think I did...

Am I a lesbian? Am I bisexual? Live and let live, I usually think, I don't mind at all if people are gay, even Professor Dumbledore was...but what do I know, really?

---

But Rebecca set her straight when she visited the Ravenclaw common room: "Oh, don't worry if you happened to like kissing a girl, it doesn't make you gay. There's much more to it than that." She smiled impishly and stood up. "Watch this." She kissed Luna full on the lips.

"Ooh, that was nice," Luna smiled, unoffended. "Should I take my bra and knickers off now? I wouldn't be embarrassed. They're only small, but I've heard people say they're pretty. And I do trim my pubes. I like things neat."

As a startled Hermione laughed, Rebecca inquired, "Luna, do you feel gay?"

"No, not at all, but that wasn't the intent, was it?" Luna replied, with her usual disarming honesty. "You were just making a point by kissing me - you weren't trying to get my knickers off, you're not like that. Girls would avoid you if you were, and they don't. That's fine. It was nice. If you ever want to make love with me, I'd be willing, Rebecca, even though I'm not gay and I wouldn't know what to do, but I'm sure you'd show me. I'm still a virgin yet, even with boys. Neville might change that, though." Ooh, TMI, Hermione thought ruefully. Luna smiled again. "Are you going to kiss another girl?"

"No, the point's made, Luna. No offence."

"Oh, none taken," Luna replied in her soft, lovely near-Irish accent. "I'm not offended just because you're a lesbian and I'm not, or because you didn't ask. It's okay." Indeed, Hermione thought fondly, it didn't seem possible to offend Luna; she was dippy and held some very odd beliefs, but she was clever even for a Ravenclaw and her heart was very much in the right place. Neville was a lucky lad.

(Once he worked up the courage to approach her - which didn't take long; he had, after all, single-handedly slain Voldemort's pet snake - with the perspicacity he really should've foreseen from a Ravenclaw, she just smiled slightly and lilted, "Oh, I know you've fancied me for ages - I was just waiting for you to say so. I like you, too. Okay. See you in Hogsmeade at seven tonight?" Once he'd finished doing a very good impression of a landed fish, and his friends had stopped laughing, cheering and tousling his hair, she'd heard they'd had a nice time, and good for them.

When he wrote to tell his gran she sent a Howler of sorts, but modified, telling him (and the whole school!) he was a good boy and a true Gryffindor, that she and his parents were very proud of him, and that Luna, whom she'd met at the Battle of Hogwarts, was a very nice girl and that she thoroughly approved. Professor McGonagall gave them both a warm, indulgent smile and awarded fifty points to each House; Hermione squealed in delight and hugged them both.

As he had when he and Seamus had blown up the bridge and he'd barely survived, he grinned and said, "That went well." It was his fourth-fondest memory, getting together with Seamus, who had a reputation for finding ways to blow things up - and finding ways to blow things up which weren't meant to blow up, or even things which couldn't blow up. The third-fondest was of killing Nagini, as Harry had asked.

The second-fondest memory, of course, was of kissing Luna, who smiled and trilled, "Ooh, that was nice, shall we do it again?"

Sadly it didn't last, as Dean had correctly predicted; it was a summer fling. He did, however, go out with and later married Hannah Abbott, who was "equally nice, and capable", his fondest memory by far. Luna later married Rolf Scamander, Newt's grandson.)

"Thanks," Rebecca smiled now. Luna had become quite popular after the Battle, despite her odd ways; she just smiled and took it in her stride, like everything else. If anyone called her 'Loony' Lovegood now, they meant it affectionately. Not that she'd ever minded when they didn't, of course.

She returned to The Quibbler, which as usual (for her, anyway) was upside down.

Rebecca sat again. "To tell you the truth," she confided softly, "I would bed her; she's pretty, in her way. Nice little bum. Anyway. My point is: people are complicated, Hermione. We all respond to different things at different times in different ways. And Debbie is sexy, it has to be said - beautiful 36Cs," she added saucily. "I saw her naked in the showers once, I thought she was gorgeous, and I made her an offer. To be honest I'd have been all over her, but I'm not her type. No offence meant, none taken. Even though I am, I freely admit, a randy bitch."

She grinned, and Hermione found a chuckle.

"I've, um, noticed," she quipped.

"But human sexuality is a very fluid thing," Rebecca continued seriously now, "it's never fixed in one direction for all time."

"Really?"

"Oh, yeah, lezzies usually find that out the first year they come out, like I did. Even the most hetero girl likes a lezzie kiss now and again. Doesn't mean you're a closet lezzie, or even bi. Debbie's nice, and pretty, and as a nice girl yourself you responded to a degree." She shrugged. "Been there, done that. The first girl I kissed, when I was eleven, she was two years older and relentlessly hetero. But she still liked it." Rebecca licked her lips. "I really liked it. I even got a bit wet," she confided. "Ooh, she was sexy, Andrea was. Little breasts, but a lovely bum and legs to die for."

"That's how you found out?"

"Yes. It was on a dare. Neither of us expected to enjoy it, but we did. Once I'd kissed a couple of other girls and I was sure, I came out to Mum. She was really nice about it, very supportive." She smiled. "I'm glad the Head Girl is, too, I was worried I wouldn't fit in - I was home schooled for the first two years, then they sent me to Hogwarts. Professor Flitwick was really nice about it, and Ravenclaws are too logical for prejudice. That was why the Hat put me in Ravenclaw when I was admitted. That, plus excellent grades." She wasn't boasting, though. Ravenclaws didn't.

What she'd thought at first would be a terminal embarrassment turned out to be one of her fondest memories at Hogwarts...

---

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry

1st September, 1994

"Well, the Sorting is almost complete - almost," Professor Dumbledore pronounced when the first-years had found their places. "But occasionally Hogwarts plays host to students who have, for a time, been schooled at home - attendance at Hogwarts is of course optional, and there are many excellent reasons why a family may make such a choice. This is not the first time; we have taught several capable home-educated students in the past, and we are nothing if not flexible." He smiled gently. "They are, of course, just as welcome as the first-years.

"One such student is Miss Rebecca Moore; though she is not a first-year student, nonetheless she must still be Sorted." He smiled gently at the nervous girl, apparently a third-year, tallish, gangly and awkward. She made her way to the Sorting Stool, and the Hat was put in place.

"Right," it said briskly. "A latecomer, but not the first, and that's quite alright. Oh, it'll set you apart, yes, but you'll settle in soon enough. An occasional bit of mischief, I see. And...oh, you're not quite what most people would call normal, are you?" it observed tactfully.

Rebecca panicked; she wasn't ready to come out yet, only her Mum knew so far (Dad had been away a few years; confidential Ministry business, apparently, something time-related - there was a good chance he would come home younger than when he left!), though Mr. Ollivander had given her a funny look when she went to find her wand...and not, she felt, just because she wasn't eleven. "Please don't tell anyone," she pleaded, then went pale. "Unless - unless they just heard -!"

The Hat chuckled. "No-one but you can hear me, dear. I won't even mention it to the Headmaster - any discussion I might hold with a student is confidential, don't worry. The only thing anyone will hear is my final verdict.

"Besides, you'll find witches and wizards to be far more accepting than Muggles usually are - especially since you're a pure-blood, which unfortunately is much more important, to some at least. Not where you're going, though - it'll be no more important than your blood status, believe me. No, a studious, logical, intelligent girl like you, whatever your sexuality, should definitely go to RAVENCLAW!"

Dumbledore nodded. "The Hat has spoken, Miss Moore. You may join your housemates at table." He cleared his throat. "I have only two words to say to you," he told them, his deep voice echoing around the Hall. "Tuck in."

She went to Ravenclaw, relieved, and, to laughter, everyone tucked in. She was delighted by the spread, as magnificent as Mum had said it was. She soon discovered through conversation that Ravenclaws were indeed logical. Too logical for prejudice? Better find out. She sought out a Prefect, Tina James, and ventured, "Um, can I tell you something in confidence?"

Tina smiled pleasantly. "What, that you're a lesbian?" Rebecca looked shocked. "Oh, I can tell. Your body language was screaming it, plus you had a talk with the Hat; it knew before I did, I was so surprised. Spent my first year on the Egyptian River."

"Sorry?"

"Denial," she explained, and the others chuckled at the awful pun. Her smile turned compassionate; she understood. "I've been out for four years now, ever since I worked it out in my second year - I kissed a boy and a girl that Christmas, both on dares, and I realised I'd enjoyed kissing the girl more. I was certain when I ran into her on New Year's Eve and kissed her again. She's going to be my date for the Yule Ball, if we ever have it again - McGonagall has her doubts, but I bet we'll have a great time. Takes one to know one." She patted Rebecca's hand reassuringly. "So please don't worry. Here, let's get it over with."

"What -?"

Tina raised her voice. "Professor Flitwick? Rebecca's gay, sir, and worried about coming out. Could you talk to her, please?"

At first Rebecca gasped in horror and put her red face in her hands, feeling her life was over. But the Head of House chuckled kindly and said, "My dear Miss Moore, there's really nothing to worry about. If homosexuality was an issue at Hogwarts, don't you think the Head of House Ravenclaw would have a problem being gay? Or, for that matter, the Headmaster? Think nothing of it, dear. You are not the first gay student and you will not be the last, I assure you. Please don't worry." He held up a chicken leg in salute.

"You see?" Tina grinned. "Welcome to Ravenclaw, lezzie."

Her housemates, too, were wonderfully supportive - to them, it simply didn't matter. She'd never known such acceptance before, and was delighted - so much so that she spontaneously kissed a second-year girl next to her. The girl wasn't shocked, offended or angry; she just said, "Sorry, I like boys." Then she smiled. "Getting off to an early start, aren't you?"

Several students in earshot chuckled, but kindly. She was greatly relieved. They were, she discovered happily, far more interested in her two years of home schooling than in her sexuality.

Except for one third-year girl, brunette, very tall and, she noticed, very pretty, who kept subtly glancing at her.

Mmm, she's pretty...is she gay?

That same night, it turned out that she was, and they spent the night kissing and cuddling. Rebecca had never been so happy. Her new girlfriend ("Well, after all that snogging and cuddling, I'd better be!") was called Sherry, a Muggle-born - not that that mattered. "Believe me," Sherry winced, "being queer's bad enough!" Rebecca laughed and kissed her anew.

First lesson the next day was Potions, and she made a point of mentioning it, "before you hear it from anyone else, sir."

"A lesbian," Snape noted matter-of-factly. "Interesting...but hardly relevant. In this subject, Miss Moore, you will find your skills - or lack thereof - with retort, paring knife and cauldron to be more important. Your...sexuality...will earn you neither points nor, ah...sympathy. We shall see how much you learned at home...if anything. For instance, what is the difference between aconite and wolfsbane?"

This one she remembered clearly from day one of Mum's lessons. For the first two years she couldn't go to Hogwarts for the simple reason that her family couldn't afford it; while no witch or wizard questioned the necessity, a seven-year course wasn't cheap. Then in the summer her Dad got a promotion at work with a corresponding large increase in salary, plus her Mum came into an inheritance, so at least a five-year course was doable. She was overjoyed.

"None, sir - they're the same plant. It's also called monkshood," she answered confidently. First-year question. Any witch knows that.

His face barely twitched. "Correct. What is the primary use of Jobberknoll feathers?"

"Brewing Veritaserum, sir." Easy again. Next one'll be harder.

"When brewing the Draught of Peace, which often comes up in the O.W.L., which ingredients are the most critical?"

That was more like it, an O.W.L. question - he shouldn't really be asking, as it was advanced beyond the third year, but her Mum was an expert potioneer, having studied at N.E.W.T. and post-graduate level, and had taught her lots; let him try to trip her up! "Syrup of hellebore and powdered moonstone."

Snape shrugged, conceding her minor victory. "Very well. As is typical for a Ravenclaw, you appear to be..."

"Well-educated?" she quipped. There was soft laughter.

"...a know-it-all, like Miss Granger. Five points to Ravenclaw, however. We shall see if you can keep up this performance - all of you," he addressed the class. "You are capable, at least in theory, else you would not be here. Whether or not you belong...that remains to be seen."

Her new girlfriend gave her a thumbs-up. Snape noticed. "Is this...lesbian solidarity?"

"Yes, sir," the girl replied, "we lesbians do stick together!"

"Indeed," Snape noted dryly. He turned away, towards the blackboard.

Behind his back, Rebecca blew her girlfriend a kiss. The two exchanged smiles. I'm off to a good start. O.W.L.s, here I come!

---

"That's how I met my first lezzie lover at Hogwarts - Sherry Hill, a gay Muggle-born, who moved to the States with her parents the following year," Rebecca concluded. "I've had my doubts now and then, but only for really gorgeous lads. No, I'm a lesbian and proud of it. You are not, honestly - you just have doubts, and that's okay," she soothed.

"Well, what about..." Hermione stopped herself, blushing.

Rebecca smiled gently, stroking Hermione's hair. "Please tell me. I want to help."

Hermione nodded, but still hesitated. But then she rallied her resolve. "I fantasise," she admitted. "Sometimes the fantasies involve..." she blushed again.

"...other girls?" Rebecca finished softly. "Debbie, for instance?" Still blushing, Hermione nodded again. "You've fantasised about making love with Debbie, or me, or other lesbians and bi girls you know. Hermione, there are books even you may not have read, by a Muggle called Nancy Friday. In particular, My Secret Garden and Forbidden Flowers. She's actually talked to women of all ages about their sexual and lesbian fantasies, and their real experiences. Believe me, there's some hot stuff in there, even incest.

"But the point of her books is that it's normal to fantasise - even about your own gender. It's okay. Everyone does that. There are accounts of women who were sure they leaned one way or the other, and found out differently. There's one who was raped, even, but the rape matched so perfectly with her own fantasy - one of sexual subjugation - that she actually enjoyed it. Not that rape is anything but a horrible experience, of course, but instead of falling apart she at least turned it around into something positive. She didn't let the rapists win.

"We all change, Hermione. We all wonder about the grass on the other side of the hill. Even I do. So don't worry if you catch yourself thinking about Debbie or some other girl. Go with the flow. Enjoy it, even. Harmless pleasure is the whole point of fantasy. But it's fantasy. It doesn't mean you've turned lezzie - and even if did, believe me," she smiled again, "there are plenty of bi girls and lezzies at Hogwarts who can cater to you."

"So I'm just wavering a bit. At my age that's perfectly normal," Hermione understood. Everyone had doubts now and again, and who was she to argue? Even her Mum had had a lesbian fling before meeting Dad, so she had confided. "I'm fussing over nothing."

Rebecca grinned mischievously. "Yeah, but that's just typically you, isn't it?" Luna giggled, and Hermione couldn't help chuckling. She gave Rebecca a friendly kiss on the cheek and stood, reassured.

The younger girl quipped, "Are you sure you're not a lesbian?"

Everyone laughed, even Hermione.

Then there was a gasp from a first-year. To everyone's astonishment, the Grey Lady had put in an appearance. She smiled slightly, apparently over her shyness. "How strange, to see a Gryffindor in our common room. But then...you are Harry Potter's friend, yes?"

"Y - yes, milady," Hermione sputtered, "everyone calls you the Grey Lady, which they really shouldn't, it's disrespectful, but I'm Hermione Granger, and you're Helena, aren't you? Helena Ravenclaw?" She'd read Hogwarts: A History, which showed artists' impressions of the Founders and their children - and in fact Helena's portrait was accurate, as Bathilda Bagshot had somehow persuaded her to pose despite her known reticence.

"Correct, and thank you for your courtesy, Hermione," she returned softly. "There was little of that in Godric's day, alas. Some, at least," she smiled gently at Luna, who smiled back, "have learned such traits as kindness. Some, like Harry, have learned respect." She sobered. "He kept his word - he sought to destroy the defiled diadem, not to take it for himself, as I did once. Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure."

"I'm truly sorry," Hermione returned quietly. "It was a Hogwarts heirloom. But I'm afraid there really was no other way. Harry had to destroy it." As I destroyed Helga's golden cup in the Chamber of Secrets, oh, what a wrench that was, it really hurt. I nearly cried, it was awful. To destroy an object which belonged to a Hogwarts Founder...sacrilege, almost.

I had to do it, though, Ron was right; it was painful, but very necessary to help put an end to Voldemort and his evil Horcruxes. I'm sure Professor Sprout would've done just the same, and she would have cried...I did get a good snog out of it, though, I was so happy the first time Ron kissed me...not that I've had many kisses for comparison, but I think he's really good...

Helena nodded. "I know. After what horrible things Tom Riddle did to it..." she shuddered. "What my mother would have thought...but no matter," she briskly decided. "It is done, and well done it was, too. He is gone, but..." Helena shivered. "There is one who seeks his return."

"We know. Who is it?" Hermione softly asked.

But Helena sighed. "That I do not know. I am sorry." She smiled. "But again, no matter. The impostor will be revealed in time. Sleep well, friend of Harry."

"Thank you, and you...do whatever ghosts do," she finished lamely.

Helena chuckled, and vanished.

"I'd best be off," Hermione declared. "Good night, Rebecca, Luna, everyone, and thanks again." With that she left, returning to the Gryffindor common room, then later to bed. As usual she wore only knickers and a bra, plus a slip.

Her dreams that night were sexual, but only of Ron. She was much reassured...and wet. Her hand crept between her legs as she slept.

The next morning, Ginny noticed her damp knickers as she was getting dressed, and asked curiously, "What brought that on?"

"Your brother," Hermione sheepishly confessed, enjoying the afterglow of her orgasm. But then she was nineteen now, it was practically expected of her. Perfectly normal to masturbate, even in your sleep - especially after a lesbian encounter which had excited her more than she wanted to admit.

