A/n: I officially hate this chapter. My apologies ahead of time for confusing the crap out of you with this one.

(No, I don't actually hate it. It was such a beast of a chapter to write, though, that it's driven me up the wall.)

(And no, I also don't think it'll confuse the crap out of you. With any luck at least...and skill on my part.)

Lateness can be blamed on the fact that I went on vacation for two and a half weeks. My apologies…again. But I did have a lot of fun...even got stuck at the top of a roller coaster. It also gave me some inspiration for upcoming chapters.

(Not the roller coaster thing, the being on vacation for two weeks with my insane family.)

((That means you, Hannah.))

Warning: If you have not been following this fic, PLEASE make sure to read the last chapter before attempting this one. In fact, I would highly recommend reading the Christmas chapters as well. Relatively pertinent to have any idea what the hell I'm writing about.

The Tales of Weasley the Father
By dieselwriter

Chapter 22: The (Second) Tale of Faith

The full moon had been settled up in the sky for quite some time, casting eerie dark shadows up and down the sleepy street. Every house on Knightstone Drive held its own mystery with the bright moonlight reflecting off pitch black windows.

But one house perhaps held more secrets, made evident from the light pouring out of the windows and spilling out onto the front lawn.

Despite the outlier, silence was still respected; secrets can't be kept when shouted to the world. Even the large barn owl perched on a dying oak tree remained quiet, listening for the expectant whispers of old walls unable to handle the suspense any longer.

Two small pops sounded from the end of the street, and were it not for the complete hush that had fallen over Knightstone Drive, the appearance of two cloaked figures could have gone unnoticed. The barn owl, flapping its wings in interest, scooted along the rotting, gnarled branch to get a better look at the figures stalking down the sidewalk.

"I'm going to kill him," a harsh, distinctly feminine voice whispered from underneath the cloak of the shorter of the two figures.

"Can't we do this tomorrow?" a man's quiet voice asked, sounding partially amused, but mostly exasperated. It was rather late.

"No. I will wake his arse up, drag him from bed, and rightfully strangle him if I have to."

"If we don't go back to the house and let the kid off the hook, he'll probably end up killing himself, you know."

"That's assuming he hasn't already killed himself."

"This has turned into a rather morbid conversation."

The eavesdropping barn owl flapped its wings again, as if in agreement. Both cloaked figures paid it no heed, however, as they continued down the sidewalk.

"Look at that," the female stopped, pointing at the only lit house, "the lights are still on! What are they still doing up at two in the morning?"

"Waiting to ambush us, probably," the taller of the two smirked his response.

This seemed to alleviate his partner's concerns, however, as she marched up the path leading to the house, stepped onto the front porch and tried the door handle.

"Locked. Figures. Some people have no trust these days."

"I wonder why," her companion puffed, having jogged up the walk to the porch, "when they have insane people out to kill them at their door at two in the morning."

"Well it sounds sinister when you put it like that," the woman muttered, pulling out her wand. "Alohomora!"

The lock clicked, and the shorter figure pulled off the hood of her cloak, revealing a loosened but elegant bun. Still holding her wand, she silently opened the front door. The man, sighing, pulled off his own hood, revealing a shock of wild black hair. He glanced around, making sure none of the neighbors were privy to their break in.

The shadows held no spies, however; the only viewer was the barn owl, which gave an acerbic hoot before taking wing to the inky black skies, off no doubt to find a more fruitful street littered with rodents.

Finding the street thus empty, the man followed after his wife.

"What are you two doing in here?!"

"Nice to see you too, Ginny. You're looking good. New robes?"

"RON!"

"Ginny!"

"Oh calm down, Hermione; he's asleep."

Harry Potter chuckled, locking the door behind him before standing at the doorway of the living room of his best friends' home.

Said best friends were kneeling by the coffee table, parchment scattered about in front of them and on the floor. Ron's hair was a disheveled mess from the amount of times he had run his hand through it, and Hermione's eyes were red-rimmed, no doubt from deciphering Ron's untidy, miniscule scrawling on the pages spread out in front of her. Several mugs sat discarded on the floor, dregs the only thing left swimming around inside. His nephew was snoring softly on the couch, limbs spread out wildly in a strong imitation of his father's sleeping position.

