The small office was locked, the lamps were unlit, and the door to the rest of the space was shut firmly. Should any resident or anyone visiting Godric's Hollow pass by, Fleamont Potter's personal office was closed up tight. But up the stairs and in the back, where the sleepers slept, there was quite a crowd of people waiting, without even seeming to breathe, to see what, if anything, would change.

"Tell me again," repeated Lionel Lupin.

"We've known for quite some time that Grindelwald had an antidote to the Draught of Living Death–"

"Which makes sense," said a rickety old woman, who sat beside a sleeper's bed. He'd been asleep since the 1940s, and was one of Mr. Potter's first patients. Harry had never paid particular attention to the older ones, focusing almost entirely on Ginny, his parents, and Sirius and Remus. "Grindelwald wouldn't want the Draught used against him, would he?"

"Indeed," nodded Mr. Potter.

"I'm still confused as to why my son and his friends were targeted," said Lupin, who had a wild mane of hair, solid shoulders, and his son's grey-brown eyes. "Even Grindelwald's followers used it judiciously–"

"Dumbledore himself is exploring that," Euphemia Potter murmured.

The old lady was quite acerbic. "I would not say his followers used it judiciously." A bony finger jabbed at the man in the bed beside her. "He's lost forty years, nearly!"

Harry, seated beside Ginny's bed, clutching the sheets in his fist, did not take part in the conversation that had circled around and around the same topic. His eyes, which burned all along the edges, remained fixed on the sleepers. But it washed over him, it did. His ears twitched whenever Grindelwald's name was mentioned.

"We all want answers," Mr. Potter was saying. "Me, most of all."

"I've wanted answers for almost forty years."

Harry, too, wanted answers. For a moment, he lifted his gaze from the bedding, to take in Ginny, long hair spilling over the white pillowcase, lips parted. She'd been asleep for six months; waking her – and the others – had consumed his thoughts for so long, he'd had little time to consider who was responsible. All that had mattered was that it was undone.

Was that a flicker of her eyelash?

"They were schoolchildren," Lupin said, voice hard. "Who would do such a thing? We can't blame You-Know-Who, can we? What is this – a prank gone wrong?"

"It wasn't a prank, I don't think," said Harry, voice rusty with disuse. He'd hardly spoken at all since returning from Nurmengard. "Remember, it was when only a few of us were locked in the castle… I doubt another student came, gave them the draught, and left." Not to mention, would a student know how to disguise what magic was performed in such a way that neither Aurors nor Dumbledore could penetrate it?

"If it was You-Know-Who… why? What does he want with children?" Lupin asked.

"What did Grindelwald want with children?" asked the rickety old woman, suddenly fierce. "He poached from families, sweeping away their sons and their daughters with his fanaticism. He Who Must Not Be Named does the same, I am told; all the fine young Slytherins – and even some of those from other houses – following his drum."

Harry turned to her, amazed.

"What, exactly, are you implying here?" Lupin growled, suddenly looking very much like the son he sat beside. "That they were what? About to join up with You Know Who? Because–"

"My son would never," Mrs. Potter said, two bright spots of color appearing in her cheeks.

"Of course not," said the old woman, rather snappily. "But children aren't safe, are they? They're targeted just like the adults… maybe even more so… you are too young to remember Grindelwald–"

Harry's grandparents cleared their throats.

"Some of you, anyway," she said, flipping her hand. "It wasn't just those actively taking a stand that Grindelwald's followers targeted. You know that some of his followers were even more beasts–"

Lionel Lupin cleared his throat.

"I mean, they were even more evil than he was, always quick to imagine a slight against their lord. Always rolling their dice, claiming that maybe they hadn't tried anything now, but they would. He had entire stables full of petty seers–"

It was this moment, during this impassioned speech, that the bedclothes moved, that Ginny turned in her sleep, and murmured something low and throaty. The old woman's voice cut off as though it had been snipped. It was not just Ginny, but all the sleepers. A quick glance around showed him: groggy Remus rubbing his eyes, James coughing and shaking his head, Lily kicking some of the covers off, revealing one small foot. Even the old woman's son, who'd been asleep for over thirty years, was stirring.

Ginny's eyelids were flickering.

"They're waking up!" Lupin said, voice heavy with disbelief.