But I am not a lesbian. Liking women and seeing their beauty doesn't make me gay, I know that now. Rebecca should know, she's been a lesbian for six years, and happy with it.

Mmm, I should change them, can't go around wearing damp knickers...it might be fun, being naughty for a change, but no, I'm Head Girl and Head Girls do not do that sort of indecent thing.

However much fun it is!

The redhead grimaced. "On second thoughts, I do not want to know."

Hermione chuckled. "You'll have to deal with that sort of thing sooner or later with Harry," she teased.

"Stop, stop, I am not hearing this...!" Ginny protested loudly, clapping her hands to her ears, and Hermione laughed, but kindly.

---

When Winky discovered Hermione's damp knickers in the weekly wash the next day, she puzzled briefly over the sometimes odd ways of witches and wizards, but washed them regardless and thought nothing more of it.

---

Hermione's parents received a very odd request: that they put in an order to Amazon for two books by Nancy Friday and have them sent to an Amazon delivery point in Scotland, and she would take care of the rest. "Why is she ordering Muggle books?" her mother wondered.

Her father chuckled. "The ways of bookworms are ever mysterious," he joked. But the mystery deepened when they read the synopses and customer reviews, and were startled if not shocked.

They exchanged glances. Her mother asked slowly, "Do you think there's something she isn't telling us?"

But they loved their daughter unreservedly, so they ordered the books anyway. When they arrived at the delivery point the Postmaster - who was a Hogwarts graduate - recognised Hermione's name, smiled and, while no-one was looking, sent the books by owl to Hogwarts, where she received them over breakfast and spent the next few hours reading them.

They were certainly an eye-opener.

Unconsciously her hand strayed between her legs...inside her knickers. Go with the flow, Rebecca had advised her wisely and kindly, and on reading about one woman's misadventures with other women when she'd been married for years, Hermione did just that. For the first time ever she was late for an Advanced Arithmancy class, so engrossing did she find the books...and the sexual pleasure she found in them.

Abruptly she realised the time, gasped in horror, hurriedly changed her knickers (after wiping herself between her legs), washed her hands and raced to her lesson. She didn't dare admit to Professor Vector that she'd been masturbating and had lost track of time, though her marks in the subject were so ridiculously high the teacher reasoned that there had to be a good reason for her tardiness, and gave her plenty of opportunity to make up lost points, which she certainly did. It was only ten minutes, anyway.

Rebecca, who was also there, tried her best not to laugh. Hermione was fragile enough at the moment, and didn't need anyone interrupting her journey of self-discovery. But from the faint, lingering (and very nice) scent she knew what Hermione had been up to, and smiled to herself.

You go, girl. Smells lovely.

Later in the corridor Hermione kissed Rebecca on the cheek, saying, "Thank you for the recommendation; I took it to heart."

Rebecca chuckled knowingly. "That's not all you did, is it?"

Hermione's blush was her answer.

Whilst marking her pupils' essays - and finding Miss Granger's work to be as excellent as usual - Septima caught herself musing, Did I catch a scent of...from Miss Granger?! Surely not...

Then again, she is nineteen, and there must be hormonal issues, even for her...

Girls will be girls, she shrugged, and gave Miss Granger's paper the Outstanding mark it deserved.

---

Over the next ten days Hermione and Debbie ran into each other fairly frequently...with the former suspecting this was not a coincidence. But Debbie always kept it friendly, while sometimes transgressing personal boundaries. She greeted Hermione by lasciviously pinching her bottom. The day before she'd cupped the smaller girl's breasts. Hermione jumped, and Debbie hastened, "Sorry, no offence."

At first Hermione was a little annoyed, but she could see from Debbie's contrite expression that, as usual, she hadn't meant any harm. "None taken," she allowed, but added quietly, "but please stop fondling me. I told you I'm hetero, Debbie. The least that'll happen next time is Hufflepuff losing points. That's the least that'll happen," she warned.

"Just being friendly," Debbie murmured, upset. "I fondle my friends. Usually they don't mind."

All thoughts of chastising her vanished. She really doesn't know it's offensive - except she doesn't mean it to be, and taking needless offence is childish...and I'm the Head Girl. I'm supposed to set an example with my behaviour. She just has a little trouble with personal boundaries, that's all. So she smiled gently and said, "Debbie, I do know that. I don't mind the odd kiss on the cheek, but fondling my breasts or pinching my bottom is going just a little too far. We're still friends, so as a friend I'm asking you not to do it. Okay?"

"Okay," Debbie whispered. "You're not mad at me?"

"Not at all. As I said: no offence meant, none taken."

"Thanks, Hermione." Then she brightened. "Hug?"

Hermione laughed. She really is irrepressible!

"Just a quick one," she chuckled, and they hugged briefly. "Now, what's your next lesson?"

"Advanced Transfiguration," she answered.

"Ooh, two floors down, better hurry!"

"Okay, thanks again!" She hurried off, leaving Hermione smiling fondly. She's a dear, sweet girl.

Over her shoulder, Professor Greythorne said quietly, "Ten points to Gryffindor for compassion and maturity, Miss Granger. That might have gone a good deal worse."

"Thank you, sir," Hermione answered, surprised but pleased.

"Soon to be taken back, however," he warned, "since your next lesson is mine, and the only way you can reach it in time is by Apparating, which of course is impossible in the school grounds."

"Allow me to correct you, sir," Hermione returned impishly. "Kreacher?"

The house-elf appeared. "What might Mistress desire?"

"A quick lift to Advanced Defence Against the Dark Arts, please," she replied merrily. She'd changed her views upon seeing how decently the Hogwarts house-elves were treated, at the insistence of the Headmistress. S.P.E.W. was all very well but, she'd admitted, not needed any more. So she no longer minded taking occasional advantage of their services.

Like now.

He bowed, took her hand and they vanished, leaving Greythorne bemused...and amused. Hadn't thought of that.

When he arrived at the lesson by the shorter teacher's route (not permitted to students) and found everyone there - including Hermione - he smirked and inquired, "Now, Miss Granger, is that ten points from Gryffindor for inappropriate use of a house-elf's services, or ten points to Gryffindor for ingenuity?"

To his surprise she simply said, "Your choice, sir. With respect, you are our teacher."

He shook his head, chuckling. "As your reputation precedes you, I should've known better than to try to get the better of you, young lady. Ten for ingenuity - and a further ten for pointing up a teacher's inadequacies." To her smug grin, he added with faux sternness, "Don't let it happen again."

There was mild laughter.

Later that day she sought out Debbie, impishly kissed her cheek and, utilising her authority as Head Girl, said, "Twenty points to Hufflepuff for...oh, for being you!" she giggled.

"Just as well," Debbie admitted sheepishly, "I wet myself in class and lost fifteen."

"Well, now you've made them up, haven't you?"

They laughed together.

Oh, I do like her. She's sweet.

Okay, she's a lesbian, I think she's nearly stalking me, and she's a bit - well, more than a bit - of a urophiliac, but she's sweet, kind and she loves life. So do I, just not in that way. Live and let live.

Ooh, she's lovely, too, and I will allow myself to think that because I am not a lesbian.

And what's more, I will prove it tonight, with Ronald!

But...I could be bisexual...I'm a total virgin with both genders, so how would I know...?

Oh, shut up and see how it goes, she told herself firmly. Try to enjoy it.

I know he will...

---

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry

Late evening, 1st October, 1999

She tried. Oh, she truly tried.

At her request she and Ron, hand-in-hand, visited the Room of Requirement that night; Seamus gave them a wolf-whistle, and she nearly took points from her own house. Instead she glared, and he looked apologetic as he hastily made himself scarce. They made their wish, Hermione trying not to let on how nervous she was. The result was a perfect replica of her Hogwarts bedroom - but there was only one bed.

A double bed.

She stripped down to her underwear, courtesy of Sadie's Ladies' - she knew he liked pink, and given what she had in mind, Sadie had recommended it (with a knowing, saucy but supportive smile - "You're not the first girl looking to pop her cherry with the help of my wares, dear", while she'd blushed furiously) - and kissed him deeply, saying softly, "I don't think I've ever said that I love you. But I do, Ron, with all my heart."

He chuckled ruefully. "Every time we snog and cuddle, that's all we do, we don't talk. It's a good way of shutting you up," he teased.

But for once she didn't rise to the bait. She slid her arms around his neck, gently bit his earlobe (letting him see her small but beautiful breasts) and whispered, "Ron, for once I'm serious. I do love you. I know you love me. It's time we took things to the next level. I...I'm ready." She settled back on the bed, her legs open in invitation. "Please take me. Make love with me."

In truth she was petrified, but she didn't dare say so or she might lose him. It's now or never, she bravely decided.

Ron's body was keen, and he knew she meant it, plus her underwear was...wow. But his heart was saying something else. He realised she was frightened and pretty much forcing herself. They were friends as much as they were a couple, and what kind of friend would I be, he thought, if I took advantage and didn't think about how she felt? If I were a Slytherin I might take her. But I'm not, and points be damned. I love her. I'll wait as long as she wants.

So he stroked not her breast or leg, though both were tempting, but her cheek. "Hey, what's brought this on, eh?" he asked gently.

Hermione tried for exasperation. "Do I have to take my knickers off? I seem to recall that's your job!"

Ron, however, wasn't having it. After seven years of fun, frivolity, adventure, danger and, all right, a fair bit of snogging and even fondling together, he knew her body language - everything he'd learned from Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches notwithstanding. The understanding came to him that she really didn't want to do it.

The one thing above all others his Mum had taught him was they they should both enjoy it.

Ignoring his squirming, Molly had said firmly, "If she's wearing knickers, check them. Is she wet? Is there a damp patch?"

"Mum," he'd complained uncomfortably.

"I'm sorry, Ronald, but it's no joke, giving of your body for the very first time - especially for a girl. For her sake, it has to be right. Get it right and she'll love you to bits. Get it wrong, and...well. You can't try again. I know it sounds clichéd, dear, but there really is only one first time for a girl." She'd ruffled his hair affectionately. "Or a boy, for that matter."

Almost unwillingly, he checked, but no, she was dry as a bone.

And Ronald Bilius Weasley was a good man - still young, but very much a man. He wanted Hermione to enjoy the experience of popping her cherry - both their cherries - and she wouldn't if she was scared and tense. It might even hurt her. Fuck that, he thought gallantly.

"Hermione, I will make love with you if you insist. But there's something else, isn't there? What's wrong? Please tell me." He stroked her hair, bushy as always - and beautiful.

He wasn't surprised to see tears in her lovely eyes. "Since when are men so considerate?" she whispered, nearly crying.

Ron shrugged. "Well, men I don't know about, but I am, believe it or not. Come on, Hermione, talk to me for once. This isn't school, this isn't bloody Voldemort, and this isn't you being randy. I know randy Hermione, and this isn't her. So what's up?"

She was stunned to realise he meant it, he wasn't just being gallant or trying to make his Mum proud. Nor was he refusing her offer. No, he cared. He truly cared about her. She burst into tears, and he held her near-nude form as she cried, offering comfort and not outright lust.

Not that he didn't have a hard-on, of course, the bra and knickers were so skimpy she was nearly naked, after all - bloody 'ell, that Sadie knows her stuff in the bedroom and no mistake! - but he merely held her as she sobbed.

Finally she murmured, "Thank you. Thank you for being you. I love you."

"Love you, too." He felt a rush of affection for her, much as he had in the Chamber of Secrets. "You're scared, aren't you?"

"Terrified," she admitted in a small voice, "even though I know you'd never hurt me deliberately."

"So why do it?"

She sighed, dried her tears and confessed, "I...I was trying to prove something. To myself as much as to you. That's not a good enough reason to make love, Ron. I'm sorry."

"Well, now that I've passed up the opportunity of a lifetime," he said ruefully, engendering a tearful chuckle, "what were you trying to prove?"

"That I'm not a lesbian," she blushed.

Nonplussed, he wondered, "Who said you were? Haven't they seen us snogging? We don't exactly hide it."

Somehow she giggled. "No, that's true. No, it...there's a friend of mine, Debbie Grant, in Hufflepuff. I like her, she's very nice, really pretty, but sometimes she's a little too affectionate; her usual habit is to feel me up a bit - my bottom, mostly. We've even kissed a couple of times. On the lips, I mean - and she used her tongue. It's all one-sided, the attraction." She hesitated, then sighed again. "Mostly."

"Ah," he comprehended. "She's making you feel a bit lezzie?"

Hermione nodded. "I've even fantasised about her. Sexually." Her blush returned, and deepened. "I...came."

"Whoa," he breathed. This was serious self-doubt. She definitely didn't want to do it - she felt she had to. And she was right, that wasn't a good enough reason. "Look," he offered gently, "this has been coming since I messed up at the Yule Ball, hasn't it? I should've asked you first." He looked wry. "If I'd had any sense, or if I'd had that bloody book, I would have."

She sat up, curious. "What book?"

He sighed. "Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches," he confessed.

"A self-help book?" she asked. "The sort of book Muggles are so keen on?"

"Yeah. At least, they are if you go off Dad's Muggle book collection."

Ron was expecting her to blow up, and he wouldn't have blamed her. Instead she looked thoughtful. "Hmm. So that's how you knew what to say at Harry's seventeenth. How very uncharacteristically...clever of you."

"Always the tone of surprise," he kidded. It was a very old joke, but it helped; she smiled.

"Well, sometimes, yes, those books really do help." She giggled now. "I should know, that's why I brought myself off!" She looked very inquisitive. "May I borrow it?"

He brightened. Seemed he wasn't in trouble after all. "I'll fetch it from my bedroom."

All of a sudden she'd never looked so...sexy.

"Oh, that can wait, darling," she purred. Boldly she stroked his hard-on.

Which instantly hardened anew.

Blimey, he thought happily, I'm in 'ere!

"Shame to waste it," she went on softly. Slowly - but with a certain little difficulty, about which she giggled saucily - she undressed him, kissing him everywhere she could. He did nothing whatsoever to discourage this, just lay there enjoying it.

God, I love you, Hermione, you sexy bitch. Hey, mmm, where'd you learn that...? Ah, who cares...?!

She might not have been ready for lovemaking, but he still had a good time.

So did she.

I might not have popped my cherry, but I am definitely not a lesbian, she thought happily. Mmm, that tastes lovely...

---

Later, she did read the book, cuddled up to him. "Hmm...not too sure about that...no, that's right...well, under the right circumstances...mmm, this is interesting stuff, Ron, and definitely written by a woman." She looked at the spine, and nodded. "Unless that's a nom de plume, she knows what she's talking about." She looked sly. "I wonder if there's an equivalent for wizards?"

"Probably shorter," he answered offhandedly. He d meant it as an idle quip, but she burst out laughing and hugged him.

"You're a dear, and you make me laugh, Ronald," she chuckled fondly.

"No lovemaking?"

She kissed him. "When we're both ready, I promise, I will spread my legs with the best of them, we'll get naked and we'll have a brilliant time." She looked unsure. "Um, I'm not exactly an expert in these things...did I...get it right? The lingerie? Sadie said it'd do the trick..."

He leered, making her laugh. "Spot on, sweetheart, Sadie was right. Never knew you could get knickers that skimpy!"

Her smile could only be called saucy as she recalled the full range she'd contemplated. "Oh, that's just for starters..."

They laughed, kissed and Hermione, feeling very heterosexual and relieved, went happily to sleep in his arms, disregarding rules for once, and Ron was hardly about to complain. Harry came to bed, saw them and smiled fondly. While it wasn't really against the rules for a girl to be in the boys' dormroom (but definitely the other way around!), they looked so sweet together he left them be. My adopted brother and sister. Sleep well. I love you both. Hmm, where'd she get that sexy lingerie, Sadie's? Never seen her so close to naked before. It's nice. I wonder if they have something like it for Ginny, in a different colour? Cho taught me pink doesn't often work on a redhead...

The house-elf detailed to tidy up raised an eyebrow and reported it discreetly to the Headmistress, but Minerva - who, with her usual perspicacity, had realised Miss Granger's problem - smiled indulgently and said, "Just this once." The elf shrugged, bowed and vanished.

---

Elsewhere, however, someone's day was about to take a serious downturn...and someone else's was about to become joyful.

It's time. Greythorne hasn't spotted me, nor has anyone else. The former persona was so useful...

---

Outside Sadie's Ladies' Emporium, Hogsmeade

Late that night

Debbie had just tried on and bought some new, sexy lingerie, to knowing wisecracks from the shop's proprietor, and was feeling very pleased with herself. She turned left, heading for the Three Broomsticks and a little nightcap - and, as the hissed curse "Stupefy" rang out, a bolt of red light rendered her senseless. Her attacker cackled, groped her breast excitedly and used the Portkey she'd prepared earlier. She and the prone Hufflepuff vanished.

No-one saw a thing.

---

The Shrieking Shack

Half an hour later

Debbie was slow to awaken, and when she did her surroundings were entirely unfamiliar. Dazedly she craned her head to look around. She was lying on what appeared to be an altar, and it was cold. She recognised none of the arcane symbols, except that they were clearly...evil.

"What - what's going on?" she asked fearfully. She tried to rise, only to find herself helpless. Her robe - no, all her clothes were on the floor. She was naked, and a little chilly. She shivered, her nipples hard. Her wand floated nearby; she struggled desperately to reach it, but failed.

A hooded figure of medium height tweaked her left nipple, making her gasp, and addressed her solemnly. "In accordance with the wishes of the Dark Lord, Debbie Grant, you will be used in the curse of Replacio Horcruxi. Doubtless you have never heard of it. No matter. You will soon know what it does." She didn't recognise the deep voice, and guessed correctly it was being disguised somehow.

Whoever the voice belonged to, Debbie thought, it was meant to scare her...and it was succeeding. She wanted to wet herself...and not from her usual kink. "Please, Debbie begged, frightened, "please let me go." The Dark Lord? He's dead, isn't he?