"Where the hell where you two tonight?" Ginny demanded in her best angry mother voice, looming over them like a threatening cumulonimbus.

"Ginny!" Hermione retaliated, her own matriarchal tone perhaps more effective with her own son in the room.

"He's asleep!"

"Who's asleep?" Hugo sat up from his spot on the couch, bleary eyed.

"Nicely done, you two. Now he's awake."

"Don't look at me," Ron said, offended. "Ginny's the one who broke into our house like some kind of maniac."

"Well I'm not the one who didn't show up to the Gala! Williams was hounding us all night! Do you have any idea what kind of mood he was in when we left?"

"Not nearly as good of a mood as he will be in when I give him this tomorrow," Ron said, holding up a small dog-eared book entitled Nature of the Charm.

"Where'd you get that from?" Harry piped up, fully entering the room and joining his now sentient nephew on the couch.

"Hermione ordered it off the black market," Ron said matter-of-factly.

"Ron!" his wife gasped, snatching the book back from Harry. "I found a footnote in a book from Hogwarts' Restricted Section about this book, and a coworker of mine helped me obtain it from a collector of old Dark books and artifacts…which is perfectly legal, as long as he's not using them!" she interjected rather rapidly at seeing Harry's disconcerted reaction.

"Like I said, black market," Ron yawned, getting to his feet.

Hermione crossed her arms but didn't respond as her husband reached out to pluck his son off the couch.

"Bed time, little man," he said, carrying Hugo out of the room and climbing up the stairs.

"But Da—" the child was cut off by a massive yawn.

"I'm not ti-i-ired…" Ron did his best imitation of his son's whiny voice, earning him a rather impressive scowl from his son.

It did the trick, however; Hugo did not complain as he was carried up the stairs and deposited onto his bed.

"Dad, can't I just stay up and play one game with Uncle Harry? Please?" Hugo pleaded, attempting a pitiable expression. His bloodshot eyes mostly ruined the effect. "I haven't seen him in ages!"

"You just saw him last weekend," Ron corrected, pulling up the covers so that all but Hugo's face was obscured by thick orange quilt. "And you promptly destroyed him in chess then, too."

Hugo smiled rather sheepishly.

"It's fun beating Uncle Harry."

"Goodnight, Hugo."

"No, Dad, wait!" Hugo cried out as his father made to leave. "Just a story then."

Ron's ears instantly perked up at the mention of a story. Hugo spied it and tried to rectify the situation.

"I meant one of Beedle's tales!"

"Beedle's an amateur," the father replied, bouncing back on the bed in his excitement. "My tales are vastly superior. Besides, I was already telling Rosie one of my better stories earlier, and she didn't get to hear the ending. Guess who does?"

"Please say it's Mum," Hugo mumbled, but knew his father was far too keyed up to be distracted now.

"Y-you're…" he swallowed down the bile and tried to sound brave and intimidating, as if he were making an accusation, but his voice was nothing more than a feeble croak. The adrenaline that had been pumping through his system moments ago now felt like sludge, acting as a sedative to make his whole body feel heavy, slow, and stupid.

"An Animagus? Yes," Sirius Black answered a question Ron had not intended on asking, but this simple clarification helped Ron to understand at least where the dog had disappeared to. Black raised a wand—his wand, he thought with bitter contempt—and muttered a spell that sent Ron skidding slowly but steadily across the hallway floor and into the room farthest away from the staircase, his only escape.

He had no wand, he was in an unfamiliar place with an escaped convict more than capable of murder, and he was utterly and completely alone. It was at this point that Ron couldn't help but wish to be anywhere else, even in the Forbidden Forest with Aragog and his hungry family.

Black entered the bedroom behind him and kept the door ajar—no doubt to make it easier for Harry and Hermione to find them.

So this is it, Ron mused. This is where we left off after he broke into Gryffindor Tower. This is where I die.

An idiotic keening noise wanted to make its way out of his throat. He tried to swallow it down but the lump in his throat was the size of a Snitch. No matter how hard he tried to master himself, it seemed impossible to try and stop the panic attack that was desperate to take over.