Harry looked at his grandfather, whom he'd come to know so much better in the last months. Their eyes caught and held. They'd done it. Fleamont had correctly narrowed down the exact ingredient needed. There was a brightness in his eyes; for a moment, just before his wife yanked at his arm and pulled him over to their son, Fleamont dipped his head in thanks at Harry.

Warmed through, Harry turned back to Ginny. And there she was, eyes opening, small, slim hands brushing away at the fog. His entire stomach dropped when she turned her head toward him, bright strands of hair stuck to damp cheeks. She's awake. The relief was so great he felt he was in a freefall on his Firebolt.

"You're awake," he finally managed, finding her other hand still hidden under the covers. "You're awake."

"What," she said rather confusedly, "I… what is that taste in my mouth?"

Harry chuckled a little. "I've no idea. But Ginny… you're awake."

Her eyes sagged closed. There were murmurs from everyone else; his dad's voice croaked out. But Harry might have been in a charmed sphere with just Ginny. There was a lump now, buried in his throat, growing larger with every breath. In a minute, or perhaps two, he would rise and see for himself the condition of his parents. But for now…

Conjuring her a glass of water, he helped her to sit up. She swallowed with great abandon, choking a little on the last.

"Sorry," he said, easing her back down on the pillow.

She shook her head. "Merlin, it's like something died in my mouth. Can I – please, may I have more?"

Harry did not have to help her as much this time. In a moment, she was sitting up by herself, holding the glass in both hands. Harry tugged the blanket he'd bought from Molly Weasley up to her waist, just for something to do. When the glass fell away, he found her watching him, eyes clear of fog. Already, there was more color in her cheeks.

"Better?" he asked.

"A little," said Ginny. "How long? Why? What happened? And are you all right? Last I heard, you had the pox, and–"

His hand found hers and he squeezed it again. "It's been so long," he whispered. "Six months, Ginny. You've slept for six months, and"-the lump in his throat was making it difficult to speak–"we don't know very much… whoever did this to you – and the others – was very careful. Even Dumbledore–"

"The others!" said Ginny.

And as she said it, the bubble burst around them. Voices rushed in. Reluctant, Harry withdrew his hand from where it had held hers through her sheets and blanket. Perhaps his affection in the moment could be explained by having missed his sister, but much more of that, and Harry would have other things about which to worry. In the minutes he'd been distracted, the others were now fully awake. James and Lily were curved toward each other, hands linked in the space between their beds, speaking rapidly to Mr. and Mrs. Potter.

Harry cleared his throat until the lump went away. Then, with a jolt, he saw Sirius, sitting alone in his bed, watching the others, a rather hungry looking expression on his face. Of course, Orion and Walburga Black would never have sat vigil at his bedside. Several polite notes written by Mr. Potter had been sent by owl to Grimmauld Place; all had gone unanswered. Hesitation kept Harry's feet stuck to the floor: anger at Sirius's older self, resentment, and worry kept him from walking over to Sirius Black's bed and welcoming him back to the living.

And then, a moment later, Mrs. Potter was rushing toward him, wrapping him in her arms like a son, and hugging him.

Just as well.

The pure happiness of a few minutes ago had grown more complex. Harry took a moment to clear his head, to walk over to the table beside the door. There, quite obligingly, sat a quill, ink, and a small stack of parchment. Anger made his strokes hard – Sirius the elder had fought against this – he let his godfather know that, despite his efforts, the sleepers were awake, that they appeared to be well…

That taken care of, Harry set the elder Sirius – who was more Sol Black than the Sirius Harry had first met long ago – out of his mind. There were practical matters to be taken care of, a bewildering number of owls were sent. Lionel Lupin disappeared for thirty minutes, coming back with arms heavily laden with food baskets from the favorite local pub, the Winged Boar. All Harry had to do was allow the adults to take care of the practical details, watching as Mr. and Mrs. Potter used their wands to conjure tables for the food, and to set the beds – for the sleepers were still unsteady on their legs – with their heads nearer each other.

The only blight was the man who had been a child and given the draught at the height of Grindelwald's rise to power. Despite his mother's presence, he grew more confused by the moment. Gentle questioning led to him shouting. "I DON'T REMEMBER! I DON'T REMEMBER! I DIDN'T DO ANYTHING! I DON'T KNOW NOTHING ABOUT A MIRROR!" Then, before he could be subdued by Lionel Lupin and Fleamont Potter, he thrashed out of his bed, weeping, falling nearly to the floor before being cocooned by Euphemia Potter's gentle charm and settled back upon his bed. But he would not calm, growing loud about the mirror and the eyes in it.