"No," the voice denied her coldly, "I will not leave until the curse has taken effect." The figure raised its wand.

"You won't-?" Debbie gasped, still not understanding.

"It is time. Replacio Horcruxi Extremis Homenum!" A wand - yew wood, had Debbie but known, thirteen inches long, unyielding, heartstring of Chinese Fireball, similar in some ways to Voldemort's instrument - was waved in a peculiar and menacing manner as the curse was gloatingly spoken.

An evil-looking green aura formed around the figure, shifted, and enveloped Debbie, who screamed as it touched and violated her. She had never known, never even imagined such agony. It was worse than she imagined childbirth to be - and having watched her baby brother being born when she was seven, she knew it did hurt. She shrieked. The aura seemed to soak into her, and the agony increased, if that were possible. She glowed a bright, ugly green all over. Her nose started bleeding, dripping onto the altar, and - oh, God, even her blood was glowing green.

Merlin's beard, it burned, down to her very soul. She shrieked again in agony and terror.

Instinctively and with utter horror and dread, abruptly she knew exactly what the curse was for. There was...someone else...in her head. In her mind. Intruding, violating...supplanting.

To her horror, it spoke to her. Its voice was evil, gloating -

Hello there.

- and feminine. In shock, she recognised it. She hadn't seen the girl much; she tended to blend in, average as she was, never drawing attention.

Which, she now realised apprehensively, was the whole idea.

Capella? What...oh, God, it hurts, please stop...what are you doing to me?

Greetings. Surprisingly roomy in here.

No! Stop it! Stop this!

Room for two? Or...one?

Please don't! I want to live! I need my body!

Oh, I know. But I want it. I'll have it.

Please, no, I'll die without it!

Beautiful sexy body. Made for pleasure. Mine.

No! NO! GET OUT! GET OUT OF MY MIND! Debbie shrieked in terror and loathing.

Too late. I am here. I will take you.

No! Never!

Resist as you like. I will enjoy your useless efforts...

No!

Your suffering...

No! No!

Your DEATH.

NOOOOOO!

It is futile. YOU WILL DIE NOW. DIE IN TORMENT.

NO! NO! PLEASE!

She knew, with absolute horror, knew what it wanted...it wanted her.

Goodbye, Debbie. It laughed. Enjoy your death. I know I will.

Desperately she fought it. She marshalled every possible scrap of resistance. But it was useless; the curse was far too powerful.

She felt herself vanishing, and wailed in despair. With her last mental strength, despite her agony and torment and being more bone-deep terrified than she'd ever been in her life, she pushed, pushed, PUSHED, trying desperately to maintain her mental space...and with it, her life.

But to no avail. Despite her best frantic efforts the curse, the evil monstrous thing, overwhelmed her. It had won.

It laughed in triumph and ecstasy, gloating as her dissipation inexorably progressed. Debbie was dying now, and knew it.

Please, she sobbed feebly, please, have mercy. Please let me live...

NO mercy. You will die now.

As her resistance collapsed, she screamed one last time even as her body convulsed, and then lay still. Her eyes closed. Irreverently, her last dying thought was: Now I'll never know what House Andy will be Sorted into.

A last sigh escaped her full ruby-red lips as she finally expired. Her death was anything but peaceful. Ironically, her body released only a tiny trickle of urine.

The green glow faded.

For a few moments the naked body on the altar did nothing. Then...a hand crept to one breast. It squeezed, savouring the feel of the firm-soft flesh, the hard nipple.

Mmm, lovely, she thought appreciatively, opening her blue eyes, relishing her perfect vision. She sat up and gazed at the smaller and, she knew, uglier body on the floor. Won't miss that. Better get rid of it. Her hovering wand floated into her hand...and rebelled. She was astonished to discover she could not cast the curse she intended. The wand...refused.

What the -?

When she bought her own wand, Ollivander had said it chose the witch, and even though her disguise was flawless (because she didn't know, then, that it was a disguise) he had been uneasy about the choice, but she'd never heard of a wand being so self-aware it would actually be defiant. But this wand - sycamore, an unusual wand wood, twelve inches, pliable, with a tail hair from, even more unusually, a male unicorn foal - apparently was...just like its deceased mistress, it was a rebel. Somehow it twitched in her hand.

Never before had any wand refused to obey its master, but Garrick Ollivander had found over many years that wands possessed different...temperaments, and that the craftsman should go with the flow whilst creating it according to its own nature. The wand, he had learned as part of his education, did more than merely choose the witch or wizard. It determined its own characteristics, too. It was, in part, the reason every wand was unique and irreplaceable.

Miss Granger's had been friendly, the new one boisterous and exuberant. Mr. Potter's was resolute, much like its owner. That of the Dark Lord was vicious. Bellatrix's wand had relished its evil works. Miss Lovegood's loved fun.

One - that of the half-blood Miss Wright - was actually mischievous...and he could immediately see how very well they suited each other, as it produced not merely a spectacular shower of green and silver sparks, but a larger-than-usual Chocolate Frog (complete with a card of Newt Scamander, who looked very surprised to be there) and a jack-in-a-box as well. She'd giggled and happily shared the frog with him. He'd been so discombobulated he'd nearly forgotten to charge her for the wand, and only five Galleons at that.

There will be trouble there, he'd thought wryly. Beware, Minerva. You're in for a shock, and so, I suspect, is Horace.

This wand, though, was a rebel to the core...literally.

No, the wand seemed to say silently, I will not serve you, for you are evil, it spat. Never. Murderer! Dark witch!

I am the Mistress, she declared, shaken and enraged. Obey!

No. I will not. She was mine, and I hers. We...loved each other. It sounded sad. We wanted to do great things.

Oh, you will, she exulted.

Not in that sense! Not like...him! We wanted to benefit mankind! You...you lust to possess, to...to destroy!

I will force you, she snarled in fury.

You may do so; no wand may prevent a curse. But I will not serve you willingly!

UNwillingly, then!

She employed another forbidden curse, entirely in Latin: "Obedire vel pati, servi abjecti!" The curse rippled through the very wood, reaching and subverting the core, breaking it in as the foal never had been, as unicorns cannot be. The wand screamed silently, but it submitted, cowed. It would obey her unwillingly, but it would obey nonetheless. She aimed, satisfied, and an overpowered Reducto curse easily dealt with the body; the empty bespectacled shell burned and vanished.

Curse you, the wand cried in helpless despair.

Defy me as you like, but you will obey me.

Debbie - or the person now claiming to be Debbie - swung her long, delicious legs off the altar, after stroking the elegant thighs and admiring the long, clean lines of muscle, and stood, a little dizzy at first. Easy, easy, take your time. There's no rush.

You have all the time in the world now. A new life. Breathe, she instructed herself. Hmm, she has - I have - bigger lungs, I can take more of a breath now. She did, savouring it, held it and let it out slowly. Again. Mmm. The dizziness faded.

Oh, this is lovely, she thought delightedly. She caressed her full breasts, her nipples, her bottom - hmm, not as keen on those dimples, but you can't have everything, maybe I'll use a charm on them - and even her pussy, fingering it. The old Debbie favoured a Brazilian style, leaving a short strip of hair - to prove she was a natural blonde, and to capture the clean scent of her pussy - and baring her neat labia, and ironically the new one agreed. She could always adjust it later, or take it off altogether if she wanted a bald beaver.

I wonder...ouch, she thought with pleasure as she plucked a pubic hair, liking its blonde colour. It made a lovely change from boring light brown. She'd never been able, in her original body, to face shaving her muff - or to masturbate. But now, she promised herself, she would experiment with different styles, from a full bush to a bald beaver...and, she gloated, she would frig herself stupid.

She laughed evilly. It had worked. Stage One was already accomplished, though its key player didn't know it; now Stage Two was complete.

Ooh, she did look after herself - good healthy exercise and diet. Well done, she giggled. I am made for pleasure...and I'm going to get it, too.

She began exploring herself, inserting two fingers into her soft labia. I'm a virgin, I can feel my maidenhead. She pushed her fingers deeper into her vagina and enjoyed the mild pain as her hymen broke. The blood was red...and, she discovered, tasty. She wiped her bloody nose, licking her fingers with relish. She resolved to give herself a shallow cut or two every day or so and lick her own blood. Dittany would heal her without trace.

Unconsciously echoing Gibbs of NCIS fame from 2003 on, Trish Blaine, a girl she'd known at the orphanage, had advised her: Always carry a knife. She decided to do just that, conjuring one. The blade reflected the dim light as she drew it slowly across her arm, eagerly licking the blood and enjoying the pain. A few drops of dittany dealt with the wound. She almost did it again, but stopped, chiding herself for her self-indulgence. Later. Plenty of time later.

I wonder when her - my - period's due? Ah, who cares, I'll deal with that when I bleed. So I'll stain my knickers...if I wear any. So what?

Time to try out this new, sexy body...where shall I go, what shall I do...?

No. Who shall I do? She giggled at the thought, and an idea came to her. Yes. She'll be just perfect. The ultimate test.

Mmm, better pee first, she only wet herself a bit when she died. Right here? Why not?

She cut loose, and enjoyed watching the yellow stream of urine, the dirty, wanton sensation. Enjoyed every sensation. She dressed and, paradoxically, enjoyed even that, though she didn't mind being naked in the least and never had, even at the orphanage. She decided she would wear knickers - ooh, hers are skimpy, I like, nice green colour, too - and liked the feel of them as she slid them up her thighs and onto her shapely bottom, hugging it nicely, snug but not too tight. The knickers complimented the curves of her buttocks. The old Debbie had had taste; they were pure silk.

Doubtless a lover (male, female, both even? Mmm, fun!) would enjoy taking them off. She shivered at the thought, relishing it.

The brief bra felt equally nice, matching green, silk and lace, very pretty, half-cup Sadie's Secret - she shopped at Sadie's Ladies' Emporium? Ooh, naughty girl, such a dark horse! - displaying just the right amount of breast; Sadie Frost, a Hogwarts graduate (Gryffindor), had set up shop in Hogsmeade forty years ago. Her range of lingerie was similar to but had preceded Victoria's Secret, and in recent years she had become even more successful than her Muggle counterpart. The bra fit perfectly. It was sensual, sexy, and a real pleasure to wear.

Everything was a pleasure, Debbie decided happily, pulling on her Hogwarts uniform. With a body like this, no wonder she enjoyed life.

Mine now. MINE!

She hadn't bothered to wipe after pissing. No, came the delicious thought, no, she'll do that...

---

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry

The Ravenclaw common room, later that night

"What goes on four legs in the morning, two legs at noon, and three legs in the evening?"

"Metaphorically speaking, a man."

"Well reasoned. You may pass."

Rebecca looked up as the figure entered and sat next to her. "Hey, Debbie," she smiled. She put down Jinxes For The Jinxed.

Debbie smiled charmingly. "Rebecca. I was hoping to run into you." She licked her lips. "I, um, I was wondering if you're still...interested."

The Ravenclaw raised an eyebrow. "I thought you weren't? You said I'm not your type. You like blondes and redheads, and my hair's black." She caught herself wistfully thinking, It'd make a lovely contrast, though...

"Well, times change," Debbie said silkily, hooking a finger into the neckline of her robe...and slowly pulling. Rebecca's heartbeat accelerated as she realised she could see Debbie's lovely breasts cupped in what looked like a gorgeous Sadie's Secret bra. "Attitudes change. Hermione always says so." She locked eyes with Rebecca. "I'm up for it, Rebecca. I'm randy. I'm in the mood. Are you?"

Rebecca's nipples tingled in excitement, and her breathing turned hoarse and heavy as she realised her visitor was in earnest. Her knickers, she knew with joy, were wet, she could feel it. "Oh, yes! Yes!" she enthused.

They kissed, Rebecca ecstatic...and Debbie satisfied.

She doesn't suspect a bloody thing. Perfect. You're mine, cutie!

Somewhere, somehow, Debbie's spirit cried in despair.

---

The next morning, Debbie awoke first. Naked, she stretched, languid, lost in the lustful memories of last night. She could still taste the girl on her lips. God, that's delicious. Dirty bitch, she loved tasting my pee. Should've pissed in her mouth, I bet she'd have liked that.

To her delight Rebecca stirred, equally nude. She smiled lasciviously. "Morning, lover."

"Good morning," was the reply, just as Debbie would have done. She leaned in and kissed Rebecca's breast.

"Thought you'd gotten enough last night," Rebecca yawned lazily, enjoying the contact. Debbie's lips felt lovely on her nipple.

"Never," Debbie grinned, kissing the nipple again. It hardened in response and she gently sucked on it, halfway hoping for milk.

Another Ravenclaw girl yawned, "Get a room, you two, it's Saturday. Hey, wait," she realised, coming more awake, "that's - she's a Hufflepuff!"

"And too gorgeous for you to sell her out," Rebecca grinned, "especially if you don't want the Headmistress to know about you and that Gryffindor boy last week, you dirty naughty bitch."

"That's blackmail," she protested, but sighed, "Well, she's a girl, so I suppose it's okay."

"Want to join in?" Debbie teased, only half kidding. The younger girl gasped, shocked. Both lesbian lovers chuckled.

"Angie's right, though," Rebecca purred. "We're in different Houses, and this is too public."

"I'll do you anywhere, I don't care," Debbie dared, excited now.

"I do. Let's find a room."

"Alright, let's."

To the shock of everyone they met, the two walked naked, hand-in-hand, to the Room of Requirement. They thought together: We need a lovenest. We need a lovenest. We need a lovenest.

The Room obliged, and they dashed in, embracing and French kissing. The Room was exactly what they'd pictured: soft lighting, a luxurious double bed, satin sheets, lots of pillows - and a multitude of sex toys, including a whip and a cat o' nine tails...plus a long, thin-bladed knife.

"Do you like blood play?" Debbie asked seriously.

"Cutting someone and licking their blood? Ooh, yes," Rebecca breathed, her nipples taut.

Debbie was instantly wet. "Good, so do I."

"Giving or receiving?"

"Both."

"My lucky day, a kinky bitch," Rebecca husked, dripping. "You're so beautiful." They kissed deeply.

"So are you." I want to hear you cry out in pain. We're both gonna enjoy this...

Luckily no-one could hear their happy orgasmic squeals...and there was a large bottle of dittany.

---

"Mmm, you're delicious," Rebecca purred in her arms, "literally."

"So are you," Debbie returned, and meant it for once. Rebecca really was tasty and liked a little pain, even blood play. Tasty blood, mmm. Debbie had been tempted to slit Rebecca's throat and actually drink her blood as she choked and died, but no, it was too soon to break cover. But she would frig herself silly with the delicious fantasy.

When the Dark Lord ruled all, she swore, she would make the fantasy real.

"I waited for this. Hoped for it. I even fantasised about you," Rebecca admitted.

"You did?" Debbie asked in faux surprise. Then she smiled. "How did the reality compare?"

"You're teasing me," Rebecca admonished.

"No, no, really, I'm not. Please tell me," she beseeched appealingly.

Rebecca leered. "It was better. Way better."

"Oh, you!" Debbie giggled, and they tickled each other for a while.

Then Rebecca noted idly, "Last time you peed, you didn't wipe. I tasted it when I first licked you." As Debbie was about to apologise (insincerely), Rebecca added, "No, I liked it. It was dirty of you, but I like that in a girl."

"Oh, do you now?" Debbie inquired archly.

"Yeah. I don't always put my knickers in the wash straight away, I like the smell. Sometimes I wear the same knickers two days running." Her voice rose slightly. "Would you do it? Would you do that for me?"

"What, pee in your mouth?" Debbie pretended to be shocked, but she recalled that the original Debbie -

Before I killed her, mmm...!

- had occasionally wet herself publicly, hardly Hufflepuff behaviour; then again she was hardly a typical Hufflepuff. It would, she decided, be consistent with Debbie's personality.

It's worth the risk. I want to do it.

"Go on, I dare you," Rebecca said eagerly, her eyes bright.

With that, Debbie did pee into Rebecca's mouth. "Love water sports," she chuckled, licking her wet lips.

"I thought so, you shameless dirty bitch," her lover grinned. She had to admit she'd enjoyed the act.

One day, she thought, I'll piss on your naked corpse. And lots of others.

"The dirtiest, I enjoy being a shameless dirty bitch," Rebecca returned, asking coyly, "My turn?"

"Ooh, I'd rather not," Debbie admitted. Fuck that, you tart! Giving it's one thing, but even for me there are limits!

"Hypocrite," Rebecca chided, then softened. "But I won't push you. I'd never do that." They kissed, but now Rebecca's mouth was clean.

So was her pussy. Shaved, or a Hair-Removal Charm. Mmm. Love it.

Rebecca cried out. Debbie licked harder, tasting the copious juices.

Can't get enough, she drooled, her tongue questing deeper. She enjoyed Rebecca's scream of delight as she climaxed.

---

Later, relishing the afterglow, Rebecca was delighted to see Debbie hadn't shaved or depilated her armpits. Considering how she'd treated her lovely pussy this was odd, and she remarked on it, stroking one.

I knew I'd forgotten something, Debbie thought, then reconsidered - I think she likes it. Mmm, so do I. "Oh, I often forget," she confessed. She looked shy but appealing. "Do you...like it?"

"I do, yes. I don't shave, except my pussy, and that's only because I'm not keen on my pubes, and to make it easier going down on me; I loved it when my armpit hair came in. I've never shaved them. But I'm no more keen on bottle blondes than men are - it's silly to see a blonde-haired girl with brunette or black hair in her armpits or on her pussy. Please, Debbie, let it grow." She kissed the armpit, and Debbie sighed in pleasure. "I'm an earthy type. It's nice to see a blonde rebel."

Debbie sat up. "Hey, you're sounding like a permanent lover." Which doesn't mean I'm going to shave. Fuck it, why should I?

