Author's Note: I'll be the first to admit that this is something of a filler chapter; it pretty much just reiterates points that were broached in earlier chapters. But I like this chapter, particularly Hagrid's diagnosis of Harry and Alana's relationship.

Disclaimer: Just like I don't own Harry, Ron, or Hermione, I don't own Hagrid and Fang. I just borrow them because Hagrid is really good for commentating on the situation, and Fang is just part of the package when you write a Hagrid scene.

September 03, 2018

Harry left his office early in the afternoon. He'd been attending to school business with the board of governors all morning. If he didn't get outside soon, he just might go bloody insane.

He didn't even stop to think about where he was going. His feet automatically took him down the path to the groundskeeper's hut. He knocked on the door, folding his arms and looking down, smiling when he heard loud barking.

"Down! Down, yeh brute!"

The door swung open to reveal Rubeus Hagrid. His hair and beard were completely gray now, but other than that the enormous man hadn't changed, or showed any signs of getting older.

"Hullo, Harry!" he said cheerfully.
"Hey, Hagrid," Harry smiled as he walked in, petting Fang on the head.
"Saw the governors comin' ter see yeh," Hagrid said conversationally. "Figured yeh'd be comin' down here ter unwind after."
Harry drew a deep breath. "Hagrid… Did you see James when he came on the first?"
At this, Hagrid ceased preparing tea. He turned to face Harry, sighing. "Aye, I saw 'im. He was in the boat behin' me. Blimey, he looked jus' like yeh, Harry. Brought back some memories, it did."
A faint smile quirked Harry's lips, but it faded quickly. "He brought me something."
"Oh? Wha's that?" Hagrid asked, setting a tankard of tea before Harry.

Silently, Harry withdrew the journal from his cloak pocket and held it up. Hagrid took it curiously, flipping through it.

"It's from Alana," Harry said simply.

Hagrid's head jerked up, and he stared at Harry in amazement for a moment before his gaze dropped back to the book in his hands.

"Blimey," he said weakly.
"She sent that to explain everything," Harry said.
Hagrid looked up. "Bu' why? Wha' good kin it do now?"\
Harry shook his head slowly. "I don't know, Hagrid. But… I read that, and no matter how hard I try to be mad at her… all I am is curious. I have to keep reading more, to see what she's going to say next."
A ghost of a smile grew on Hagrid's face. "It always was th' same story with th' two o' yeh. No matter how mad she made yeh, you still kep' commin' back fer more."

Hagrid's words rang in Harry's ears as he wandered down to the lake.

You still kep' commin' back fer more…

A mirthless smile crossed his face. He supposed it was true. When he was younger, his infatuation with Alana had led to his downfall.

And now…

He sat down, his back leaning against the trunk of the tree. Here, in one of Alana's favorite places at Hogwarts… with this piece of her mind and soul in his hands…

Harry didn't know what kind of trouble Alana would land him in this time. But he was powerless to stop it. All he could do was open her journal and be along for the ride.

April 13, 2013

Alana was awoken the next morning by a guard unlocking her cell door.

"Come with me," he said.

She didn't say a thing; she just followed him through the prison to a back room. The prisoners' personal effects were kept here, on the off chance that they would ever be needed again. Alana was handed a small cardboard crate and was pointed to a curtained-off corner where she could change.

She walked behind the curtain and opened the box, silently steeling herself against the flood of memories she knew the objects would trigger. Inside were a pair of low-rise jeans, a black oxford shirt, high heels, and a black ribbon to tie her hair back with. She changed quickly, noticing for the first time just how much weight she had lost. She looked positively skeletal; the clothes hung off her loosely, threatening to fall off.

There was a small black pouch that Alana was hesitant to open. But open it she did. Inside was a heavy silver locket, on which was embossed the Malfoy family crest. There was a thick silver bracelet, which she quickly snapped on her wrist to cover her black tattoo. The Dark Lord had been shrewd when Alana was branded. Because of the mission he had assigned her, Alana was given not the traditional skull and snake tattoo, but rather an eight-point star, easily covered with bracelets, easily hidden from Harry's eyes.

There were also rings. Three rings that tortured her more than the dementors had ever been able to. One was a four-carat, square-cut pink sapphire, flanked by two two-carat white diamonds on either side, all mounted on a white-gold band- the wedding band the Dark Lord had ordered for her. One was a plain silver band, with the words Drake and Lala engraved inside- the wedding band Draco had gotten for her. The last was a platinum band, on which were mounted three one-carat round-cut diamonds that sparkled brightly, even in the dim light.