"It was just a dream," he repeated, again and again. "Grandmother, tell them it was a dream."

He was moved to a quieter room, his grandmother hobbling after him.

"It must be quite a confusion," Fleamont Potter said, staring after him and shaking his head. "We never knew why he was given the draught–"

"What about this mirror?" Harry asked.

"No idea," murmured Mr. Potter. "I've no idea."

"Poor man," said Lily, voice still thick with sleep.

"Is there anything you remember?" Mrs. Potter asked.

"I remember the window was open," said Sirius.

"I don't remember anything," confessed Remus.

"None of you remember drinking anything odd?" pressed Mr. Potter. "Butterbeer you'd just brought back from Hogsmeade–"

"Hogsmeade was closed, Dad," James said. "We didn't break the Ministry rules – not for butterbeer, anyway."

Lily flushed. "We swear, we didn't."

Mrs. Potter rushed to her, to take her hand and pat it. There was a great deal of warmth between the two women, Harry noticed. "We know, dear," she said, gently. "We simply wish to know who it was who did this to you. Anything you can remember will help…"

"What do you remember?" Harry whispered to Ginny. "When we found you, you weren't in the common room like the others… you were in your room, and it looked like you were trying to write something down."

"I don't remember any of that," Ginny said, troubled.

Harry sat back.

"This is agitating them, my love," Mrs. Potter said to her husband. "May we set this aside? Just for a bit? Until they're stronger again?"

"Of course," said Mr. Potter, rather chivalrously. "Let's give the children some breathing room, eh?"

"And perhaps something to fill their empty stomachs, eh?" boomed Lionel Lupin, quite robustly. "My son looks skin and bone… he needs his health, you know."

The sense of celebration grew until Harry might have been sitting in the Gryffindor common room after a Quidditch win. With each passing minute, James and Sirius and even Remus grew more and more exuberant, until they had even the rickety old lady laughing with their antics. It was warm and it was joyful, but a part of Harry, buried deep inside him, longed for the festivities to end, and him to be alone with Ginny.

Shifting in his chair, some minutes after one in the morning, Harry could not help but remember the last time he'd been alone with an awake Ginny. Glancing at her, he wondered if she remembered that, or if he might have to remind her… not that he would have a problem with that, oh no, but he would have to wait until they were alone to do it, a circumstance that did not seem at all likely to happen soon.

At nearly four, windswept and cloak marked with salt, Dumbledore arrived.

As though this were a signal to a return to seriousness, everyone settled down, though Lionel Lupin seemed unable to wipe the broad grin from his face, and his hand remained clasped on his son's shoulder.

"Well, Fleamont," said Dumbledore, "you have done it, as I thought you would."

"His life's work," said Mrs. Potter, beaming up at her husband, with a light on her face that verged on holy. "My love, you did it. You saved our son…"

"With Harry's help," said Mr. Potter.

As one, everyone turned to look at him. Harry hid a wince and forced himself to stand still under the weight of skepticism and thankfulness both. "I hardly did anything at all," he mumbled.

Ginny, it seemed, was awake enough to scoff. Fortunately, once the moment broke, the others turned their attention from Harry to the sleepers, where it ought to have been all along. Harry hung against the wall, eyes seeking out Ginny as often as he dared, and was relieved – though he'd spent more time here than where he'd lived with Sirius – when Dumbledore announced that he ought to be getting back to Hogwarts, and he thought it best if Ginny come with him. Dutifully, Harry followed them out the door.

"Harry," said Mr. Potter, catching him by the arm. "Would you give me a moment? Before you leave? I promise, it will be just a moment."

Dumbledore gave him a look, indicating he would wait to transport Ginny back to Hogwarts when Harry could join them. After a moment, Harry followed his grandfather into the small office. The door shut with a subtle click. All sound was drowned out; even the smell of lavender, emanating from the other sleepers, the ones who had not been given the antidote to the Draught of Living Death, snipped off.

"What will you do with them?"

"I beg your pardon?" Mr. Potter's eyebrows flew upward.