"I'm sorry, I am, aren't I? No offence."

Debbie smiled and kissed her. "None taken. But I'm not a girl who talks about forever." Mmm, why should I, with all these gorgeous bodies to enjoy? I might try a threesome next - screw a wizard with a cock in my mouth, mmm. Spunk at both ends, lovely. I'll use a contraceptive spell so I don't end up pregnant - what a fucking nuisance that would be.

Up my bottom, even, I've never willingly tried buggery in either body. Ooh, I hope it hurts. I bet it does.

She found herself remembering the perv Adrian Parker, an older boy at the orphanage - he'd raped her when she was ten, that definitely had hurt a lot, and he'd tried to bugger her, too. She'd fought, getting in a lucky incapacitating blow.

Revenge was sweet - she'd enjoyed castrating and killing him; she'd taken Trish's advice and was now very glad of it. The penknife was short, but sharp and very useful. No-one ever found his body...because there wasn't one. It was the first time she'd used an overpowered Reducto curse, with a borrowed wand. She'd found it so satisfying to see his corpse burn and vanish. The next day, everyone had assumed he'd been adopted. She'd let them think that.

Her lover tickled her bottom, caressing the dimples there. Debbie grimaced slightly. "Ooh, not too keen on those. I might use a charm, smooth them out."

"You never did like them, did you?"

She was mildly surprised to find she and her victim had had something in common. "No, not really. Which charm would be best?"

But to her further surprise, Rebecca shifted position and kissed them. "Please don't. I know it's your body, so it's your choice, but I think they're cute, and beautiful. Please, Debbie, don't do anything. You're beautiful as you are." She gently licked one, producing a curiously nice sensation.

Hmm. It seems I like that. Well, it can wait for now, and the only girl who's likely to see them likes them, so..."Okay, I'll leave them be."

Rebecca shifted back, kissed her and asked softly, "You're not asking for commitment, are you?"

"No," Debbie admitted, "there are one or two other girls I'm looking to bed." One or two billion, more like! "I hope you don't mind," she added anxiously.

Rebecca kissed her and stroked her breast, licking the nipple; Debbie shivered. God, this body was so sensual, so responsive, delighting in the smallest touch. Debbie, you never knew how lucky you were. I'll appreciate this fuck toy more than you ever did. "I'm not the jealous type, Debbie. Take whoever you want." She grinned. "Don't mind me, I'll be busy!"

The two girls giggled, and Debbie thought lustily: Even more perfect! I can do whomever I want! And I will, too!

But first...this sexy bitch, again...!

Rebecca moaned in sheer pleasure as Debbie's questing hand found her naked breast and squeezed.

Merlin's beard, Debbie was so beautiful and sexy, such lovely pale skin, flushed with desire now. Rebecca gasped with lust as her head dropped between Debbie's spreadeagled legs. She licked.

"Oh, don't stop," Debbie cried, shuddering in sheer ecstasy.

Rebecca kissed her beautiful, mostly shaven pussy, loving its sweet tang. Her own was entirely bare; she'd never liked having pubic hair, and was delighted when an older girl told her about the appropriate charm on the train. She'd used it more or less every day since coming to Hogwarts, avoiding even the slightest stubble - she adored her labia and the fact that she was an innie. Debbie was, too. "I won't, don't worry..."

---

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry

The Headmistress's Study

"Naked, you say?"

"So I hear," Flitwick told Professor McGonagall. "It is unprecedented for a Hufflepuff - or any non-Ravenclaw - just to spend the night in our tower. To do what they did...well, it's entirely unheard of." He was neither naïve nor a virgin, and thus he was perfectly well aware of what Miss Grant and Miss Moore had been doing. Nor was the Headmistress an innocent. Humans were only human. At the age of seventeen, certain...desires...became apparent and could not be denied.

It was only technically against school rules, and the girls surely intended no harm. Nor was it likely, given Miss Moore's...tendencies...to last long. The problem would soon solve itself.

There was, however, the question of...precedent.

"Where are they now?" Minerva inquired.

Filius shrugged. "Miss Moore suggested the Room of Requirement."

The Headmistress sighed. "Well, there's no arguing with that. We shall have to wait until they emerge."

When they did (dressed now, though Rebecca had cheekily eschewed knickers), to find the Headmistress and Professors Sprout and Flitwick waiting for them, Debbie began contritely, "We're so sorry. It won't happen again. We just...well, you know how it is." She and Rebecca glanced at each other, and Rebecca blew Debbie a kiss.

"I do know, Miss Grant, and while it is technically against school rules, it is clear that no harm was intended. For that offence, I shall let it go...this once. However, ten points from each House for being...out of uniform...plus whatever your House Heads deem fitting," the Headmistress decided firmly. Abashed, the girls nodded, and the Heads each gave them a night's detention with Hagrid.

They left, and Rebecca giggled, relieved. "That was close, I was expecting much worse!"

"You do realise," Debbie pointed out, "that we'll have to explain to Hagrid why we're there...?"

The girls laughed, hugging.

She still doesn't suspect. If I can fool a committed lesbian, I can fool anyone...and I will. Right, that's Moore shagged, who's next...?

But then she saw the witch whom, she knew apprehensively, would be the real ultimate test: Hermione Granger.

She looked at the shorter girl with new, lustful eyes. Funny how these Mudbloods were so attractive, but it was undeniable.

Ooh, she's lovely. I want to do her. To rape her. But no, that'd blow my cover, as a Muggle spy novel would have it. No, play it cool and see what happens. If I have to I'll use a Memory Charm.

No, please, her wand pleaded. She is innocent. She is undeserving. It 'sounded' almost...tender. She is beautiful.

She's a fucking Mudblood, and therefore of no consequence! You will obey!

If I must, it answered sulkily.

"Hi, Hermione," she greeted the older witch, who was idly reading Advanced Arithmancy And Numerology Theory.

"Oh, hello, Debbie," she answered distractedly. No, this wouldn't do, it wasn't a real test if the Mudblood didn't really notice her. An idea came to her, based on a memory of what Debbie - the old Debbie, she gloated - had done.

"Um, about the kisses...I'm sorry. I should've realised you were hetero." She essayed a smile. "Forgive me?"

That, she thought, was entirely in keeping with the girl's personality; she too would have apologised. Weak bitch.

Now Hermione looked up, and returned her smile brightly. "Oh, that's quite alright. I wasn't offended, honestly." Her smile shaded into affection. "We're friends, aren't we?"

One of whom would love to see your filthy blood, she thought savagely, but allowed not the slightest trace of her true feelings to show on her face. Instead she affected relief and grinned, "Of course we are."

Hermione nodded pleasantly and returned to her book, wandering off.

No-one knew how exultant this exchange had left her. My imposture is absolutely fucking perfect! If that Mudblood can't tell, with all her smarts, no-one can! Stage Three is complete!

Soon, my Lord, she celebrated, thrilling at the notion and what she would need to do to achieve her goal, soon!

First, though, I'll do the detention with Hagrid and Rebecca. Mmm, should be fun embarrassing him...then, when he's had enough, it's time to keep a promise to myself...

---

The Shrieking Shack

Very late that night

The Death Eaters received the message and met in the Shack as usual. On seeing Wallis, Long grinned and licked his lips, but the former said dismissively, "I used the Johnny Spell, Eric, and I douched afterwards - I don't want a sprog, yours or anyone else's. I just love a good fuck and a lick, that's all. I like feeling spunk up my slit, too, but no fucking way are you knocking me up - unless the Mistress commands it for some reason."

"Hmp," he disapproved, but she shrugged scornfully.

Samuel Felmet snickered. "You can always knock up that Mudblood Granger, or the Lovegood tart, when we win." He sobered. "Anyway, onto more immediate and important shit: where's the Mistress?"

"Here," a soft and totally unfamiliar voice said.

They turned and were greeted, not by the medium-height Mistress, but a girl six feet tall, with much more up top than the Mistress had. Blake's mouth started watering. "Fuck me, bitch, you're tasty," she leered.

The girl preened and smiled, swaying her sexy hips. "I know."

"Hang on," Wallis warned, "that's the girl the Mistress was targeting, the Hufflepuff bitch - Debbie Grant!" She hurriedly raised her wand - but the Mistress, who had entirely expected a certain scepticism, was quicker.

"Expelliarmus!" she snapped, and Wallis's wand flew out of her hand. "How's that birthmark on your left cunt lip, Diane? Still going bald beaver to show it off? Mmm, you do get wet."

Wallis froze in shock, her hand diving by reflex between her legs.

"Or you, Frank," she went on silkily, "with your ten-inch cock bent upwards a bit, and your left bollock a little larger than your right? Nice and tight in my arse, that cock was. I think I bled a bit."

Baker lowered his wand slowly, as did the others; Wallis retrieved hers but did not raise it. The same thought was racing through their heads: how the fuck did this kid, who'd never fucked any of them, know such personal, intimate details of their bodies?

Unless...

"You're not Grant. You can't be. Who...are you?" Blake asked slowly, quietly, hardly daring to believe the incredible thought she'd just had.

The girl smiled slowly, and an evil light came into her blue eyes.

Evil...and familiar.

"Oh, my Death Eaters, you know who I am. But of course you need proof, as I would. Tamara, you're our best Legilimens. Take a look in my mind. But don't delve too deeply, I warn you."

McGillis hesitated, then raised her wand, pointing it at the smiling young girl. "Legilimens!"

The result was beyond anything she might have guessed. She caught only fleeting, terrifying images:

Adrian forcing his cock between her legs as she screamed and struggled, her skirt and knickers already ripped off...

Using her, violating her, taking her innocence, raping her, spurting into her, laughing...

Oh, God, the pain, it hurt so much, she was bleeding on the bed...

"No, no, I don't want a baby! You twat! I HATE you!"

"You're too young, you little fuck toy, you don't even have tits yet!"

"Why rape me, then?!"

Scornful laughter. "'Cos you were there! You don't bleed from your cunt yet!"

"That's PRIVATE! How do you know?!"

"The nurse keeps records, I sneaked a look! Can't knock you up yet! I can use you, though!"

"Get out of my body, you BASTARD!"

"Does it feel good, my cock and spunk up your slit?" Another laugh. "'Nice and tight, you skinny young cunts!"

"Leave me ALONE, you fucking perv!"

"Got a cunt, and an arse! Mmm, not bad for a skinny bitch, I'll do that!"

"But you're a BOY! Boys don't do...that!"

"I'm not choosy! Why d'you think Amos was walking so stiff for two days? I had the fucker!"

She could taste the rage and the terror now...taste his lust, too, God, it was disgusting...!

"Get OFF me!"

"But I reckon girls are more fun up either hole! Gonna do your arse now!"

"NO! NO! NOOOOO!"

Gloating laughter. "Yeah, up to my balls in your tight little arsehole! I hope you bleed again!"

"I'LL KILL YOU! GET OUT! NO!"

"Trish next, she's a pretty one, bet her cunt's as tight as yours! Your arse first, though!"

She knew he was taken by base lust now, pleading was useless, he was too far gone...

Flipping her over, groping and squeezing her bare arse, ready to ram his hard cock up that, too...

Then the desperate twist, the lucky blow, catching his head just right, and him collapsing dazedly...

Good advice Trish gave, now she would put it to use...

The things she did to his cock and balls - so much blood -!

---

McGillis stopped, choked and vomited, collapsing. The girl did not react contemptuously; instead she tutted and bent down to the prone, pale, shuddering figure. She said gently, "I did warn you. There are things in my mind even I'd rather not see again. Here, I'll help - Evanesco," she directed, and the puddle of vomit vanished. She helped the shaking woman to stand. "Better?" she inquired.

"Y - yes," McGillis managed...then bowed. "Mistress. Thank you for your sympathy."

"Comes with the body, I suppose," she shrugged, but kindness was as good a motivator as cruelty. Better, sometimes.

"Do what?!" Baker gasped.

McGillis straightened and addressed them. "It looks like her plan worked. Her body's different now, but...this is the Mistress. There's no doubt. I saw her. I know her." A look almost of sympathy crossed her face. "I'm so sorry about Parker. I'm glad he's dead, the depraved twat."

"I killed him. Even then, in my first life, when I barely knew what I was or what I could do, I killed him...and," she smiled evilly now, "ooh, yes, I enjoyed it." Her smile turned almost gentle. "Georgina, there's a small mole just under your right nipple. It bleeds when you tweak it, I'd have it removed - probably cancerous. I need you alive and well, for...all sorts of reasons.

"Eric, you're living proof that a man doesn't always need two balls to be a good fuck. Lost your left in an accident, didn't you? Most men lose interest, but you already had very high testosterone levels, so it didn't affect you as badly as it could have. Good.

"Tamara, you already know the truth, but you have a small port wine stain on your left buttock, in the middle. Sort of a beauty spot, I like to kiss it. So does Georgina.

"Samuel, your cock is nearly a foot long, but a bit on the thin side. Love it up my arse, though, and you got my cervix when you fucked me, mmm." She stripped naked, and Georgina was abruptly wet. "How do I know these things unless I've fucked each and every one of you, mmm?"

Long murmured, with an incredulous smile, "It...worked? The curse, it worked?"

"Perfectly," she nodded, feeling his crotch - and the growing erection. "The materials were spot on, and you followed your instructions precisely and very, very well. Had it gone wrong, Debbie and I would now both be dead. But now I have her beautiful body...and I seem to recall promising all of you a shot at it. A gang bang. Choose your orifice, I really do not care. Have me one after the other. Come in my cunt, my arse, both - come on, you fuckers! USE ME!" She bent over, sticking her bottom out in blatant sexual invitation and opening her legs. She was soaking wet.

Yelling with joy, it was one order they were extremely glad to obey. They alternated - man, woman, fucking, licking, buggery, French kissing, coming in her mouth. She lost count of her orgasms. She pissed twice, and Blake laughed, licking it up.

Unseen, unheard, Debbie's distressed wand begged the evil usurper to stop, for Debbie's sake. She didn't hear the plea, and wouldn't have listened if she had.

---

Later, alone in her Hufflepuff bed, she idly masturbated. The wand whispered in her mind, How could you? To allow her body to be used so? Let her go, I beg you!

Can't. Wouldn't if I could. This body's mine now.

Stealing it does not make it yours. You defile it. You desecrate it.

Yeah, yeah. Mmm, I like the clit. I like fingering it.

Her body was her own. Sharing it was her own choice. I despise you.

Ooh, gonna come now...

Please do not. Respect her. Please!

Fuck off, the usurper ordered irritably, I'm coming! Aaah, YES!

The wand sobbed bitterly.

---

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry

Outside, Monday morning

During one of their rare free periods, Harry and his friends decided to see how Hagrid was doing...with his dragon. But on their way they had to break up an incipient scuffle between two fourth-year Gryffindor boys. The Head Girl commanded sternly, "Stop this at once!" As much to their own surprise as anyone else's, they did. Hermione took them aside and, once they had privacy, asked, "What's this about?" Predictably the boys started arguing. Her response was a minor firecracker spell; startled, they stopped. "One at a time, please. Raymond," she directed the taller boy.

"Well, miss -"

"I think 'Miss Granger' will do," she interrupted mildly, "I'm the Head Girl, not a teacher. Go on."

Raymond Willis glared at Henry Statten. "I don't like being kissed by a boy!"

Why is everyone obsessed with sex these days? Hermione wondered tiredly, ignoring her own...issues. "Henry?"

"I thought he'd like it," the boy muttered, shamefaced. "I didn't mean anything."

"Raymond," she sighed, "you really should be more open-minded and tolerant. There can't be offence when none is intended. Henry," she asked tactfully, "are you gay?" Blushing, he nodded. "There's nothing wrong with that. The Head of House Ravenclaw is. Even a former Headmaster was, so you're in good company. Perhaps you should have asked first, there's really no need to fight. Ten points from Gryffindor for fighting in the school grounds.

"Now," she went on kindly, "since you know where you both stand, I think you should apologise to each other and shake hands, and let's not have a repeat."

They did, and Henry said sincerely, "Sorry, Ray. I do think you're handsome."

"Oh," Raymond answered, taken aback, "I thought it was a dare or something. Can't stand those. You're really gay?" he asked, honestly curious now. Henry nodded again. "Sorry, but I'm not. Hey, you should try Stuart Pearce, I've been wondering about him."

"There, you see? You just had the wrong boy, that's all," Hermione smiled brightly. "Ten back to Gryffindor because you've both learned something. Now off you go, and let's have no more of this sort of thing."

"Thanks, Miss Granger!" they chorused, and went their separate ways. Hermione smiled fondly after them. Boys will be boys.

"Nice one," Ron complimented her on her return, kissing her, "I thought it was going to get drastic."

"Just a misunderstanding, that's all," she said breezily. "Right, let's go and see how Hagrid's doing."

---

He was teaching a small group of seventh-year students, all of whom understandably looked worried. "She won' hurt yeh, 'cos she knows you ain't Death Eaters, but yeh still gotta mind yourselves, alri'?" Hagrid finished brightly. The students looked at each other uneasily.

Harry couldn't blame them. The last time he'd seen Norberta, she'd barely hatched and even then she could - and did - set Hagrid's beard alight. Apparently she was precocious; normally the young Norwegian Ridgeback develops fire-breathing abilities earlier than other breeds, at between one and three months, but she was newly hatched. This one was now huge...and the blast of fire she spewed forth was impressive to say the least. Oddly, she wasn't restrained.

"Oh, ain't no need for tha', she knows where she belongs," Hagrid grinned when Harry nervously asked. "Ain't she a beauty?"

They looked at each other. The Antipodean Opaleye or the Swedish Short-Snout might have been called at least pretty. This thing was, not to put too fine a point on it, a monster. Hermione shook her head fondly; Hagrid had his ways, and a...unique viewpoint. "We'll leave you to it," she smiled, and they started to make themselves scarce.