This is absurd…there is NO way I can cry in front of him. Didn't do it in front of those giant bloody spiders last year, did I? Please, not in front of him…

Black, for what it was worth, utterly ignored him and his fight to get a hold on his pathetic emotions. The convict paced, muttering to himself, and Ron watched him, fighting off the damned tears that wanted to fall, waiting for the finishing blow.

But five minutes passed, and still Black hadn't so much as thrown a glance at him, let alone a Killing Curse. Black seemed well aware of how long he was taking as he finally turned to Ron.

"Is he coming?!" he all but shouted in Ron's face, his sunken, haunting gaze beseeching the redhead's blue eyes. He seemed more pleading than angry, as if the answer would determine a punishment for himself rather than for Ron.

How could I be so stupid?

This wasn't where he would die. The bait isn't much use dead, after all. No, he wouldn't die now. Not yet.

Not until after Harry came.

"No," Ron whispered, hoping that wherever his best friend was he would hear it too. "He's not."

"How well do you know him?" Black threw at him, but tossed his hands in the air before Ron could answer and continued his pacing.

Ron knew Harry well enough to know that he would do what he could, whatever was in his power to do, to save him. Ron sincerely hoped that excluded chasing after him and the mass murderer responsible for his parents' deaths.

"Well?!"

Ron jumped at Black's shriek and winced at the pain it caused his leg; the escaped convict was still walking around in circles, his crazed eyes trained to the floor. His fists, however, were clenched so tightly around the stolen wand that he felt obligated to answer the question whether or not Black listened.

"Well enough to know that he won't come."

The sunken eyes found Ron's again for a moment, and he backed further away from him, groaning as his broken leg throbbed painfully even at the slight movement. But the Animagus turned away from him, pacing once again.

"All wrong…all wrong…I should have been more patient…. Dammit!"

Patient, Ron snorted in his mind as Black punched a dusty wall in aggravation. But of course, the escaped convict had shown at least a smidgen of reserve by not ruining his plan and killing his bait yet, so maybe Azkaban hadn't squeezed all the patience out of him.

"One moment of panic and I grab the wrong boy. But I did get him…" Ron flinched, both at the extreme malevolence in his tone and the absolutely hostile glare he threw in his direction. "Maybe I should just kill him now."

Or maybe all the patience was out the boarded up window after all. He'd have considered joining it if his leg, fear, and lack of wand weren't keeping him stuck to the floor.

"You're plan won't work," Ron muttered faintly, barely able to find his voice after that last pronouncement. "He's not an idiot. He'll go straight to Dumbledore or Lupi—"

"WAIT!"

Ron stiffened, eyes wide with fright as Black froze in place, listening to the groans and whispers of the old house. It was evident after a minute that Black had heard nothing yet he continued playing the charade, as if hoping Harry Potter would be delivered into his skeletal white hands if he were quiet enough.

"N-nobody's coming," Ron drawled, attempting nonchalance. Draco Malfoy might have been proud to hear it if the effect wasn't lost on his nervous, clumsy tongue.

"The girl," Black answered, eyes trained on the door in expectation. "There was a girl, too. She'll come."

"She's even less likely to come than Harry is," Ron said, his insouciance genuine this time. "She's too smart for that. She'll make Harry get help—"

"Help…" Black muttered, sounding far more dangerous than when he had shouted earlier. Ron remained silent; it was part futility (Black didn't seem to hear anything once he started a rant) but mostly fear that stilled his tongue. "Remus certainly might consider giving me a chance…or at least hesitate long enough for me to explain…but if it's Dumbledore…oh Merlin…."

Something cold and hard had slithered into Ron's stomach at his own words. Most likely because the words he had spoken were true; Hermione really was too smart to come after him. She wouldn't put Harry in unnecessary danger, especially to chase him down.

Doubt—that was what it was, settled in his gut and forming an equally hard lump in his throat. Doubt in his friends to come when he needed their help most. In the dire circumstances he had faced the past three years, he'd never had to face it alone. And now, when he most certainly needed the most help, the thought that his best friends would abandon him made him feel sick.

The idea of Lupin or Dumbledore walking through the door meant Harry and Hermione really had given up on him, that he really was alone in all this. Sure, Lupin and Dumbledore would be better suited to help him, but Ron wasn't sure he was ready to pay the price their entrance would require.