"With the other sleepers," Harry muttered, rubbing his eyes. "The older ones… not your son, or – or Ginny. Or even the one who was just a baby when he took the draught–"

"A baby? Do you mean Simon Burke?"

"I… yes, the one who was just woken, too. He's a Burke?" Had Harry known this? The Burkes were purveyors of cursed objects, weren't they?

"Yes," said Mr. Potter. "But he wasn't a baby – ah, he does look young, doesn't he? No. He's over forty. He was a child when it happened, but not a baby. It happened to him at Hogwarts."

"Hogwarts?" Harry asked sharply. "Like Ginny and the others?" How had he not known this? All the hours he'd sat in the room with the sleepers, and he had not known that Simon Burke, too, had been given the draught of living death at Hogwarts? "I thought he was a baby… I didn't ask. But it happened at Hogwarts?"

Mr. Potter did not seem to comprehend Harry's concern. "It seems unfair that a school is unsafe, doesn't it?" He sighed, and turned his head, angling it toward the floor. The lines engraved on his thin face deepened; suddenly, Harry's grandfather seemed ten years older. "My own son… he might have been just as Simon Burke was, his whole life stolen from him."

Harry's thoughts had calmed. It was unlikely Mr. Potter knew more than he had already said; his investigative nature was wholly potions based, he did not seem to look into why.

"Sir," he said, "what of the other sleepers?"

"I'm not sure yet, Harry," Mr. Potter said patiently. "I'd like to observe Mr. Burke for a while; it may be that waking from a decades long nap is too much for the human mind. I don't wish to wake the others just to have them experience mental agony." His gaze sharpened on Harry. "But if it turns out that it is safe to do so, I will wake them."

Harry nodded, shoulders slumping. "That's good."

"I would not deny them the chance to live what remains of their life," Mr. Potter said, laying a gentle hand on him.

"I didn't think you would," said Harry. "I promise. I was just curious."

"I think you are a very curious person." Mr. Potter tilted his head, hazel eyes near as penetrating as Dumbledore's eyes of blue. "Both in that you seek to understand and to know. But also because I find myself very curious about you, Harry Peverell."

His assumed name dropped like stones in the space between grandfather and grandson.

"You've managed to extricate a near-miraculous cure from a tightly guarded prison." Unbelievably, there was humor in Mr. Potter's tone. "That's more than enough to find myself curious about a seventeen year old who would – or even could – do such a thing. I have a very exceptional son, but… Aside from that, I have heard some interesting rumors…"

The older man cut off his own words, then stepped behind the desk, pulling open a drawer and pulling out a pipe. "Euphemia hates this," he confided, tapping the bowl with the tip of his wand. The smell of tobacco wafted into the air. "I think, my young friend, that not only did you help my son with the draught of living death–"

"And my, uh, Ginny," said Harry, unwilling to call her his sister.

"Yes, her too." Mr. Potter nodded, pipe smoke whirling around him as he puffed away. Then, without warning and quite bluntly: "But not only that, I think you were the sacriphant for the entire wizarding community during this latest brush with the pox."

The ground dropped out from beneath Harry's feet. Tired, spent, and shocked, he stared at Mr. Potter. There was a time he could have denied it and have it be believed: that moment came and went, the time sliding through his fingers before he could grasp it. "Um…"

"Do not worry," said Mr. Potter equably, looking amused. "It is hardly common knowledge. And well it shouldn't be." A cloud passed over his face. "I have heard whispers that He Who Must Not Be Named is seeking… well. It is just as well that you have kept it secret. And it is my pledge to you that I will do the same. Euphemia knows as well. But we will protect that secret with our lives. I only wished to tell you that I know."

The idea that Voldemort was looking for Harry was not a new one. He'd been hunted by Voldemort since he was a baby; Harry had been aware of it since he was eleven years old. But still, a wave of cold washed over him at his grandfather's words. Voldemort is seeking…

"We also wished to thank you," Mr. Potter said, eyeing him closely. "You saved our lives, Euphemia's and mine. For her life alone, I'd give you all I had."

"I don't need anything," said Harry. A thought struck him. "Except…"

"Except?"

It had been a terrible few months; the best of it had been getting to know a man he'd had only the vaguest of knowledge of. "I learned a lot from you," said Harry, "about potions. More than I've ever learned before, at least–"

"You're quite the natural," Mr. Potter said easily.