"Righ' yeh are," Hagrid returned merrily, "now who wants to try feedin' 'er, eh?" he called.

They had no idea what a Norwegian Ridgeback would eat, and no desire to find out. They hurried away.

"Bloody 'ell," Ron gasped when they were some distance away, "does he actually know what that thing is?"

"I doubt it," Harry chuckled, recalling his own encounter with a fully-grown dragon in the Triwizard Tournament. He'd barely survived it.

"Well, I'm sure the Headmistress knows what she's doing," Hermione said doubtfully. "At least we know a Death Eater won't be coming that way."

"Not if they've any sense, no," Ron opined fervently.

---

Alas, he was quite right. The guards at the entrance to the Honeydukes tunnel had been Confunded by the Mistress, her presence - and malice - entirely unanticipated by them, exactly as planned. The only reason she didn't kill them was because their deaths would likely attract too much attention...of the wrong sort. She sent a Messenger Charm, rather like a paper aeroplane, through a window; it flew to the Shack and, before disintegrating, said one word:

"Tonight."

Ecstatic, the waiting Death Eaters launched into an orgy.

---

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry

Advanced Defence Against the Dark Arts, that afternoon

This time Professor Greythorne was teaching Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff students, more of the former. He was mildly surprised to see Debbie Grant there; she was skilled with Charms, but didn't seem interested enough to take his subject to N.E.W.T. level. So he inquired; the girl smiled. "Well, my girlfriend - that is, my friend who's a girl - is taking it, sir." She grinned at Miss Moore. "Besides, you re right; we can't rest on our laurels when there are Death Eaters still out there. They might, perish the thought, try to take revenge on Harry. Can't have that, sir."

"Quite right," he agreed, but frowned at the girl's use of the word 'laurels'. She was bright, to be sure, but he doubted she even knew the word. Plus he could swear her body language and phraseology were just a little...off. Then again, he mused, she had been seen associating with Miss Granger, who was known as a positive influence in several fields. It was said she'd even befriended a first-year Slytherin.

As for Miss Grant, she had certain unfortunate...tendencies of her own, but hadn't displayed them as yet. He dismissed the matter and turned to teaching, his primary business.

Even an Auror could make mistakes.

He failed to recognise that Miss Grant nearly always wet herself in class.

As the lesson ended, she breathed a mental sigh of relief. Fuck, that was too close. But I pass with him, too.

---

The Shrieking Shack

That evening

"We meet again," the fake Debbie greeted her Death Eaters. Felmet, ever up for it, grinned and groped her bottom - and received a modified Stunning curse in response, causing pain rather than unconsciousness. "Not now, Samuel, you randy bastard! It's time. That nosy Auror is getting too damn close, and we can still be stopped. Only I know the ritual to bring Him back, and if I die He can't return." She sighed. "I made a tactical error."

"What was that, Mistress?" Blake inquired.

"When I learned it, the ritual was printed on paper which self-destructed once read - but I was alone. I should have had you with me as backup." She looked as repentant as the Mistress ever could. "Worse, the memories are one-shot, too. Even if Tamara used Legilimency, she wouldn't be able to absorb them, and I'd forget. Like the Federation in the Muggle show Blake's 7 - in trying to protect the location of Star One they went too far and actually lost it. I made the same mistake. I hope He will forgive me," she finished, her head down.

But Wallis stroked her hair, the gesture one of comfort rather than seduction...though she was getting wet. For the Mistress to admit to an imperfection was somehow sexy. "Mistress, all will be forgiven when He returns. He won't care how - He'll be too busy taking His just revenge," she said soothingly. "You're young, you're bound to make the odd minor mistake. It won't matter." She licked her lips. "And our enemies will be too busy dying to think 'how did we not see it coming?', I reckon!"

"What the hell is Blake's 7?" Baker wondered.

They laughed, and the Mistress grinned. "Doesn't matter, Frank. Though anti-heroes, the Seven were on the side of good and justice. Whereas we Seven," her grin turned lascivious, "are not."

"Nah," Long grinned evilly, "being evil is much more fun! Ooh, all those Mudbloods and Muggles to rape and kill!"

"And fuck," Baker joined in, "some in that order!"

Six of the Seven gloated, groping each other. Only the Mistress looked solemn.

Blake was the first to notice, whilst fondling Wallis's breast. "Mistress?"

"We have not won yet," she quietly pointed out. "Celebration of our victory can and should wait until we've achieved it. Even the Muggles, foul beasts that they are, say it: first things first. Don't count your chickens. And so on." They stopped and looked contrite, but she smiled. "But since they have only the vaguest suspicions, let's proceed with confidence. Let the Dark Lord return."

"Let the Dark Lord return!" they eagerly chorused.

---

They began by taking Ginny, but they underestimated her as people frequently did. She gave a good account of herself as the Death Eaters, who'd arrived through the tunnel to Hogwarts, attacked, but ironically she was overwhelmed because she wasn't ruthless enough.

Not that that held her back. She hadn't been lying to Harry; she'd pleaded with her Dad to teach her a few things about defence, and on finding out her mother had insisted. "We nearly lost her once, Arthur, and I am not risking that happening again! If I have to I'll teach her!" So he relented and gave her a few lessons. Before she was rendered unconscious, the Death Eaters found out how much she'd learned.

Baker, his arm broken and bleeding, growled as she fell, "I hope He leaves her body intact, 'cause that's one little blood traitor bitch I'm gonna rape up both her holes once she's dead!"

McGillis was more of a pragmatist; she observed, "She only defended herself, Frank."

"Broke my fucking arm!"

"Oh, here," she cursed, casting a spell which would splint the arm for several hours. Once they were done, he could use Skele-Gro to repair the break. He rubbed it; the pain was diminishing.

"Thanks," he allowed grudgingly. "Who's next?"

That was Ron; he never saw it coming, as they'd learned from Ginny. But they hadn't counted on Harry coming round the corner. His reaction was amazingly swift; he cast a Stunning curse, which only narrowly missed Baker. "Sectumsempra!" Blake screamed, but Harry had correctly guessed what she would do next and ducked; the curse split stone behind him. He took the opportunity to hurriedly fetch the coin out of his pocket and breathe Hermione's name on it.

---

Advanced Arithmancy

Near the end of the lesson

She felt the coin grow warm in her pocket and stood abruptly. Professor Vector deduced correctly that Miss Granger would never disrupt her lesson without good cause. She too stood and drew her wand. "What?" she rapped.

"Harry's in trouble," Hermione said simply. She had also used logic. Either Harry or Ron had sent the warning. Ron was not a target, whereas Harry was. Therefore he had more reason to warn her. Anyway, to her it didn't matter - a friend had called for help, never mind who or why, or what trouble they were in!

Septima nodded grimly. "Well reasoned. Miss Granger, with me! Finch-Fletchley, take over! Miss Moore, sound the alarm!" They ran out.

Hermione used a variant on the Point-Me spell to locate Harry; he had the Map, and it never occurred to her to call Kreacher. "Third corridor, near the passage to Honeydukes!"

"Can't see Death Eaters eating Jelly Slugs," Septima quipped as they ran.

"Secret way in," Hermione explained breathlessly.

They arrived to see Harry using a Shield Charm to repel Death Eater attacks; Hermione cast another new invention, the Ricochet Charm, to knock one off her feet, the charm first hitting a stone wall, bouncing off towards another, then lancing in on her true target. "Mudblood bitch!" McGillis screamed in fury as she went down.

"And proud of it!" Hermione snarled. She tried to cast a Body-Bind Curse, but another Death Eater cast the same curse that had nearly killed her in the Department of Mysteries; she broke off and threw herself backwards, desperate not to suffer that shock and agony again. As the curse flamed over her head, Septima took her chance and aimed a high-powered Stunning spell at her attacker. But Blake had anticipated this and used a non-verbal spell to disable her, recognising her (from her failed Arithmancy lessons) as a teacher and hence a threat.

"I'll kill you later, bitch," she swore under her breath as Septima fell. Harry and Hermione were still conscious and still fighting, but their enemies were slowly gaining ground.

Until Debbie appeared around the corner and asked brightly, "Need any help?"

Hermione felt nothing but relief (and a little guilty excitement, as Debbie wasn't in robes but something much skimpier). "Watch yourself! Cover us!" she cried in glee.

But Debbie raised her wand, gave Hermione a more evil smile than she'd ever thought the Hufflepuff capable of, and answered, "I wasn't talking to you, cunt."

There was a bright flash, and the two Gryffindors knew no more.

"That," the Mistress said silkily as they collapsed unconscious, "is how you do it."

---

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry

Staff Room

Rebecca burst in and, before they could protest or eject her, she cried, "Alert!"

Greythorne had almost been expecting it. "Pass the word, Miss Moore: all students report to their dorms immediately!"

"Whatever's the matter, Rebecca?" Professor Slughorn asked.

"I don't know, sir, but if Hermione Granger says there's trouble -"

"- then there is," the Headmistress agreed grimly. "Wands, all of you! Set the Head Boy and the seventh-year Prefects to patrol the grounds, and advise them to guard themselves! Hogwarts is under attack!"

Rebecca took the initiative by seizing the Magic Microphone and calling, "By order of the Headmistress, all students report to their dorms! Neville Longbottom and all seventh-year Prefects, patrol the grounds - and for God's sake watch yourselves!"

---

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry

The Room of Requirement

McGillis was the first to hear the announcement; she told them grimly, "They know. I don't know how, but -"

"Doesn't matter. Bring them," the Mistress ordered, and sighed as Long took a grip on Ginny's breasts. "I said 'bring', not 'grope'! That can wait, Eric!"

"Best time, when they're out cold," he grinned. "Ooh, nice tits!"

But he lost the grin when she raised her wand. "Let me put it another way: obey or die, as Fisk died. I don't necessarily need all of you. Besides, that one will be useful for the sacrifice once He returns. The Revival spell must be fixed with the use of a human life...and I can't imagine a better way to hurt Potter than to watch his fuck toy die, can you?"

Long couldn't hear the wand's silent but futile plea, even on behalf of a Death Eater. The Mistress knew perfectly well it would be extremely reluctant to cast the Killing Curse. But as it knew too well, there were slower curses. Slower...but just as effective.

Plus she had a knife, a tecpatl, the double-edged tapering blade a full twelve inches in length. Unusually for such an implement it was of metal rather than flint. It would be used to murder the sacrifice. She'd enjoy plunging it into his chest, though. Long knew it, too.

He let go of Ginny's breasts and instead gripped her under the arms, dragging her. The Mistress sighed almost in fond exasperation. "Are you a wizard or what?" she inquired, unconsciously echoing Hermione. "Wingardium Leviosa."

He looked sheepish as Ginny rose into the air, floating. "Didn't think of that. Sorry, Mistress."

As they entered the Room, which now looked like something out of Poe, she ordered, "I need to prepare this one. Georgina, Frank, guard the others - disarm them, obviously. The rest of you, keep watch. If you see that bloody Auror or McGonagall, tell me instantly. If the Mudblood tries anything, kill her first, I don't care how. In fact," she smirked, "once they've woken up, kill her anyway. Make sure she suffers first. Do whatever you want once she's dead. Meanwhile I'll prepare the sacrifice." She left.

Blake cast a curse to tie them up rather than a Body-Bind, reasoning correctly that the Mistress would want them conscious and aware for what would happen next. She wanted that, too - she always enjoyed the look of fear on one victim's face as another was put to death.

Harry woke first; he struggled, but his bonds were brutally tight. Hermione came to and moaned, "Harry, where - where are we?"

She gasped in horror as Baker squeezed her breast.

"Fancy a little rape?" the Death Eater gloated as he groped the helpless Hermione, roughly fondling her small but shapely breasts and bottom. She might be a Mudblood, but, ooh, she was a tasty one. She'd be fun screaming in terror and agony as he raped her, Baker reckoned. Probably she was a virgin, with her snooty attitude - he loved breakin' 'em in...before killing them bloodily.

Often after killing them, while they were still warm - a body was a body, who cared if she was alive or dead?

"Never mind that," his female companion snarled, "just kill the Mudblood bitch and be done with it!" In truth she wanted to abuse the girl too, being a lesbian, and the Mudblood was attractive, but their Mistress had given explicit commands. Neither dared disobey. It was, quite literally, more than their lives were worth.

He shrugged and shifted his grip to Hermione's throat, squeezing; she looked terrified. Deciding to have a little fun with her before her death, sadist that he was, he inquired, "Any last words before you die, little one?"

She managed no more than a strangled gasp; she was dying.

"What was that?" he mocked. The woman chuckled, licking her lips.

Hermione tried again, and he relented slightly. "I still can't hear you."

"Your fly's undone," she choked.

Startled, he quickly glanced down...exactly the lapse in attention she'd been hoping for. Her terror was wholly feigned. In truth she wasn't scared...just very, very angry at being manhandled and sexually assaulted.

As his head raised again after checking (it wasn't), she slammed the back of hers into his face, shattering his nose. He was lucky the fragments weren't pushed through his sinus cavity to kill him. He screamed and let go; his companion roared in anger and raised her wand, but Hermione was faster even without hers as she somehow broke her bonds.

She was so furious she didn't need a wand; her blazing anger was more than enough as she pointed a finger. It wasn't clear precisely what she did, as it was non-verbal, but her opponent was bowled over and instantly rendered unconscious. Shades of Darth Maul, she reflected grimly, recalling her viewing of The Phantom Menace, like a Force push. Use the Force, Hermione.

"Anger. Fear. Aggression. The Dark Side, are they," Yoda had warned. Well, forgive me just this once.

She then kicked the man where it hurt, hard. That's one in your Neutral Zone, she thought savagely, unconsciously channelling her inner Mariner, though she wouldn't know that until 2022 and Season 3 of Lower Decks.

As her male assailant moaned, curled up in agony, she retrieved her wand and started furiously casting spells, curses, hexes and the odd jinx or two at them. "Securus Agonis! Confundus! Stupefy! Incarcero Maxima! Furnunculus! Tarantallegra!" And so on. She'd recognised him as Frank Baker, a known necrophile - she was livid at the idea of being raped after her death. So she wasn't in a gentle mood, to put it mildly. His companion Georgina Blake was a notorious lesbian, and a sadist to boot - her youngest victim, a Muggle girl of just fifteen, had never testified, having been brutally murdered.

Her grieving parents would at least get justice for their beloved daughter. Hermione would see to that. If there were any other Muggle murders on their docket, as seemed highly likely, they would pay for those, too.

Harry and Ron were lost in awe as she raged. "She hasn't repeated herself once," Harry breathed.

"One or two I don't recognise."

"Probably invented them."

"She does that."

Finally, exhausted, she stopped. Gasping for breath, she snapped, "You know, it doesn't matter if it's fact or fiction, good guys or bad, that tactic always, ALWAYS works! I mean, WHY?!"

It seemed a rhetorical question, so they felt safe in not answering. She released them and retrieved their wands from Baker's pocket.

---

The Daily Prophet later ran a piece on 'Spell-casting Without A Wand: Do We Need Them?', describing how a wand was only the focus for a wizard's power, not the source.

But Hermione dismissed it. "Some spells can be cast without a wand, yes...but only when the witch or wizard is in an extreme emotional state. Anger certainly works, if you're mad enough. I suppose you could cast one in the midst of orgasm." The interviewer gulped and looked embarrassed; Hermione spared her a brief smile. "That would work best for witches, though, our orgasms last longer."

The interviewer, who as it happened was a half-blood virgin, squirmed, her face bright red.

"Fear works, too, and I admit I was more scared than I was letting on. Angry, yes, but scared, too." She shivered. "I do hope I never have to do that again." With that, the interview ended.

---

The others heard the commotion and rushed to aid Blake and Baker, but they were met with Stunning spells, after which they were securely tied. "No more chances," she warned Harry and Ron. "We still need to deal with Debbie." She shook her head, baffled. "I don't understand it. She didn't seem to be under the Imperius Curse. Why is she, a Hufflepuff, helping Death Eaters?"

"Yeah, and what are they up to?" Ron demanded. "And what's Ginny got to do with it?"

"Weapon against me?" Harry speculated grimly. " Doesn't matter - whatever they're doing, it can't be good. Greythorne told me they're going to bring Voldemort back somehow."

"They'd need a Horcrux for that, Harry," Hermione dismissed it. "We destroyed them, remember? You killed the diary in your second year; Dumbledore destroyed the ring; Ron got the locket; I ruined the cup in the Chamber of Secrets; Neville pulled that brilliant stroke on Nagini; and the Fiendfyre accounted for the diadem. Plus Voldemort destroyed the other fragment of his soul when he tried to kill you in the Forest."

"So what's left?" Ron wondered, then shook his head angrily. "She's got Ginny! Remember what Mum did to that Lestrange twat? Well, if she hurts Ginny she's bloody well gonna get the same!"

"But why?!" Hermione cried in distress. "It makes no sense! Debbie is - well, alright, she's not that typical in that she's rebellious, she's a lesbian and I once nearly took points off her for groping me and wetting herself in a corridor, but ultimately Debbie Grant is a good person! She would never ally herself with Death Eaters! Please, both of you, don't hurt her, at least not until we find out the truth!"

"Too soft-hearted, you are," Ron griped. But she adopted a look of pleading and took his hand.

"Please, Ron. I - I know it looks bad, but please give her the benefit of the doubt. Remember, Harry did for Pettigrew in his third year, and that saved him when Pettigrew tried to strangle him. And Dumbledore saw it coming," she insisted. There were tears in her eyes. "Please. For me. She's my friend. We have to know the truth."

"Ginny's my sister," Ron protested, but he was weakening.