The small, selfish part in him realized that he had been wrong, earlier, in not wanting Harry and Hermione here. Because if there were to be anyone at his side right now, it was certainly them. That secret selfish Ron hoped that Black would be right, that Harry and Hermione would show up.

It seemed to him that he had played the part of hostage rather well. Best friend to the main target, immobile and thus unable to put up any form of a fight, even partially wanting the target to show up…the only thing he had done right so far it seemed was to not be Harry.

Of course, that was something Ron was far too used to.

"All my hard work gone…. Just because he looks like James doesn't mean he'll act like him. But maybe he will come…wait!"

Ron was ready to roll his eyes but something small and orange darted into the room a moment later. The furry figure streaked across the floor and jumped up onto the four-poster bed, looking proud of itself.

Black looked at the creature as if it were Harry Potter himself.

"My old friend! Have you brought any other friends with you?"

Sanity? Oh yeah, that was definitely out the window, right after the patience. Ron wasn't sure if the convict expected more fuzzy, squashed-nosed animals to come through the door or if these friends would be imaginary.

But a noise that had to have come from downstairs made Ron realize exactly who the friends of Crookshanks would be.

They really had come. Ron couldn't think of anyone else who would follow the Grim to save him, apart from his parents. That selfish part of him felt full, happy, disgustingly pleased; the more sensible, loyal part to him just felt disgusted.

"N—"

"Silencio!"

Ron had been expecting a spell for a while now, but the Silencing Charm certainly wasn't the lethal kind he had been worrying about. Unable to move, it hit him square in the chest, and although he attempted to shout, to yell, to do anything to warn his friends downstairs of the danger they were walking right into, he was unable to make a sound. Black smirked at him, wagging his finger smugly, before moving into the shadows behind the door.

Now there was no way to warn them. He could hear their creaking footsteps on the stairs. They were walking right into the Reaper's hands.

And all because of him. Ron felt sick with himself.

But at the same time the panic that had been residing in his chest ever since being separated from Harry and Hermione calmed the instant he heard their steps, muffled from the dust, come closer and closer towards the cracked door.

Black's eyes lit up in triumph at hearing their approach, looking fully demented as he pointed the wand at its original owner.

Perfect. And this is where I die after all.

But knowing who was coming for him, he felt the adrenaline picking back up, strengthening him. He felt braver when he had someone to fight for.

As the spell shot out of his wand, he did his best to jump out of the way; for all the good it did he should have just stayed in his spot. The spell hit him in the shoulder and the half-dive, half-roll he had tried only ended up as a new way to torture himself.

He moaned, clutching at his leg. Crookshanks purred delightedly from his spot on the bed, as if there weren't anything more pleasurable in the world to him than seeing Ron get hurt.

Ron didn't doubt it.

The whole room seemed to jump as the door was suddenly kicked open and Harry and Hermione, looking a little worse for wear but certainly more capable than him, practically flew across the room, completely bypassing Sirius Black hiding behind the bedroom door in order to come to his aide.

Ron felt the lump in his throat return as he looked at their concerned faces.

Who else would have done this for him?

"Ron—are you okay?"

"Where's the dog?"

"Not a dog," he moaned, averting his eyes and gritting his teeth to prevent the exclamation of pained, selfish delight from escaping. His surprise at hearing his own voice withered away as quickly as he remembered the final spell Black had sent him—no doubt it had reversed the charm placed on him. He glanced up beseechingly at Harry, feeling a prat at what great bait he really was. "Harry, it's a trap—"

"What—"

He looked over at the place he knew Black to be hiding.

"He's the dog…he's an Animagus…"

The man in the shadows stepped forward, closed the door—their only means of escape—and thus presented himself to Harry and Hermione.

"Expelliarmus!"

Ron felt his small happiness fade rather abruptly; indeed, he felt a real heel as Harry and Hermione lost their wands. They were now stuck in this hell together.

"I thought you'd come and help your friend," he talked to Harry hoarsely, grinning with unsuppressed glee. Ron couldn't help but roll his eyes at this blatant lie. "Your father would have done the same for me. Brave of you, not to run for a teacher."

Brave…but that wasn't right. It wasn't courage that sent Harry and Hermione after him. It wouldn't have been bravery on his part if Harry had been the one to be taken instead and he and Hermione were coming to his rescue.