"May I still come by?" Harry asked, swallowing. "Not as often as before – but just sometimes? When you aren't busy? I'd still like to learn… more."

Mr. Potter came forward to clasp his hand. "You're welcome here or at my home at any time," he said, warm and kind. "You've no need to send an owl. Just show up. Our door will be open to you."

In his exhaustion, it was all Harry could do not to fall into weeping in front of his grandfather. Instead, he managed to pull himself fully upright, clasp Mr. Potter's hand in his, shake it, and say: "You promise? The secret? You won't even tell James?"

"I will not," said Mr. Potter. "I would swear an Unbreakable Vow–"

"No," said Harry, shaking his head. "No. No need. I trust you. I just…"

A knock sounded on the door.

There was no more time for reassurances, but as Harry walked out of the door, and waited while Dumbledore took charge of Ginny, he was able to relax. Still, he looked up into the cold, clear sky. It was empty — for now — but he was unaccountably relieved when Dumbledore signaled for them to depart.

With one last look at the sky, Harry turned on the spot and Apparated to Hogsmeade.

HPHPHPHPHPHP

"Welcome back, Miss Peverell," said Dumbledore. It had been a matter of minutes to arrive in Hogsmeade, hurry to the Hog's Head, and use Aberforth's floo. Jets of fire soared from his wand, lighting the candles about his office and setting the logs in the fireplace ablaze. "I know you must be eager to return to your room and your things, so I will make this fast."

There were piles and piles of parchment on the wide desk sat underneath a wall of portraits. Each piece, Harry saw, had a different name written upon it, and underneath, lines of writing in a language other than English. There, too, were clippings from both Muggle and wizarding newspapers; a thick stack of books, flat and open, laying atop one another; scrolls of varying sizes were stacked in a very untidy pyramid, looking ready to fall at any moment.

The pensieve was out of its cupboard, and bottles were stacked near it, filled with silvery liquid.

Harry had never seen Dumbledore's office in such disarray.

"Caractacus Burke" read the top page.

Dumbledore cleared his throat and made a motion with his hand. The papers shuffled into a pile, now appearing blank; the books closed. Harry had the impression that Dumbledore was not keen on discussing whatever project he was working on. Was it related to Simon Burke, and what had happened to him at Hogwarts all those years ago?

It was with some effort that Harry set aside his curiosity.

"May I stay?" asked Harry, looking away from the parchment littering the desk, as Ginny fell into a chair, yawning.

"Please do," she murmured.

"By all means," said Dumbledore. "It has to do with your studies. I believe the other sleepers will return to Hogwarts and brush up — with tutors — on what they missed. They will all want their NEWTs, I assume. Now, they are a year ahead of you, but I thought you might wish to spend the remainder of this term being tutored along with them—"

"Yes, please," interrupted Ginny.

"—and then resume regular term with the others for the spring."

"Yes, I think that would be best," said Ginny, covering her mouth with her hand.

"It will be strenuous," Dumbledore warned.

"But Ginny won't be in any of my classes?" Harry asked. "Can I do this tutoring as well?"

Dumbledore's blue eyes were twinkling. "I think you are better off remaining in your classes. It is my hope that now the sleepers are awake, you will be more likely to attend them."

Harry, who had skipped at least one day of school a week, slumped in his chair, feeling a small surge of guilt. "Since I've missed classes, I might do better with the tutoring," Harry pointed out.

"Perhaps we can find a compromise," said Dumbledore.

Ginny stretched and yawned. "If I slept for six months, why am I still so tired?" she mumbled.

"It might take some time to recover your previous stamina," Dumbledore said, with great sympathy. "It is a terrible thing that has happened to you, and I am sorry it happened at Hogwarts."

"There have been worse things at Hogwarts," Ginny said dryly.

"But it's happened before, hasn't it?" Harry asked, leaning forward. "To Simon Burke? That's what Mr. Potter said…"

Dumbledore looked at him. "Indeed it has, a very long time ago."

"Who did it then?"

"It was never known for sure," said Dumbledore.

"It was Gellert Grindelwald!" shouted one of the portraits, the one directly behind Dumbledore's desk.

Harry stared at Armando Dippet. "Grindelwald came to Hogwarts?" he asked, astonished. He could hardly countenance it. Surely the dark wizard would know it was mad to risk running into Dumbledore. "Truly?"