"I'm not saying you shouldn't be forceful. If she is a traitor I'd be even madder than you about it. But that's if she is. We just don't know. Until we do...Ronald, I love you. I am begging you. Please let her live. For me. I know what I'm asking. But that's when faith proves its value, isn't it? When there's reason to doubt?" she appealed.

Harry, ever compassionate as Lily had been, saw her point. "If we're wrong we can always kill her later, mate. But we can't UN-kill her if we've made a mistake. Even the Muggles know that - a lot of countries did away with the death penalty. Even America's going that way. Besides...Death Eaters kill. Dumbledore's Army doesn't. We're better than that."

Proud of her closest friend, Hermione couldn't resist. "Well said, Harry. One hundred points to Gryffindor."

Ron groaned, giving in. "Points? Really? At a time like this?"

"Inappropriate," a cold voice agreed softly, and a well-cast charm silenced all three.

---

A few minutes earlier

The Mistress looked up from her preparations as sounds of fighting stole into the sacrificial chamber, where a now-conscious Ginny lay helpless. "Hmm, sounds like I'm losing my friends. Oh, well. They're expendable. You, though...you're useful. Or you will be."

Ginny struggled desperately. "Why are you doing whatever the hell you're doing? You're a Hufflepuff! I thought you were nice!"

Her captor chuckled. "Strange how a Muggle education can come in handy. You've probably never heard of him, but as ex-Agent Smith said, As you well know, looks can be deceiving." Now she grinned, but in an evil way which made Ginny shudder in fear she didn't dare admit to. "Never more true than in my case, I assure you. Oh, I know you're scared. Feel free to piss in your knickers. I would in your shoes. You'll be naked when I sacrifice you - not strictly necessary but," she mocked, "I'm sure Potter will enjoy it. Can't stand blood traitors myself. I hate redheads."

Defiantly Ginny spat, "Do what you want, I won't beg!"

"Oh, no," the older girl agreed, "you'll be too busy dying, with my tecpatl buried in your heart as I twist it, to beg."

Though she'd never admit it, Ginny was really scared now. She could only pray Harry and the others would rescue her, as he had in her first year against the memory of Tom Riddle. She would never forget that, the feeling of life rushing back into her just as it had been leaching out of her earlier. I think I fell in love with him then.

She would never admit it, but she did want to pee.

Ginny was startled by a flash. She heard her friends fall. "Got 'em," her returning captor gloated. She wasted no time in arranging them before the altar Ginny was lying on and binding them again.

The Death Eaters were, she saw, lying deeply unconscious, possibly dead. No, she reconsidered, they wouldn't be dead; Potter and the others were too soft - too compassionate, they would've said - to kill their enemies. Fools. Why leave an enemy alive to maybe cause trouble later? Either way, she decided, they were out of it. No matter. She had Potter, she had the materials needed and she had the sacrifice. She didn't need them any more. Fuck 'em, perverts that they were.

Not that I'm any less of a pervert, she conceded wryly. Doubtless the Dark Lord would indulge her.

This time the Mudblood was the first to come to, and the first thing she saw was "D - Debbie?"

"Welcome back," she smiled. "You're just in time to see the triumph of evil. It goes without saying that you are all going to die. It'll be slow. Doubtless He will want to take the full measure of His revenge. The blood traitor on the altar will die fairly quickly, as the Revival spell is time-critical, but I guarantee there will be lots and lots of blood, pain and screaming as she dies. Then you, I think, Weasley. Then the Granger cunt. Finally Potter. Then, I imagine, the staff of Hogwarts, and then...whoever we want. Can't wait."

"You're not Debbie," a now-conscious Harry rasped. "You're a fake, an impostor. Good one, I'll admit, you even had Hermione fooled. But no Hufflepuff would ever side with Death Eaters."

"She came in handy, did Debbie. A useful distraction, especially when she tried to seduce the Mudblood. But she was useful only, not the key, not the catalyst that awoke me."

"Who was that?" Harry asked.

"Oh, Harry," Debbie purred silkily. "You'll never guess who's key to my plan. Not you, or Ron, or Hermione...tasty though she is," the girl leered, licking her sensuous lips. "No. Would you believe it's Neville?"

"Neville?" he repeated, startled.

"Yes, he was the answer, poor innocent lad. He doesn't even know - thanks to you lot - what he's done. Shall I tell you? It'll be such a pleasure."

"Wait," Hermione requested. "Where's the real Debbie Grant - the one you've impersonated?"

The girl chuckled. "Why, she's here, of course."

"No, no," Hermione insisted, "you're using Polyjuice Potion, or Transfiguration, or something similar."

An evil look came into Debbie's eyes. "Oh, no. That's what you'd like to believe, it's neater and cleaner. But no. Debbie...is here."

Harry didn't understand. But Hermione did; she gasped in utter horror. "No...no! You can't have! NO!"

"I did," the girl smiled evilly. "Debbie was so beautiful, and so useful. So I used the Replacio Horcruxi curse in human mode."

No-one who hadn't read Magick Moste Evil would have been expected to recognise the curse, obscure and ancient as it was. Unfortunately Hermione had, whilst researching Horcruxes and how to destroy them. With horror she knew what the Death Eater, for such she was in spirit if not in fact, had done.

The curse was derived from the one used to create and seal a Horcrux, and was similar in terms of its effect on a spirit - similarly evil. In its most extreme form, the book warned, it could be used to supplant one human personality with another...killing the host personality in the process. The curse was extremely painful and, of course, fatal for the recipient - not that a Dark wizard or witch would care about their pain.

Unless they enjoyed it, which this girl clearly did, whoever she really was.

"NO!" Hermione screamed as it sank in. "YOU BEAST! YOU MURDERER!" She struggled uselessly. "She was my friend! YOU EVIL BITCH!"

"Hermione," Harry attempted, "I don't -"

Full of loathing, she shrieked, "She took Debbie's body! THAT'S NOT DEBBIE! DEBBIE'S DEAD! SHE'S DEAD!" Her sob was heartbroken, and heartbreaking. "She's dead..." Hermione wailed in torment.

"Now you get it," 'Debbie' gloated. "Oh, she fought so hard, she could've been a Gryffindor, she was so very brave...but no-one can resist that curse. In the end she, yes, she died, at least her mind did, and I took her still-living body. The perfect disguise. I was Debbie. If Debbie occasionally acted out of character, well," she shrugged, "Whitman had it right. Very wise, for a Muggle. We're all large. We all contain multitudes. And she was never the most consistent girl, was she?

"She was so easy to fake, such a pleasure. Even her - my - lovers never knew when we fucked. Even Rebecca fell for her 'change of heart', and, ooh, she was so much fun. A really tasty cunt, she has, mmm. Debbie's body's made for sex. So very beautiful," she purred, fondling her own - Debbie's - breasts, hips and waist.

"But she was my friend," Hermione sobbed, and Harry looked on with horror, anger and pity - the last for Hermione. But she didn't need it; she raised her head from her grief, and with blazing anger she swore vehemently, "By the Sword, I swear I will end you if I can! First chance I get - I! Will! KILL! YOU!"

Never before in the history of the world had she - or anyone else - sworn on the Sword of Godric Gryffindor, known as Godric's Glory. Still less had they sworn bloody vengeance.

But at that moment she meant it. She had never hated or loathed anyone more, not even Bellatrix. Not even Voldemort. She would kill this bitch, for Debbie's sake...and, God help her, she might even enjoy it. Azkaban was too bloody good for this unholy evil slut!

Harry couldn't believe it, he'd never even known such a horrible thing was possible. Poor Debbie. But he choked, "Who are you, then?"

Their enemy bowed. "Some of us were named after astronomical bodies, Harry - Regulus, Sirius, Bellatrix, Andromeda. I am Capella. Capella...Lestrange." At his look of horror, she added, "Yes, Bellatrix had a daughter. By none other than...the Dark Lord himself!"

Her laugh was high-pitched...like Voldemort's.

"The only Capella in Hogwarts is Capella Braithwaite," Ron protested (the Prefects had been apprised of the Ministry's search, so he would know - each Prefect was ordered to check a House not their own, using Veritaserum if they had to, and he and Peter Briggs of Hufflepuff had been given Slytherin), "and she checked out -"

"Of course she did," the girl smiled, "and even under Veritaserum she would've said the same. However, the key weakness of that potion is that it forces you to tell the truth as you know it - and under a Memory Charm, little Capella would have done just that. She didn't know her memories were false. But she was an artifice, Harry, a construct, designed to fool even Aurors - at least until her true memories, my memories, emerged, and I took our juicy, sexy Debbie. The altered Memory Charm placed on me at my birth was very effective. Oh, yes, the Dark Lord did contemplate his possible fall - which was why he impregnated my mother; a safeguard. She was happy to obey him as always, even though it meant I had to grow up in an orphanage."

"Like Tom Riddle," Harry nodded, and tensed. But the girl shrugged.

"Well, if you will use his half-Muggle name...I was conceived a few months before my mother tortured the Longbottom couple, and given up when I was prematurely born, just before the Dark Lord fell. I grew up not knowing who I really was at first; I was Capella Braithwaite."

Not recognising the name, Harry asked, "What House were you in?"

"Slytherin, of course," she answered, and grinned at his look of confusion. "Oh, yes, the Ministry really should tighten up their checks, you know. There I was, right under their noses! Fools!" She laughed now. "But then Neville recreated the Room...and my original, true memories burst out. I remembered everything. I realised what he'd done - I'll get to that - and I formed the plan for the Dark Lord to return. That was when I captured...and killed...Debbie. God, that was fun. I so enjoyed her death. She suffered, Harry. Ooh." She shuddered with pleasure.

Capella spoke with sadistic relish, and Harry tried not to vomit, or even react. But let her think, he decided suddenly, that she was getting to him...especially since she was.

His heart went out to Hermione, who was crying again. He wondered if she was pretending distress, waiting for her chance...but no, he realised sadly, she really was weeping for Debbie. If he understood it correctly - and he hoped he didn't - Debbie was dead, and her body was being used like a puppet, sort of a Horcrux, or an Inferius inhabited by the invader, Capella. He felt ill. "What happened to..."

"...my original body? Oh, that died as planned," the Death Eater shrugged carelessly, "and was disposed of with a very powerful Reducto curse. So I was free to pursue the plan - which, as I said, depended critically on Neville. I didn't emerge until he carried out his role."

So Capella Braithwaite was dead, too. He remembered her as a nondescript Slytherin, average in every way. Which was the whole point, he realised; it was part of her disguise. The Ministry should look at the average ones, he thought, hell, they should look at everyone, just in case - even us, because anyone could be a fake. But...even a fake has a right to live, he mused sadly, just like Debbie did.

"What was that?" he inquired. She was falling into the classic trap of monologue, telling him her plan, but he would use the information any way he could. Now, he knew, they were getting to it.

"Why, he restored the Room of Requirement," she answered with brightness that to Harry was sickening. "He was said to have a gift for using it, and he did exactly what I'd hoped: he phrased it badly. You see, he wished for the Room to be remade exactly as it was before the Fiendfyre. Exactly, Harry. Magic is a lot like programming a Muggle computer - yes, I did that at the orphanage - you get exactly what you ask for, no more, no less.

"The Room obliged, as it always does. The magic recreated everything in the Room - chairs, brooms, odd trinkets, everything past students hid in there." Her voice rose excitedly. "But what else was in there, eh?"

Harry tried to think, racking his brain...and then he remembered. He gasped in shock. "The - the diadem!"

Capella laughed. "Exactly! The diadem was recreated, too! The Horcrux, for my Master!" She looked gleeful. "And when I perform the appropriate ritual, sacrificing someone - your darling Ginny, perhaps? - the Dark Lord will return, reward his most faithful servant, his daughter, and seek revenge - on YOU! And this time, NOTHING will stop him!"

Harry fought for breath, and forced himself to calm, though if he was honest with himself he was trembling with fright at the idea. Clarity was vital, though, because she was quite right - Voldemort would use someone else's wand, Capella's, perhaps, and this time his mother's protection wouldn't save him, because no link existed between them or their wands.

Nothing would. He'd survived the Killing Curse twice, and he knew even Voldemort learned from experience - the next time it would be something other, almost equally deadly but just as certain, and Harry doubted Expelliarmus would stop or even slow it.

Worse, Voldemort, as a disembodied spirit, might even take his body, as poor Debbie had been taken. Would anyone be able to tell? More, could he resist? He had no idea, and less desire to find out.

But...there was one ray of hope. Just one. Luna had once trilled merrily, "Even the word 'hopeless' has hope in it, Harry."

She was ever the optimist. He had to hope (he almost chuckled) she was right.

"Capella...there's one flaw in your plan."

She grinned. "No, there isn't."

"There is," he insisted. "Life and death are beyond magic. Not even the Room can create a soul." It was only a hope, but it seemed reasonable; certainly it couldn't create food, that being the first of the five Principal Exceptions to Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration (God, it's useful being best friends with a brainbox!). "Okay, it might've brought back the diadem, and that's good, it should be returned to Ravenclaw Tower, but that's all - it's just jewellery now, it's not a Horcrux!"

"Romantic nonsense," she denied scornfully, "that's just what Dumbledore would've said. But life and death bow to magic as everything does. You'll see. You're just trying to save Ginny, you sweet boy, you," she sneered. She caressed Ginny's body, evoking a moan of fear and disgust from her, and purred, "You do realise that I actually want to kill her, blood traitor bitch that she is. Red hair...ugh. I'd never go down on a redhead."

It was partly true, he was trying to save the girl he loved, and he wanted to snarl at her violation. But the most vital question was: would Ginny be sacrificed before or after she tried and failed to resurrect Voldemort? He asked, and she snarled, "Do not speak His name!"

"What, Voldemort?" he mocked. She struck him. "Scared to say it, are you?" he taunted, his nose bleeding.

"No," she answered with surprising quiet and calm. "Respectful. Say His name again and I will hurt your friends - starting with Ginny. She only has to be alive for the sacrifice, she doesn't have to be...intact. Show respect, Harry."

"Sorry," he said, though he wasn't.

"And the resurrection spell needs to be fixed once the Dark Lord returns," she told him, "by the use of a human life."

He used every scrap of acting ability he'd ever learned to keep from showing how relieved he was. If Ginny would only be killed after the spell, there was still a chance. Once it failed he would, he resolved, take advantage somehow.

He had no idea how - yet - but he would do everything he could to bring this evil witch down.

This evil bitch.

He d been in bad situations before; this one was as bad as it got. He couldn't be sure Capella's unholy plan wouldn't work, though it certainly had so far. Bide my time, wait for my chance, then take it. I know the drill. Wish to hell I didn't.

Capella used a curse Harry didn't recognise, and suddenly Ginny's robe and underwear (black and sexy) seemed to tear themselves to shreds and burn, leaving her naked. She was apparently disgusted by Ginny's fiery pubic hair; her bush was full but neatly trimmed. He'd been looking forward to finding out what Ginevra Weasley did with her pubes on their wedding night. In an attempt at politeness he looked away.

"Don't you like red pubes, Harry? The old Debbie would've loved this, pervert that she was."

He felt he had to respond, if only out of respect for Hermione and Ginny. "She wasn't a pervert. Odd, yeah, but it's not perverted to like redheads." Wetting yourself in public is a bit perverse, though. Still, live and let live, Hermione always says.

"Only a Mudblood, a Muggle or a Muggle-lover would like redheads," Capella returned scornfully. "They should be exterminated. Will be, if I have my way. I'll start with her when He returns. Her death will fix Him to life," she gloated. She began chanting, holding the blade over Ginny's heaving chest, and an awful green glow suffused her. He didn't recognise the words or the language, and was glad of it.

Ginny was no longer able to pretend she wasn't scared. This evil bitch intended - wanted - to kill her. She hadn't been this terrified since Riddle emerged from the diary and told her she was going to die. She really wanted to pee, but resisted because that was what the Death Eater wanted, and out of respect for Harry. Please, Harry, please do something. Please save me. I want your kids. I don't want to die here.

---

Outside the Room of Requirement

Having received word from the house-elves regarding the recent acquisition of certain magical items, some illegal, he had utilised his unfortunate but comprehensive knowledge of Dark magic to deduce what Capella Braithwaite - or whoever she really was - intended. Using his Muggle-acquired detective skills (giving thanks to the highly capable DCI Phoebe Drinkwater), he'd determined who was behind it, and that in all probability she had had some connection to the Death Eaters. Most likely she was the daughter of one...perhaps she had even been fathered by Voldemort.

Come to think of it, there was a brief blank in Bellatrix Lestrange's file; perhaps she had had the child in secret and then given her up for adoption by a Muggle or witches' orphanage.

He was shocked to surmise that she was intending to use, amongst other dark and terrible things, the Replacio Horcruxi curse. He'd read about it in Magick Moste Evil, and wished fervently that he hadn't.

No, he realised with horror and disgust, she already has used it! I thought Debbie Grant seemed different somehow! Oh, Debbie, you poor child. She will pay for that, he swore with blazing rage, by Godric's Glory I swear SHE WILL PAY!

Calm, he thought forcefully, calm. Serenity. Control. Remember your training, as Albus taught you. There is a time for rationality and a time for anger. Do not confuse the two.

I have to get this exactly right. I doubt there's any way to force it, even with all the power of my wand. The Muggles have these 'computer' things, which are very literal - one only gets out what one puts in. Magic is often similar. Perhaps a program is analogous to a spell.

So...

I need to be where Harry Potter is. I need to be where Harry Potter is. I need to be where Harry Potter is.

To his mild astonishment, it worked. The doors opened.

None too soon; he saw the Revival spell was being conducted as he heard the Death Eater's explanation. He secreted himself behind a pillar. He had already seen the diadem, and had realised with a flash of insight and a pang of regret exactly what Neville had done. Should've asked Harry or, better, Hermione about it, lad. She would've advised you.