It was loyalty, and a friendship that could only have been forged through the three years they'd spent together, fighting off crazy professors, spiders, and mass murderers.

It wasn't a question of would they come, or could they come…it was only a matter of when they would come.

It was faith.

"I'm grateful…it will make everything much easier…."

The fury radiated from Harry palpably, and as he took a step forward, that panicked feeling returned, alarmed that his best mate was about to do something stupid. It was with tremendous effort that he reached up to cling to Harry's arm and pulled himself upright.

"No, Harry!" Hermione squeaked fearfully from the other side.

Ron had barely heard it, what with the hammer pounding away at his brain; his leg was positively throbbing and he was certain that if he didn't sit down soon he would pass out. But there was one thing he had to do before that, now that he and Hermione had Harry in their grasp, one final message that he was fully intent on getting across to Sirius Black.

"If you want to kill Harry, you'll have to kill us too!"

They were never letting go.

"The rest, well, is rather complicated. But I think you get the point, don't you?"

He was met with a snore. Ron supposed he shouldn't have expected much more, given the late hour.

"Moral of the story…" Ron whispered, placing a gentle kiss on his son's forehead before exiting the bedroom, "never tell a story at two in the morning."

He took a moment to poke his head into his daughter's room, finding it in the same disarray he had left it earlier. Rosie had somehow positioned herself so that instead of having her head resting on her pillow she was snuggling it in her arms. But she seemed peaceful enough, so Ron left her to her dreams, clambering down the stairs two at a time.

The resentful tone of his sister's voice reached his ears as he was walking down the hallway.

"I still don't see why all this couldn't wait until tomorrow."

"We've been working on this for six months," his wife retaliated, exasperated. Clearly this wasn't the first time Ginny had complained about their skiving off the Auror Appreciation Gala since he had left. "And if it's so late why haven't you gone home to relieve Teddy? I'm sure he's nearly ready to call in reinforcements."

"That's what I keep saying," Harry mumbled tiredly. "I'm only convinced that the reason we haven't received a distress call yet is because James stole Teddy's wand."

"Wouldn't be the first time that's happened," Ginny smiled. "But Teddy enjoys the experience...I think. And just graduated from Hogwarts? He needs the Galleons; he'll be begging for more babysitting jobs by the end of the month, just you wait."

"Right when the rent's due," Ron added, walking in to find Harry grinning tiredly.

"Oh good," Harry said. "Now we can get down to business."

"You haven't told them anything?" Ron asked Hermione.

"I've been attempting to clean up," Hermione explained before throwing Ginny a cross look. "Ginny's been filling me in on all the fun things we missed at the Gala."

"Let me guess," Ron said, plopping down on the sofa next to Harry, "Williams bugged you every ten minutes about our whereabouts, O'Leary got shitfaced and was kicked out before attempting to streak, and Ginny retired to her seat after a half hour mingling and standing in those medieval torture devices."

His sister glared at him, even though she had proven his point already by removing her tall high heels to massage her blisters.

"Wrong," she replied, stretching her feet out to rest on the recently de-cluttered coffee table. "O'Leary got kicked out after attempting to streak."

"Oh, I can see why you'd be upset that I missed that."

"Yes, all right," Harry interposed, sitting forward to command Hermione's attention, who was still busy organizing parchment, "enough reminiscing of the Gala. I want to hear about this breakthrough."

Hermione took her time, brushing a stray curl behind her ear before finding a seat between Ron and Harry, a stack of paper still grasped in her hands.

"Well, we don't know everything yet—" she began, but Harry rolled his eyes and interrupted.

"But you do know something."

"Of course, Harry. We wouldn't miss the Appreciation Gala for nothing. It's called Servus manus—the Servant's Hand Charm. It's an old charm, dating back to the Middle Ages. Wizarding lords used it on their serfs to ensure quality work, but as serfdom declined so did the spell's use. It's been passed down in the Dark Arts, but wasn't really used, since a silver hand is rather conspicuous. Can't really go walking around in the Muggle world with a silver hand, can you?"

Ron yawned, this story old to him now. Harry rubbed at his eyes, no doubt trying to stay awake despite the rather dull origins of the charm. Ginny seemed to be the only one remotely intrigued from the story apart from Hermione.