"It is believed by my predecessor that Simon Burke was a victim of one of Grindelwald's followers."

"What year was this?" Ginny asked.

"1943," said Dumbledore, drumming his fingers on the desk. "Those were horrible years. Dark and terrible. Much like it is now, in fact. There was no evidence; whoever did it was subtle enough to evade everything we could throw at it—"

"Just like now," murmured Harry. "What did Grindelwald have against the Burkes? Aren't they rather… ah…"

"More likely to follow him than thwart him?" Dumbledore suggested. "It did seem unusual for a Slytherin from one of the so-called 'sacred twenty-eight' families to be targeted."

"There's more than one reason why a family such as the Burkes could be targeted." This was Armando Dippet again. "Perhaps they had something of value to Grindelwald in that shop of theirs."

"Entirely credible," agreed Dumbledore. "He never confessed to it. It is one of the great mysteries of Hogwarts, what happened to Simon Burke. The school nearly closed. The governors were furious. But young Simon was found behind a tapestry, sleeping the sleep of near death, and there was no trace of who it could have been."

"Grindelwald."

Ginny interrupted Dippet. "If it was 1943…" she said slowly, exhaustion roughening her voice. "Isn't there someone else it could have been? Tom Riddle was still at school, then, wasn't he? And we already know it was he who was guilty when the school blamed someone else… he was good at getting others to take the fall for him."

Bright spots of color were in her cheeks.

"Indeed, Tom was at school when it happened," said Dumbledore. "However, it could not have been him."

"Why?" Harry asked. "He would've been what? Sixteen? Seventeen? He could've made the draught… couldn't he?"

"He certainly would have possessed the skill to do so," agreed Dumbledore. "But there was only one hour between Simon Burke being seen by his professor and when he was found behind that tapestry — one which, incidentally, led to one of the secret passageways out of the school, further supporting the theory that it was an outsider."

"But Tom…"

"Was in class that entire time," said Dumbledore. "With me."

"Well, that's convenient," muttered Ginny.

As Harry chuckled, Dumbledore sighed and clasped his hands around his wand. "It is a pity we cannot lay all the ills of our world upon him."

"He's done enough," said Harry.

There was a long, silent moment. When it broke, it was not in a way he expected.

"You have been here over a year now," Dumbledore said abruptly. "And as Mr. Peverell here knows… it will be some time before you can attempt Nurmengard again—"

"If Sir-Sol even talks to me again," Harry muttered.

"He is angry, but I know he cares about you," said Dumbledore.

"He hates it here," Ginny said. "He absolutely loathes being here."

"I cannot blame him. But I know that he will forgive."

Harry picked at a loose thread on his robes. He was not entirely sure. Dumbledore's words were a balm, he was right about so many things. But what if he was wrong about this?

"In which case," Dumbledore was saying, "I believe it is time for you two to fully exist in this time. Not that you do not already."

"I — what?"

"I think you should become, fully, Harry Peverell and Ginny Peverell."

Dumbledore sat back, drumming his fingers on the stacks of parchment upon his desk, and eyeing Harry with some strange mixture of wariness and puzzlement. The professor's shoulders were drooped. Whatever had distracted him so much these last months — it was weighing on him.

"What do you mean by that?" Harry asked politely. Then, adding "sir" for good measure. "That I am becoming Harry Peverell?"

The blue eyes went unfocused. "All of these witches and wizards… they knew him before he fully styled himself as a lord…"

"Excuse me?" Harry prodded, when Dumbledore's voice trailed away. A quick, shared glance at Ginny showed her concerned, leaning forward onto her knees.

"For example," Dumbledore said, in a much more robust tone, suggesting he had caught their shared glance. "For example, you two sitting here are one of the few who know that before he chose a new name, one that strikes fear into hearts, and one that is cursed… he was once called Tom Riddle. There are achievements attached to that name that no longer go acknowledged. They disappeared with the name. It is his darker deeds he is known by, and it is that name that has weight."

"Erm—"

"It is something similar that has happened to you — both of you. But I beg your pardon, it is to Harry most of all, Miss Peverell."

Ginny made an amused gesture, rolling her wrist, and said, "As is so often the case, Professor."

"The Peverell name, which is still spoken of, though the family died out in the male line long ago, has been — in you two — resurrected. Your achievements here have been astonishing; you have been noticed — as Harry Peverell, a name you chose. And now… you are not hiding behind it any longer. You are building something with it. People are speaking of you."