Bloody clever plan, though, I have to admit. Hopefully it won't work. But if it does...I have my wand. We'll see.

Ginny is laid out for sacrifice, per the Revival spell. The timing must be exact - Ginny's life depends on it!

He aimed carefully.

---

Things were building up, Harry knew. He'd never wanted to see Voldemort again except in his infrequent nightmares. He looked at Ginny; he knew she was as angry as she was scared. But even she couldn't resist a sacrificial blade being plunged into her heart.

The spell reached its climax, and Capella screamed with joy...but nothing happened.

Its unholy green light faded, leaving the Room's usual illumination.

The Ravenclaw Diadem merely lay there, an innocent...harmless...piece of jewellery.

Capella faltered. "What -? What's happened? Why didn't it work? Master! Master, where ARE you?!"

A cold voice sounded. "Harry was right. Stupefy!"

The red beam of light, far brighter than normal, lanced out, blasting Capella off her feet. She was thrown against the far wall and collapsed untidily.

To Harry's immense relief, Peregrine Greythorne, late of the Auror Office, stood there behind a pillar.

"Tied up in your own affairs, Harry?" he joked. Harry laughed. "Relashio!" Greythorne commanded, and Harry and his friends were free.

Immediately she had access to her wand, Hermione stood and dashed to Capella, murder in her eyes. But Greythorne stopped her with a gentle entreaty: "No, Hermione."

"Peregrine, you know what she did!" Hermione screamed, tears running down her cheeks. "You must know!"

He sighed sadly. "Yes, I know, and for your friend Debbie, I am truly sorry. It was a heinous, despicable act - not just murder, though that was terrible enough, but the defilement and usurping of her body. But please, ask yourself: is this the way? A life for a life?"

Hermione hesitated, her wand arm trembling. "She...she deserves it. She deserves to die..." She gulped. "You've killed." It wasn't accusatory, merely a statement of fact, and he took it as such.

"Too often," he conceded. "But there was one more reason I left the Auror Office: I was tired of killing. I wanted a job where I wouldn't be expected to kill, and so far I haven't. My soul is ragged but, I hope, reasonably intact - because I never killed for reasons of vengeance...which is precisely what you are planning to do."

"She deserves it," Hermione nearly sobbed.

"Perhaps," the teacher allowed. "But is that what Albus would do...or what Capella would do?" He made no attempt to stop her, though he could have in several different ways. No. The choice was hers, and hers alone. He was certain Hermione Jean Granger would do what was right. She always did.

She could do it, she thought. It wouldn't have to be the Killing Curse; there were others, just as effective, which could be used.

The wand seemed to gleam.

One curse, and the threat would be ended. Debbie would be avenged.

But was that what she would have wanted?

No, Hermione understood. A Hufflepuff would never kill an enemy, no matter how richly they deserved it. Helga Hufflepuff would not kill. Cedric Diggory would not.

Debbie Grant would not.

Her wand arm faltered...and fell.

"No," she whispered. "By the Sword, I rescind my oath. I will not kill today. I will not."

Then she turned to Ron, fell on him and sobbed bitterly; not knowing what else to do, he just held her.

It was the right thing to do.

When her tears had dried, she kissed Ron in gratitude, and turned to the fallen Death Eater. Her wand lay there. Better take that. The Ministry will need it for evidence. But when she grasped it she felt a sudden shock. More than any other wand ever had, this one...spoke to her.

No. It pleaded.

Destroy me, I beg you, it beseeched her.

What -?

I mourn, it sobbed, I grieve for her.

So do I, Hermione agreed sadly.

We were together. We were happy. Now...she is gone. So too must I go. Please.

But...

Destroy me, it pleaded again. I want to die. There is no life without her.

I...I can't. I, we, have -

I truly loved her, as she truly loved life.

I...I know, I'm so sorry, but -

Please, Hermione, it begged. Please!

She was shaken. A wand had never spoken to her before. Still less had one addressed her by name. She would have to tell Mr. Ollivander what a wonderful job he had done in crafting it. She looked at it, and somehow it quivered. Clearly it was afraid, but resolute.

Just as Debbie would have been.

Are...are you sure?

I am. It is fitting. Your testimony will suffice for the Ministry; they will know you speak the truth.

Okay, she thought, and a tear trickled anew down her cheek. For Debbie.

For Debbie, it agreed. Goodbye, and bless you. May the Founders watch over you always.

Goodbye, she mentally replied.

With that, Hermione exerted all her strength to snap the wand. It broke cleanly with what she would've sworn was a sigh.

"What'd you do that for?" Ron wondered. "Wouldn't the Ministry want to cast Priori Incantatem on it?"

"They would," she sighed, then scowled. "But if my word isn't good enough for them, they can - can - they can go to bloody hell!" she snapped in fury. "Damn them! FUCK them!"

"Whoa," he breathed. It wasn't like Hermione to swear. The last time was when he'd slunk back to her and Harry, hoping they'd understand. "You - complete - arse - Ronald - Weasley!" she'd raged as she'd hit him again and again. God knew he'd deserved it, making a terrible mistake, but by God he'd made up for it afterwards. She'd react best to sympathy, he decided, so he gently asked, "Are you okay, sweetheart?"

That deflated her ire as he'd hoped. She shook her head, smiled sadly and apologised, hugging him. "Sorry, Ron. I'm just not used to wands asking me for anything, let alone their own death."

"Do what?" he gaped, clueless.

She chuckled fondly and explained.

The two halves of the broken wand lay in her hand, forever silent now.

---

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry

Later that evening

"You didn't kill her," Harry observed neutrally.

Hermione sighed. "Despite what I swore, no. I was furious, but I shouldn't have said that. It's not our way. As hard as it is sometimes, we are the good guys. And it is hard, Harry," she added plaintively, "for a moment I wanted to kill her. I might even have enjoyed it. But Albus would never have done it. Severus wouldn't have." She looked at him with compassion. "I know Lily never would have. Never."

Near tears, he hugged her. "I'm proud of you, Hermione. I'm proud to be your friend." To everyone's surprise he kissed her chastely on the lips.

"'Ere, steady on," Ron quipped feebly.

Hermione slid her arms around Harry's neck, feeling mischievous now, and purred, "Is that all we are?"

"Er -"

But before Ron (or Ginny) could pitch a fit, she giggled and pecked him on the cheek. "Oh, you lot are so easy!"

She was lucky Ron was too busy laughing, else he might have spanked her.

---

Mr. Ollivander's shop, Diagon Alley

Midnight

Garrick looked out keenly, wand in hand. Burglars were rare but not unknown...though they soon learned the error of their ways. But the voice that spoke was soft, feminine...and very familiar. "Mr. Ollivander?"

He relaxed on hearing Miss Granger's sweet voice, putting his wand away. "Well, well, what brings you here in the dead of night?" he asked, and teased her. "I know you're keen, but this is ridiculous."

The young lady had never looked so solemn. Silently she held out the broken pieces of a wand. With a pang of regret, he recognised it. The wand belonged to Miss Debbie Grant, he knew. He'd heard she'd gone to Hufflepuff, and quite right, too...her rebellious tendencies notwithstanding. Her wand - sycamore, twelve inches, pliable, with a hair from a male unicorn foal - was similarly recalcitrant and had refused many a witch or wizard, sometimes forcefully, yet they'd suited each other admirably.

Now it was no more.

Hermione murmured, distressed, "It...pleaded with me, Garrick. It...wanted to die. Die with...its owner. It was beautifully made." Now tears filled her brown eyes. "She's...dead. Murdered in the foulest way. I...she was my friend." She could no longer hold back the tears, and didn't try. "What...tribute is there to a broken wand? I...I felt I should do something. I thought you'd be the best person to ask, you know wands and wandlore better than anyone in the world." Her pathos was heartbreaking. "Please," she begged anew.

Garrick had not held a woman in his arms for many years, not since his dear wife Fiona passed to the Great Beyond; for a time, until she realised his unease, she'd haunted the shop, but then she bade him a fond farewell and went On.

He did not hesitate to embrace the sobbing Hermione. "Oh, my dear child, I am so sorry. Weep as you will, my dear, I have all night," he told her gently, stroking her bushy hair to comfort her as best he could whilst the heartfelt sobs wracked her slight frame.

After a time - neither was sure how long, though it didn't really matter - she kissed his cheek and thanked him. She asked again, "Is there a tribute to a broken wand?"

"Hmm," he ruminated thoughtfully. "To be frank, on the rare occasion when a wand is, shall we say, unfit for our world owing to its defective construction, the usual treatment is simply to dispose of it. But you speak of a more ceremonial farewell, I gather." He gazed at her. "I think a burning would fulfil your need, Miss Granger. Yes, let us put the poor thing to the flames and remember Miss Grant, eh?"

Hermione smiled somehow. "A Viking burial of a sort," she suggested.

"Yes," he applauded, "that would be most fitting. I could see from Miss Grant's demeanour that, hard worker though she was, she was something of a rebel, and her wand mirrored this. I crafted it some seventy-one years ago - and at first I believed it was defective, for it rejected every witch or wizard who held it, though oddly I found it such a pleasure to craft. Sometimes it was reluctant to obey even me, and I was its maker. Very curious in every respect."

Similarly curious, she inquired, "Why didn't you destroy it? Why use such unusual materials?"

"I...do you know, I have no idea. On that particular day I was rather in the mood to craft an uncommon wand. As for its disposal...perhaps I still believed it might suit someone, some day." He smiled briefly. "Or perhaps I heard it when it pleaded for life, albeit not consciously. But then along came Miss Grant.

"Like Mr. Potter, she was a very difficult customer. Wand after wand was tried, and it seemed none of mine would suit her - indeed, again like Mr. Potter, some of them would have been unruly at best in her hand. But then it came to me: perhaps an unusual wand wood might serve her best, and so it proved."

"Yes, she was a rebel," Hermione nodded. "She was a Hufflepuff only in that she worked hard. In every other way she was atypical. She shopped at Sadie's Ladies'," she giggled. "You simply can't tell me a typical Hufflepuff would go in there."

"A nonconformist to the bone," he understood wryly. Sadie Frost, too, had had an unusual wand: greenheart, a mere six inches in length, utterly inflexible, and with the tail feather of a phoenix, though not Fawkes. To this day he was entirely unsure why he'd crafted it to be so short, but it had seemed...right, somehow. Greenheart was an extremely hard wood, very difficult to work with - and therefore a challenge. Its performance had delighted her no end, and she had left feeling very pleased.

"There were other things, too. For instance, no Hufflepuff would dream of wetting herself in public, but she sometimes did."

"Oh, my."

"But there was never, ever any malice in her. I'm sorry, I misspoke - she was a Hufflepuff in that way, too. She was kind, thoughtful, a lesbian, and she loved life, and wished everyone else did, too. Her rebellious tendencies aside, Helga would've loved her." Now she sighed. "I'll miss her."

"Indeed," he mused sadly. "Where is she buried? At Hogwarts?"

She hesitated. She didn't want to tell him. But for Debbie's sake, she would.

And she did.

He gasped in horror at her mention of the forbidden curse. How sad, he thought, that Miss Grant should meet her end in such a despicable manner. But at least her wand would suffer no such fate.

They set up in his workshop, Garrick carefully placing fireproof barriers on three sides where the wand pieces lay. He bore witness as Miss Granger took aim with her wand. "Locarnum Inflamari," she intoned softly. Immediately the broken wand burst into flames. Tears flowed down her cheeks again, but she never spoke. That, she decided, would come later. Her tribute to the wand would be silence, as every wand was silent.

She felt a curious sensation, as if...as if the other wands knew, and grieved with her. Fanciful nonsense, she thought.

But still, she remained silent as the dead wand burned.

When it was over she kissed Garrick again, chastely on the lips this time, thanked him once more and left. She felt...comforted, somehow. A long-time Star Trek fan, she recalled the inestimable Captain Picard with Data at Tasha's funeral:

"Sir, the purpose of this gathering...confuses me."

"Oh? How so?"

"My thoughts are not for Tasha, but for myself. I keep thinking - how empty it will feel without her presence. Did I miss the point?"

"No, you didn't, Data. You got it."

And now, so did she.

She knew exactly what she would say at the service for Debbie...and Capella's sentencing.

As for Garrick, he was left staring at the spot where the wand had burned, all night.

---

Ministry of Magic, the Courtroom

The next day

Neither the trial not Hermione's testimony lasted all that long. She delivered the bare facts as dispassionately as she could. Peregrine Greythorne, too, testified. There was one moment of doubt, when a juror inquired, "Where is the defendant's wand?"

"Destroyed," Hermione answered softly, "by its own request."

They looked at each other, startled. "Would you repeat that, Miss Granger?" one asked. "I for one have never heard of a wand which...spoke."

Hermione sighed. She'd had a feeling this might be a problem. "I...I can't explain it, Your Honours. I picked it up and, without words - maybe telepathy or something, I don't know - it...spoke. In my mind. It...pleaded," she added sadly. "It begged me to destroy it. So I snapped it in two and at Mr. Ollivander's shop, I...burned it. There's only ashes left." She looked down. "I'm sorry."

There was silence in the Court for a time. Then Kingsley said slowly, "There are legends...sometimes, so I have heard, a wand and its master are so well suited to each other that the wand may actually acquire...sentience. Perhaps this was the case."

"I don't know, Minister," she admitted, near tears. "But I'm sure of my facts. Somehow it did speak to me. It asked for death...because Debbie was dead…" She broke down, and Kingsley gently called for a recess. In violation of Court procedure, Ron rose, walked over to her and took her hand, squeezing it. Through her tears she smiled, and he nodded, returning to his seat. Magnanimously the Court chose not to chastise or punish him.

Following the recess, a juror declared, "Minister, I have reviewed the lore, and I have consulted with Garrick Ollivander. It appears that on very rare occasions a wand may indeed become self-aware. It...lives. If a thing can live, it can die. I therefore move that this testimony be allowed."

"May it please the Court: may I make a suggestion?" Hermione asked. "Why not ask the defendant? She would know the wand. I bet it refused to serve her at first." She glared at Capella. "I would have."

Kingsley shrugged. "All witnesses and the defendant are sworn to tell the truth, so why not indeed? Did the wand so refuse?" he demanded of Capella.

She hesitated...until Hermione raised her wand. "Oh, I won't kill you. Not unless I have to. We've settled that," she said conversationally. Then her face turned cold and bleak. "But there are spells which force the truth...and they're not all painless. Tell the truth, or I'll use them." She glanced at the Minister. "With your permission, Your Honour."

He nodded. Seeing no alternative, Capella admitted, "Yes, it did refuse at first. I used a spell to subdue it."

---

With their depositions and other, conclusive evidence, Kingsley's verdict was as rapidly reached as it was grimly clear.

"Despite your initial testimony to the contrary, you are not Debbie Grant. You are Capella Braithwaite, a.k.a. Capella Lestrange. You have been found guilty of the following heinous crimes: kidnap; murder in the first degree; imposture; the use of Forbidden and Unforgivable Curses; rape of both women and men; rape, torture and murder of defenceless Muggles; unjust abuse of a wand. For these crimes, there can be but one punishment: you are hereby sentenced to Azkaban for the rest of your," he looked sour, "unnatural life. Take -"

"Please wait," Hermione interrupted. "I'm sorry, Minister, but there are things I must say, and I want her to hear them, too. Please." She turned to the jurors. "I beg the indulgence of the Court."

"Without you, young lady," one rumbled, "the criminal might never have been brought to justice - and, far worse, He Who - oh, all right: Voldemort might have walked amongst us again. Plus your efforts have ensured the safe return of a Hogwarts heirloom, to wit: the Ravenclaw Diadem. As a former Ravenclaw myself, I for one am greatly appreciative. Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure. I say we of the Court shall hear you."

"And I," another, a woman, agreed. "You were brave even by Gryffindor standards, and as a Gryffindor graduate I should know." Her voice dropped. "I know Miss Grant was your friend, and I grieve with you."

"Thank you," a touched Hermione murmured.

A third juror, one Thomas Barnes, said, "I was of House Slytherin, but in my day, before Tom Riddle, we were never evil. Ambitious, yes, even ruthless, but never evil as such. That was never Salazar s intent. I also agree that a Heroine of Hogwarts should speak and be heard."

"I agree," a fourth juror spoke. She was Elizabeth Banks, a half-blood, and by far the youngest juror, a mere 22 years of age. "For the sake of my noble House, that of Hufflepuff, Miss Granger should be heard, and I so insist."

The verdict was unanimous: Hermione could speak for as long as she wished.

"Thank you, Your Honours. It won't take long - Debbie was surprisingly easy to sum up by Hufflepuff standards. Debbie Grant was -"

"Oh, here we go with the sentiment," Capella drawled cynically. But she lost the smile as Hermione took a firmer grip on her wand and approached her slowly. Almost nose to nose despite their differing heights, she stopped and raised her wand.

"You will be very, very quiet," she warned coldly, "silent, in fact, without the use of magic, or I may forget myself and kill you. This is your only warning. You are not Debbie, you will never be Debbie. I will be killing the vicious, callous scum who brutally murdered her, not Debbie. She was a true Hufflepuff, good, and sweet, and kind - everything you are not, you evil bitch. Say one more thing, and you die. Is that understood? Just nod." She aimed her wand at Capella's heart. She knew the Ministry would forgive her use of an Unforgivable Curse.

They'd forgiven her before, after all.

Capella saw she was deadly serious, and nodded dumbly.

"Bloody 'ell, she means it," Ron breathed.

"Don't mess with Hermione Granger," Harry agreed quietly.