"Since it was hardly used it began disappearing in books," Hermione continued, unaware of the fact that only one third of her audience was truly engrossed in her explanation. "That's why it's been so hard to trace in the first place. But of course Voldemort stumbled across it and made note, knowing it might come in handy when his followers grew in number—"

"Hermione, I'm not trying to be rude," Harry couldn't seem to help himself as he interrupted her again, "but can we get to the information that is actually pertinent to our problem at hand? It's two in the morning. I'm tired. And Teddy's probably ready to throw himself off a cliff."

Hermione's cheeks flushed, but Ron put a supportive hand on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

"Why don't we skip ahead to the good stuff, eh?"

"Well," Hermione faltered, thumbing through the papers in her lap. "The charm's effects are permanent as soon as it takes effect. And while Voldemort used the spell as a prosthetic in Pettigrew's case, it's not generally used that way. Most times it was worn as something akin to a glove, fitting on top of the hand, just making it far more powerful than previous.

"Its effects are relatively straightforward, as you've seen. It does whatever its owner wants it to do, just at a substantially higher level of strength and precision."

"But Pettigrew—" Harry started, but Hermione held up her hand and continued.

"The spell does whatever the owner wants it to," she reiterated, making Harry frown in annoyance, "but if that want goes into direct conflict with the original spellcaster's wants, it rebels."

Harry leaned forward, now interested by Hermione's words.

"So since Pettigrew released me…"

"It directly conflicted with what Voldemort would have wanted," Ron filled in, having had this conversation once already and feeling quite smug at knowing the answers, "so the hand turned on Pettigrew."

Ginny fidgeted at this unpleasant news, having heard of Peter Pettigrew's fate many times before.

"The charm only has two primary motivations to act," Hermione went on with her explanation. "One is to do the bidding of the original spell caster. Only a relatively powerful Dark wizard could cast such a spell, so his intentions, rather than the servant's, are those it tries to honor. The second motivation is to preserve itself. A servant is of no use dead; thus it will act in the servant's best interests, as long as they do not directly conflict with the master's orders. Get it?"

Harry glanced across at Ron before shaking his head. Hermione sighed before trying a different tactic.

"Let me use an example then. Pettigrew used the hand to fight for Voldemort, and the hand obeyed its command, since it was exactly what Voldemort wanted—a loyal servant. When Pettigrew betrayed Voldemort the hand retaliated and got itself a new owner. Scabior had his hand since before the war ended. He used it as a way to evade the Aurors, right? The hand acted to help Scabior out, in order to survive."

"I'm sorry," Ginny piped up, shaking her head, "but my head's swimming. It's two thirty in the morning. Can we get this in layman's terms?"

"Basically," Ron replied, popping his knuckles in the process and making Hermione cringe at the noise, "the hand will do whatever Scabior wants it to, unless he starts rescuing puppies and giving presents to kids in orphanages."

"But then how did the hand jump host exactly? I thought you said it was impossible, Hermione."

Hermione couldn't help but blush again at Ginny's question.

"Well, I thought it was. But this charm…it's evil. It can't end its own life, if that makes any sense. The only way to destroy it is if the original spell caster dispels it—"

"Fat chance," Harry snorted at that unlikely possibility, given the original caster was 17 years dead.

"—Or if the owner of the hand dies--of natural causes or otherwise--while serving its master's wishes. If the hand senses disloyalty in its owner, it will end his life and transfer onto the next follower it makes contact with."

"What a lovely thought," Harry muttered, trying to dispel the image of Scabior acquiring the hand by removing Peter Pettigrew's corpse from the cellar of Malfoy Manor.

"So the only way to get rid of the hand…"

The mood darkened instantly, and Ginny found she could not finish her ominous statement.

"The only way we," Ron emphasized, pointing at himself and Harry, "get that hand is if we get Scabior. As long as he cooperates, there's no need to get carried away."

"I'm not sure Voldemort would be pleased with that approach," Hermione countered, none too pleased herself with her own words.

"But I'm confused," Harry said, looking to Ron. "I thought you said Scabior just woke up one day without his hand. Like one day it was a glove and the next he's missing a left hand. How did Scabior defy Voldemort's orders asleep?"

"It makes no sense," Hermione grumbled, rubbing at her eyes, "that the charm would slice off its fleshy counterpart. It's the only contradiction we've found so far."