"Even though most of what he's done is secret?" Ginny asked.

"But not completely," said Dumbledore. "You two have your quite healthy accounts at Gringott's. The Ministry has a record of you, though it is hidden. Fleamont Potter publicly thanked you publicly. People are aware of you. Especially you, Mr. Peverell."

"As I just slept," Ginny said, ruefully. As though reminded, she cracked a great yawn, stretching her arms upward.

"So Sirius… he might have been right." Harry swallowed, after looking back at Dumbledore.

"He was certainly right that you were doing things that would draw a certain amount of attention to yourself and Miss Peverell," said Dumbledore. "I do not know whether he would have thought of this. Nor would he, I think, suggest that you two establish yourself with the Ministry."

"I — what?"

Ginny's feet thudded to the floor.

"Nothing too strenuous," said Dumbledore. "And it is simply an idea… you both might wish to have an Apparition license, or to purchase your own home now that you have quite a fortune, or to avail yourselves of the healers at St. Mungo's."

"And we can't do that now?" Harry asked.

Dumbledore plucked up one of the bits of parchment, peered at it, then set it back down again. "With each year, with each meeting of the Wizengamot, there are fewer and fewer freedoms offered to those with such a clean background as you have."

"Meaning they would assume we are Muggleborns," said Ginny.

Dumbledore tipped his head to her.

"And we've heard that it affects the sort of jobs they can have, the healings they receive–"

"More and more, Muggleborns are being pushed out of wizarding society, given the legal and sworn into law limits they face. I think you two ought to establish an identity with the Ministry that will allow more freedom of… movement, shall we say."

Harry thought of his mother, who had wanted to become a healer, but was not able to because of her birth. Would it be fair of him to establish a pureblood identity with the Ministry when so many others could not? Troubled, Harry looked at Ginny, whose eyelids were drooping, leaving only a tiny crack to reveal the brown of her eyes.

"Can we think about it?" Harry asked.

"By all means," said Dumbledore, nearly as weary as Ginny. "It is but a thought. And you have time; six months of it, I should say, until you are no longer a student at Hogwarts and must then decide where you will go."

There, between the three of them, was the unspoken knowledge that Harry and Ginny would not be going to live with Sirius Black. Something panged within him. There had been a time in his life – a couple of years of it – when he had wanted to live with Sirius so badly that it hurt. But now… it was different. Dumbledore dismissed them, and they left his office; Harry's mind was still on Sirius as he had looked at Nurmengard, covered in snow and frost and gray eyes dark with Harry's betrayal.

Her room was waiting for her, of course. It being late evening on a Sunday, Harry might have hugged her at her door and left her to her rest, but that didn't feel right. There had been a moment where Mr. Potter had mentioned Voldemort, and how he was once more looking for Harry, though he didn't know his name. There had been a familiar, prickling sensation on the back of his neck, as though he were being watched.

It was safer here at Hogwarts, under Dumbledore's protection. It felt less like he was in a bubble, with Voldemort staring in…

Her face was pale and set as she opened the door.

But even though Dumbledore was ample protection against Voldemort, there were other, smaller threats. Harry had been well acquainted with them since he'd come to Hogwarts

They were in luck; the common room was empty. Still, Harry cast Muffliato before following her inside and shutting the door firmly behind him.

"What—"

But she was already speaking: "Is that what I was writing?" There was parchment on the small desk beneath the window.

"Yeah," said Harry, "but we don't think you got much written…"

"It's all over ink," she said, grimacing.

"You might not have been writing a clue for us," Harry suggested, striding to the window and peering out toward the forest, which was alive with vibrant reds and oranges and yellows. "You might've just been…"

"Hermione would have written out a clue," Ginny muttered. "You'd've found the name of the person who did it written on a scrap of paper—"

"—that I then found crumpled in your hand," said Harry, amused.

But Ginny was paying him little attention, but was blinking at the autumn world rolled out before them. "It's really October," she said, shaking her head. "I can't believe — and I can — that it's October. It was… just spring."

"It has been some very long months since spring," Harry said quietly. "For me, I mean."

Her face was still solemn as she looked at him. "And hardly a blink for me," she said. Then, brow furrowing, she added: "But it does seem like I dreamed a lot. I feel like I dreamed a lot." Her gaze wandered. "But still. October."