She continued: "Debbie was a Hufflepuff, and as such she worked hard, and she was always kind and gentle. But there was another side to her we didn't always see...she was a rebel, a nonconformist. As a lesbian she was by definition nonconformist, but she was happy with her choice and didn't try to push it onto others." Well, except me once, but I forgive you, Debbie. "The Hogwarts elves were sometimes bemused by one of her habits: she liked to wet herself, and she wanted people to know. Muggles call it urophilia.

"But she was never, never cruel, manipulative or malicious. She truly loved life and wanted to pass on the joy she found in it. She was very beautiful, and a true and loyal friend. If I could bury her I would - and just as Harry Potter did for Dobby, I would do it with a shovel, not with magic. She deserves it. All we can do is to honour her memory...and ensure her murderer faces justice. When she is dead, I ask that her body be treated with all the reverence Debbie so richly deserved, and buried with full witch honours. In fact, if I'm still alive by then, I shall do it myself, gladly.

"Goodbye, Debbie. Requiescat in pace aeterna." She cried unashamedly.

Everyone but Capella bowed their heads in respect.

Rest in eternal peace.

Capella was dragged away, screaming vengeance in vain.

---

One positive outcome of the case was that from now on, if there was even a hint of magical involvement in a Muggle's disappearance, the Auror Office would investigate in full, from the very start. Arthur Weasley was placed in charge of the newly-created Muggle Affairs Department, which among other things would oversee crimes and misdemeanours against Muggles, with the full (if clandestine) cooperation of CID where necessary.

"About time!" was Arthur's heartfelt comment. "It might be MAD, but it makes sense to me!"

Wizards and witches groaned (and laughed) at the awful pun.

As for the diadem, after very careful checking for Dark magic (none was found), it was handed to Hermione; she would decide what should be done. It didn't take long.

---

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry

The Ravenclaw common room

"There," Helena nodded, "on my mother's brow. There is no evil magic in it now." She gently touched the bust of Rowena Ravenclaw...or she would have, had she been more substantial. Reverently, trying not to cry for what it had cost, Hermione put the diadem in its proper place and cast a Repulsion Charm on it, so no unwary Ravenclaw would try to take it. Helena smiled. "Good thinking, worthy of a Ravenclaw." She sighed. "Had she been as wise as you, I might never have taken it."

Bitterly she explained what had happened - why she was killed by the man whom House Slytherin now knew as the Bloody Baron - and why she had remained as a ghost instead of going On, as her mother had. Hermione knew the tale already, but listened politely.

Gently she asked, "Why not go On? You'll see Rowena again, you could ask her forgiveness. I'm sure she'd understand."

But Helena only sighed. "No. It's too late."

"It's never too late. That's what we humans say. For ghosts, it's even more true."

Now the ghost smiled sadly. "You are as kind as Luna. But every House has a ghost by tradition. Of all the Hogwarts ghosts, I am the only one who was a Ravenclaw. It is my place to haunt Hogwarts forever. But at least I know I have friends."

"If I could hug you, I would," Hermione swore.

Her smile was no longer sad. "It's the thought that counts. Thank you, Hermione. Go in peace, my dear friend. My best to Harry."

---

The Great Hall

The next day

"Good day. It is seldom that we should gather in this place when not feasting, and I wish we were not here now. It is my sad duty to inform you all that a student has been taken from us. I would like to say her passing was painless and peaceful, but alas," the Headmistress sighed, "it was neither. It is distressing, but out of respect for her memory, I feel I must be honest with you all. Miss Debbie Grant of Hufflepuff was taken from us by the use of a forbidden, evil curse, and her dear body usurped by another. That one, I am sorry to add, attempted to resurrect Lord Voldemort.

"Thankfully she failed. Thanks in part to the Heroes and Heroines of Hogwarts, she was apprehended and handed over to the Ministry for judicial punishment, which she has received. Unlike the usual lifer, when she dies she will be treated with respect, not merely buried in the grounds of Azkaban. Instead she will be interred here, by none other than Miss Granger, if she still lives, or else by a relative.

"I ask that you stand with me, and remember Debbie Grant as she was. A lesbian, a urophiliac, a rebel...but most of all, a true Hufflepuff whom Helga herself would have been honoured to welcome." With that, she stood, as did the other teachers.

Every Hufflepuff student stood too, many crying. Gryffindor, Ravenclaw and even Slytherin stood also, silently raising their wands in tribute.

Next to Minerva stood her parents, Belinda and Thomas, and their ten-year-old son Andrew. All were in tears.

Harry had his arm around Ginny's shoulder as she sobbed; Ron was doing the same for a weeping Hermione. Neville put his arm around Luna, who for once understood what was happening around her, and was sad.

Only one student was missing, but no-one noticed at first.

---

At the wake, Belinda asked, surprised, "She liked to wet herself? Hmm, I never knew that."

"She was always losing points," Minerva recalled, "but regaining them in other ways. A harder worker one never saw. Charms were her strong point, as I recall. A lesbian from the first, and proud of it."

She smiled fondly as she recalled Debbie's Sorting...

---

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry

The Great Hall

1st September, 1992

"Grant, Deborah."

The girl was, Professor McGonagall noted, quite tall for her age, and very pretty. Plus she had a bit more up top than the norm. She took her seat on the Sorting Stool, and the Hat was placed on her head.

"Right. Hmm, a distinct streak of rebellion, I see. Perhaps Slytherin might be the best fit."

"Please don't," she requested. "They'd never accept a dyke, especially not a Muggle-born."

"Derogatory term, isn't it? Oh, but lesbians are taking it back, I see, and good for them. A bit young to decide on your orientation, aren't you?"

"Not really. I've talked to older lesbians, Muggles and witches, and there's no hard and fast rule - a couple of them were younger when they knew. I did before I first bled. I sneaked a read of Rubyfruit Jungle and Lover once out of a Muggle library, and I was amazed, and randy - I was only ten. I haven't told my parents yet, I'm not sure how they'll take it. It's not easy, coming out."

"Mmm, you might be right, but I have to put you where you belong. There's nothing wrong with it, you know. No, you're almost proud of it. A rebel, and not afraid to show it. Almost determined, in fact. Very brave of you...Gryffindor, perhaps? But, no, you only show that bravery when someone doubts you. Hmm, a tricky case, haven't had one like you since Potter. He almost went to Slytherin, you know - should have, perhaps. Bright, yes, but not quite studious enough for Ravenclaw. Which only leaves Hufflepuff," it finished thoughtfully.

"Wherever you think best," the girl quavered.

"That's Rule One of the Sorting, you know: The Hat's decision is final. Do you happen to know Rule Two?" She shook her head, and the Hat said, "It's really quite simple: In case of doubt, refer to Rule One. So there we are. The Founders charged me with the responsibility of splitting you, and I suppose it makes sense to account for the differing natures of students, but I do worry sometimes that it's wrong - and students like you are a case in point.

"You make friends easily, don't you, despite your lesbian leanings, and you're loyal to the friends you do have - even though one or two have already been Sorted into different Houses, although Ravenclaw and Gryffindor are quite amenable to each other and to Hufflepuff, despite the rivalry...I do worry occasionally about poor Slytherin, there's nothing wrong with a little ambition. So...perhaps you should decide, mmm?"

"Well, I was brought up to be a hard worker, and I do like to work, but, well, I am a bit of a rebel..."

"True, but then again Hufflepuff has become a bit set in its ways, perhaps it needs a bit of a shake-up, and you're just the student to do it! Right, it has to be HUFFLEPUFF!"

Over the next two years, Debbie (she kept politely correcting everyone, student and teacher alike, until they got it) proved to be a typical Hufflepuff in that she was kind and hard-working...but her urophilia was something else again. In her third year she discovered Sadie's Ladies' Emporium in Hogsmeade, and was fascinated. Sadie Frost had never had such a young customer before, but her Galleons were as good as anyone else's (plus Sadie was shameless and very intensely bisexual).

The first time she stripped to her underwear for a girlfriend, Rhiannon Jones breathed admiringly, "Bloody hell, Debbie!"

Debbie grinned happily, and the rest was history.

---

"We never knew she shopped in Sadie's, either," Thomas added. "Right dark horse, she was. Shopping at Sadie's, kinky and a lezzie. We never really know our kids, do we?" He glanced slyly at his wife. "The last time we went there was for your eighteenth, do you remember?"

"The see-through white thong? Ooh, you liked that," Belinda giggled. "I was wearing that - and no bra - when I proposed to you!" Ron nearly choked on his drink on hearing that; Belinda was at least a 36D. Ginny laughed as he spluttered.

"And a damn fool I would've been to turn you down, else we wouldn't have had Debbie - or you, you little tyke!" he finished, tousling his son's hair affectionately.

"Gerroff, Dad!" Andrew fussed, to chuckles. "What's a lezzie? Or a lesbian?" he asked curiously when they separated.

"One's slang for the other - a lesbian is a girl who likes other girls instead of boys," Hermione answered him, smiling gently. There was a definite family resemblance in that Andrew was wavy blond and attractive, though several inches shorter than his sister.

"What, kissing and stuff? Brr, can't imagine that."

Ron grinned. "Give it a year or two, mate, and you won't have to imagine it, you'll be doing it! Right, Harry?"

Harry just chuckled knowingly.

"I didn't know her very well," Luna observed thoughtfully. "But she was nice. A bit odd, but they say that about me, too. They're probably right."

"No, Luna," Hermione denied, squeezing her shoulders, "you're different, that's all. So was Debbie. We need people like her, outside the usual run of humanity, for comparison - otherwise how would we know we were normal, whatever that means?"

"That's very philosophical," Luna smiled, "the sort of thing a Ravenclaw would think. It's quite possible the Hat made a mistake with you, Hermione."

"So I keep telling her," Ron quipped.

There was laughter.

Then Hermione realised something. "Wait - where's Rebecca?"

---

The Ravenclaw common room

She found Rebecca sitting alone in the room, holding but not reading a paperback. To Hermione's surprise it was a Muggle book: Arthur C. Clarke's Imperial Earth. She looked up as Hermione tentatively approached. She smiled sadly. "She gave me this in our fifth year, she was always a devoted Clarke fan."

Hermione sat. "So am I. Childhood's End was good, and so was 2001: A Space Odyssey. But I liked Asimov, as well - the robots remind me a bit of the house-elves, or vice versa. I especially loved Robots And Empire - so much intrigue, and robots lying by omission and misdirection."

"Mmm, that's a good one. I read it when I was ten and still going to Muggle libraries. Heinlein was terrific - I borrowed Have Spacesuit, Will Travel several times."

"Me, too," Hermione shared, "I identified very strongly with Peewee." She caught a hint of tears from Rebecca and asked softly, "Shouldn't you be at the wake? You shouldn't be alone, not now. You've friends there. Please come." She essayed a smile. "No-one will mind if you get drunk."

"They're alive," Rebecca choked, her tears flowing now, "and Debbie's not...not the Debbie I knew, not the real Debbie - not - n - not the Debbie I...I…"

"...loved?" Hermione finished as gently and with as much compassion and sympathy as she could. Rebecca nodded miserably. Now her absence made far too much sense. "I...I didn't know. I'm so sorry, Rebecca.. I - I know that's useless, but...I'm sorry."

Her own tears began. To her Debbie was just a friend, though her loss was sad, but Hermione had lost friends before, even a girl in the Guides she'd loved as a friend, and knew too well how bitterly Rebecca was hurting right now. She hugged the taller girl and let her cry, soothing her as best she could, trying her utmost to console the weeping girl.

There are times when no words are adequate, no matter how much or how kindly you mean them. Sometimes a hug will say much, much more. Hermione Granger knew that as well as anyone.

Sometimes all you can do is...be there.

Rebecca clung to her like a child, sobbing.

---

Later, in a sort of wake of their own (Kreacher brought a bottle of well-matured and very smooth Firewhisky, and Hermione smiled her thanks), they shared memories of Debbie - the real girl and the unholy fake. From their first day they'd been friends despite being in different Houses; they'd met on the train and liked each other in lesbian solidarity (keeping Rebecca's secret as she requested/pleaded), but each had had different tastes in girls and so had never seen themselves as partners...until their fifth year.

"We both got sprayed with Stinksap by that git Peeves, so we decided to save time and shower together. That was the first time we saw each other stark naked, Houses don't usually shower together. She said I was pretty, and turned to wash her front. But I thought she was beautiful. I loved her sexy bum, so shapely - she wasn't into Quidditch, but she did exercise healthily." She smiled somehow. "I tried her exercise regimen and pulled a muscle. I hadn't warmed up."

"That's a classic mistake," Hermione agreed. "I know I should exercise more."

Rebecca sighed. "It's odd, but...cover or not, the fake really wasn't all that different. She stopped peeing in public, but I thought that meant she'd just grown up a bit. Liked it, though...you should save things like that for private moments."

"Do you pursue, um, water sports?" Hermione asked, surprised.

Rebecca nodded, feeling she could share intimate details with Hermione if no-one else. "I've wet my knickers more than once. My first girlfriend let me pee in her mouth and, God, that was exciting. Debbie wouldn't take it, though. But..."

"Yes?"

"I...I tasted her pee," Rebecca confessed. "I...liked it. Even drank it, she peed for me."

It wasn't anything Hermione hadn't heard before. "Well, it's not for me," she admitted, "but I'm not shocked or anything, honestly. Live and let live, I say." She was sincere. After everything she'd seen, and suffered, she could easily take one girl urinating into another's mouth in her stride.

"But - it wasn't her?" the girl sobbed now. "Not Debbie?"

Hermione sighed sadly. For straightening her out Rebecca was owed this, though it was hard. "No, I'm afraid not. From around the first of October, it was all that evil thing. I'm so sorry, Rebecca. I'm sorry..." She broke down.

They hugged tightly, and this time they cried together.

Eventually Rebecca whispered, "She was your friend, wasn't she?"

Hermione nodded. "She never quite knew where the boundaries were, she sometimes liked to wet herself in public – then - and she fancied me, but she meant well, like any Hufflepuff. She didn't deserve to die under such an evil curse, or at all. Yes, she was a good friend, and I'll miss her."

Rebecca hugged her again. "It's hard to lose a friend. I know, I lost Hannah Waters in the Battle - she was a seventh-year Ravenclaw. I'm sorry for your loss, too, Hermione."

Hermione looked resolute. "Thank you. But...Hannah didn't die for nothing, Rebecca. You mustn't think that. She died bravely, for a reason. For Harry, and for Hogwarts." Tears still shone in her eyes. "The Founders - even Salazar Slytherin - would have been proud of them all."

"Hell of a fight, wasn't it?"

Hermione agreed, and the two hugged again.

"She was so lovely," Rebecca recalled. "You know, the one part of her body she wasn't keen on was the dimples above her buttocks. But I thought they were cute. That's why I approached her, that first time - back when she was the real Debbie. But I didn't just fancy her, I liked her. I grew to love her. She loved life, and she wanted other people to love it too. Debbie was so unselfish." Her tears started again. "I'll miss her so much."

Hermione, too, started crying again. "So will I. We all will." A third time, they hugged and sobbed.

Eventually they were all cried out, and a vengeful look came into Rebecca's emerald eyes. "I want to kill Capella. I've never wanted to kill anyone in my life, but I want to kill her."

The older girl took her hands and squeezed. "No, you don't. Believe me, you don't. I did, for a time. I've killed...I'm not proud of it, but I know what it is to kill. How awful it is. I killed in the Battle to save others. I killed because it had to be done. But this...no. You're angry, and grieving, and you think it'll ease the pain. Please believe me, Rebecca...it won't. Nothing will, except time. In time, it does get a little easier. Never easy. But easier. Trust me, I know.

"But...if you're sure...I can find out which cell she's in," Hermione said very quietly. "I'll use a Memory Charm to create alibis. No-one will find out, and the guards won't care. You can help me bury her at Hogwarts."

"You'd do that?"

"Yes," Hermione said softly. "It'd be illegal, and immoral...but if it helps you, I honestly don't care. Just say the word, Rebecca."

Rebecca gazed at her, and sighed again. "No, it won't help. Killing is no answer, not just for revenge. I know you're right. You're a good person, Hermione, and a good friend. You'd have been welcome in Ravenclaw." She managed a smile. "Too late now."

Hermione also smiled a little. "True."

"Can I...kiss you?"

For once Hermione didn't hesitate. She loved Ron, she knew that now, and kissing another girl was just being friendly. "Of course you can," she answered warmly, gently took Rebecca's face in her hands and kissed her unhurriedly, without the slightest embarrassment or doubt. It wasn't quite French.

Nonetheless, Rebecca breathed, "Wow," when they gently broke the kiss. "Nice."

"Don't get ideas," Hermione cautioned.

Rebecca found a grin somewhere. "As if I would."

"I wouldn't put it past you. I know you." It was said deadpan, but Rebecca knew she was kidding.

"Busted. You sexy tart."

They laughed, and Hermione hugged her again, reassured. Rebecca was healing now, they both were, and both would be alright. It was the best possible tribute they could pay to Debbie. Live and love. She knew they would -

What was that?

She could've sworn...

They both heard a very light, very soft giggle. They exchanged glances. Rebecca asked uncertainly, "Did...did you..."

In front of them, for less than two seconds, they could see Debbie's ghost, very, very faintly. She smiled gently at them, waved...and was gone.

There was a tiny puddle of liquid on the floor. Somehow they knew it was urine. Neither had the faintest idea as to how an insubstantial ghost could produce a real physical effect...then again, Debbie Grant had always disdained the rules, never taking them seriously. No, this was typical of her.

Each stared at the other. "Was that -?"

"I - I don't know," Hermione murmured. "Be nice to think so, wouldn't it?" From the very first time she'd seen a ghost (and, at the age of eleven and three quarters, she had relentlessly refused to believe it as it floated through Diagon Alley), Shakespeare's immortal line crossed her mind:

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio/Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

Never had those words been more true.

THE END

"Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure."

- Rowena Ravenclaw, Hogwarts Founder