Alana stared at the last ring, setting her jaw against the tears she wouldn't allow to fall. She hadn't thought she was able to cry anymore. After a moment, she put the diamond ring in her pocket; she couldn't bring herself to wear it. She put the plain band on her left ring finger, sliding the pink sapphire ring into her pocket to rest with the diamond ring. As she did so, she was inundated by another tidal wave of sadness.

How she missed her husband. He had been her best friend all her life, and now he was gone. He had been killed the night of the ill-fated attack on the Order leaders. She hadn't been allowed to attend his funeral. That had been her one request at her trial, and it had been denied. She would forever hate the secret Minister and the renegade Wizengamot for not letting her be there to say goodbye.

But maybe she should have expected it. She had never been allowed to say goodbye to the people she loved.

The faintest trace of a tiny, mirthless smile flitted across her mouth as she removed her wand from its case. Eleven inches, redwood, with a ground serpant tooth core. She felt the first stirrings of magic flowing through her veins again. The smile was wiped off her face as she continued staring at her wand. If her powers came back in full, what further damage could she inflict on people?

She shook her head to clear her mind of those thoughts. She would worry about her dark powers returning to her later. Right now she was going to focus on getting off of this island.

"Come on," Hermione said as Alana emerged, leading the way to the boat waiting to take them back to the mainland.
"Where are you taking me?" Alana asked without a trace of interest.
"To someplace safe," Ron replied shortly.

Alana was silent the entire boat trip. It didn't seem like she was thinking of anything in particular, but the silence that surrounded her was so thick and complete that neither Ron nor Hermione dared to break it.

In truth, Alana was thinking. Freed from the unrelenting depression of Azkaban, Alana took some time to let it sink in that she wasn't forced to constantly relive her darkest memories, that she didn't have to think about them if she didn't want to. Having that measure of control over herself was intoxicating; saying to herself over and over that she was again in control of her mind made it more true with each telling, and oh so slowly the Alana of years past began to re-emerge.

She still didn't speak as the boat docked. She scrambled onto the pier, paying scant attention to the gray skies and gloomy atmosphere. Even though she hoped to be soon released from this burdensome life, for now, if only for now, she was free.

Ron and Hermione hurried Alana into a car. As she settled into the backseat, a hard lump in her pocket pressed against her leg uncomfortably. Frowning, she reached in, and pulled out the diamond ring she'd placed there earlier that morning. Memories flooded to her mind as her gaze focused on the ring. They were bittersweet, but for once not painful.

There was a red-haired boy, brown eyes twinkling in his freckled face, a boy who had grown into the somber, quiet man who drove the car through the English countryside. There was a girl with bushy brown hair and warm chocolate eyes, who had become the tired, burdened woman in the seat opposite her. There was even herself, her black hair shorter and healthier, her body voluptuous, her skin radiant, her jade green eyes, if not happy, at least more animated than they could ever hope to be now.

But mostly, there was a boy. A boy with thick, unruly black hair that didn't quite cover the lightning-bolt scar on his forehead, and beautiful, dazzling emerald eyes. A boy that had turned into a confident, charismatic man. A man that she had once loved without meaning to. A man she had betrayed to his death.

Hermione, as well, was staring at the ring Alana held, the ring that Harry had given Alana seven years ago.

"You didn't put it on," she commented, her gaze evaluating Alana's stone-still face.
Alana didn't look up as she answered. "I don't deserve to wear it anymore. I lost that right years ago."

If Alana had been expecting a sharp, hate-filled remark, she was disappointed. Hermione's gaze filled with the sudden first hints of understanding, and traces of pity. As Hermione caught the faintest glimpses of remorse and self-loathing peering from behind Alana's near-perfect mask, she felt herself softening a bit towards the woman sitting before her.

"Alana," she said softly. "Harry wouldn't want you to be unhappy. He'd want you to wear the ring to remember him by."
Alana shook her head and replaced the ring in her pocket. "Not yet."

As she turned her gaze to the passing world outside the window, she exercised her famous self-control over her mind.

Not yet. I'm not ready to remember him yet.

After a half-hour's drive where the car never once went under 120 miles per hour, Ron pulled the over. He twisted around in his seat and looked at his wife.

"Take her inside. I'll get rid of the car."
Hermione nodded. "Come on," she said to Alana, pushing the door open.

Alana said nothing; she was too busy clenching her jaw and fighting for self-control to formulate an answer. As Number 12 Grimmauld Place appeared before her, Alana squared her shoulders, lifted her head, and prepared herself for what she knew would be a painful deluge of memories.