Harry sat on the side of her bed, letting his arms fall across his legs. Ginny was distracted; and why would she not be? She'd had less than twelve hours to come to terms with having been asleep for half a year. But he could not help but wonder, and long to ask, if she remembered the kiss they'd shared before Harry had gone to deliberately give himself the pox. He certainly remembered it. Hardly a day had gone by that he hadn't thought of it in some way or another.

"Aside from nearly killing yourself with the pox, what did you do?" Ginny asked.

"Yes — helped Mr. Potter — Grandfather — with your potion… went to Nurmengard—"

"You what?"

"It's where the last ingredient was," Harry said. "I had to go. Sirius went with me, you know… he thought we were going there for a book Grindelwald had… but I went there for the ingredient. I had to." Pain flicked through him. That look in Sirius's eyes; in his mind, Harry had betrayed him. "I don't think he's going to forgive me."

Her gentle touch on his hand was a balm.

Drawing in a deep breath, he said, "It doesn't bode well, that he hasn't said a word."

"He might calm down," said Ginny. Her touch lingered a moment longer and fell away. "Anything else?" she said, quite intently.

"Yes, in fact," he said, grinning a little. "After the pox… well, whatever Dumbledore did to disguise me, it began to itch." The memory of it had him rubbing his arms up and down. "It was almost maddening. And I had headaches off and on, too–"

"Your scar?" she asked abruptly.

"No." Harry shook his head. "It was everywhere." Grimacing, he neglected to mention that he hadn't been able to fly, even, it had gotten so bad. The broom stuck up right against sensitive parts had been a particular sort of torture. "But," he said, fully grinning now, "Dumbledore figured out another way to disguise me."

Her brow furrowed. "How?"

He held out his arm and turned it over, pulling up his sleeve to point out the small bump on his unmarred wrist. "See that bump? He's put something in there–"

"Put something in there–"

"It was as gross as it sounds," he assured her. "But look!" He tapped his wand against the bump. As it had the first times he'd tested it, the disguise whooshed away with the feeling of a wind upon his body. It had been worth the extreme discomfort he'd felt watching Dumbledore open up his wrist to the bone, moving aside veins, and settling a pebble against his bones, just for the astonishment on Ginny's face. Flooded now with color, her face seemed to glow in the dimness of the room, catching the lamplight and holding it there. "Look at me," he said with quiet triumph.

"I see you," she said, a funny sort of thickness in her tone. It made his stomach swoop. She didn't repeat it, but the words hung between them nevertheless. He could not help but think of the emptiness of the Quidditch pitch last spring, and the feel of her lips on his. Now, something entirely more pleasant washed over him.

Her lips lifted in a smile; it hung there, crookedly. "Nothing else happened while I was sleeping?"

"Not… really," Harry repeated.

"You didn't meet any… say, veela?"

"No," said Harry. Then her hand was in his, slim and cool to the touch. "No," he said again, this time fervently. Surely this meant she remembered their kiss on the empty Quidditch pitch? "Ginny? D'you remember that we – that we–"

Then, mercifully, her lips were on his, interrupting his question, interrupting his thoughts; a moment passed; then, with a sound he'd never made before, he pulled her into his arms, and kissed her as fiercely as she'd kissed him. Her tongue darted into his mouth, sending a wave of pure heat up his spine. The months melted away. This was what they should have been doing just after he'd recovered from the pox. There never should have been those weeks and months without her.

"Ginny," he said in a low voice, pressing kisses along her jaw, tracing the contours of her jaw with his lips. "You remembered, then?"

"Of course I remember," she said, pulling back. "That wasn't something I'd ever forget."

Harry murmured her name, framed her face with his hands, reluctant to look away. "Sorry it took me so long."

Her eyelashes flickered. "I'll forgive you for saving me from a life spent sleeping," she said, "if you kiss me again."

There was a freckle, just at the corner of her mouth. Softly, Harry kissed it, then her lips, as her hands slid up and down his back, her fingertips leaving trails of fire. This kiss was deeper, tongues finding each other, until he forgot nearly everything but Ginny; nothing else mattered; nothing else was real, only Ginny, and the feel of her in his arms, pressed against him, and holding him as tightly as he held her.

She was awake at last.