"I figure he could have had a dream where he saved you from a burning building," Ron told Harry. "Hermione isn't exactly sold on the idea though."

"But Ron," Ginny frowned at her brother, "couldn't he have been lying or something?"

"Gone crazy, more like," but Ron didn't seem too sure of himself as he shrugged. "But it's such a minute detail to lie about. Seems like a rather pointless fib."

"Well it seems to me that Scabior had no idea what he was getting himself into when the charm turned over to him," Hermione said matter-of-factly. "He must have done something for it to take his real hand off, and since then he's driven himself insane with trying to please his hand. The worst part is that he needn't do anything for it, as long as he's not, well, saving puppies or giving gifts to orphans. He's a slave to the spell, and he's going to end up killing innocent people because of it."

It was then that Harry took a glance at Ron's hands and gave a look akin to only having just noticed him sitting at his side

"What happened to your hands?"

Ron frowned and stared at their peachy shade.

"What's wrong with them?"

"They're orange!"

"They are not!" Ron said defensively, crossing his arms over his chest. "They're the perfect shade. Maybe yours are just really pale."

Harry stared in confusion at his own hands as Hermione failed to hide a smile.

"Right, well, if that's it," Ginny said, rising to her aching feet, "we need to go relieve Teddy. He's been at it for nearly seven hours now."

"Two Galleons says James is still awake," Ron mumbled, throwing his legs over the armrest and placing his head in Hermione's lap.

"He'd better not be," Harry said sternly, standing up as well. But his shoulders slumped as he admitted, "But he probably will be. Guess I'll be seeing you bright and early tomorrow then, Ron."

"Doubtful," Ron closed his eyes and frowned. "I reckon I'll spend most of my morning getting chewed out by Williams. Expect an informational meeting after lunch, assuming Williams hasn't strangled me."

"I'll plan on that, then. Get some sleep while you can, then."

"You too."

The Potters left via the Floo Network before Hermione carefully moved her husband's head from her lap and stood up slowly.

"You know what? I think I might actually like research," Ron said, stretching out his whole body on the couch.

"Oh really?" she asked, a sly grin on her face. "Because I've been working on this project for so long that I could really use some help researching an old rune found last month in Egypt that I've been neglecting—"

"Let me rephrase that then. I like it when you do research, you clue me in, and then we clue in everyone else. Makes me feel good."

Hermione rolled her eyes but did nothing more than help her husband to his feet.

"Glad I could help you feel important," she smirked.

"No, really," Ron pulled her into his body for a hug, "I appreciate all the time you've put into this. It's helped me out tremendously."

Hermione smiled genuinely and held him tightly.

"I knew we'd find it eventually," she sighed.

"I didn't doubt you for a second."

It was still there, even after all these years.

Faith.

But it was a mere three hours later, when his children demanded comfort from murdering madmen-induced nightmares, that Ron realized a more pressing lesson to the two stories he had told that night:

He really did tell the worst and most disturbing bedtime stories in history.

A/n: And that's all she wrote, folks. For now, at least. I'm going on vacation this Friday for a week, but with any luck I can get something written while I'm gone.

I know this chapter was confusing. Here's a quick list to help you out. If there are any other questions, don't hesitate to ask!

Servus manus/silver hand rules:
-Do servant's bidding (act as a powerful but otherwise normal hand)
-Punish/kill servant if servant directly contrasts original spell caster/master's wishes.
-Can only be destroyed if:
=Spell caster/master casts Finite Incantatem, or some equivalent dispelling Charm.
=Died/killed in the line of duty.

I think that's all of them…hope I didn't lose any of you now that I actually have…like…a plot….

To all of those of you who do decide to stick around, I thank you tremendously for your support. You are all extremely generous with your kind reviews, although don't think that means you discourage me if you write some critiques. I'm open to any and all reviews!

…Well, maybe flames wouldn't be that appreciated. But that's only because I feel I really take the time to write a relatively entertaining story, and I can't fathom why anyone would want to flame it.

But that's just my opinion. Love you guys!

~dieselwriter

P.S.: That poll I have on my profile...well...let's just say that the results may alter future events in this fic. One person on the poll list is definitely going to show up and play a relatively important role.