To Harry's surprise, they did not take him to the Ministry, to St. Mungo's, or to any other healing clinic. Instead, the Portkey from Dumbledore's office brought him to a train car: a familiar train car.

"C'mon," said Moody, glancing behind him at the empty streets of Godric's Hollow. "Let's get you in there. We don't want any witnesses."

"But why are–"

"He's being overly cautious," said Edgar Bones, but his eyes shifted to the side as he said so.

Dumbledore remained silent.

Harry ducked inside and then let out a low whistle. Like magical tents, the train car was much larger on the inside than the outside led to believe, revealing an airy, open space complete with what seemed like an entire garden of houseplants and windows that overlooked not a train yard, but a peaceful moor. The furniture was low and white-washed. There were several doors, all of which were closed.

"Why – why are we here?" Harry asked.

"The Potters, Mr. and Mrs. Potter, were able to volunteer for the treatment," said Edgar Bones. "This is where they're… ill."

Harry glanced at the closed doors as worry tripped up his spine. Tucking his hands in his pockets, he said, quietly, "How are they?"

"Not well, boy, they've the pox. It's progressing like it usually does in our older folks," said Moody, stumping over to one of the doors. "C'mon, this is where you'll be. I'm guarding you, I'm sure you're aware, but I'll be doing it from the outside."

"Outside?" Harry asked blankly.

"Too risky," added Edgar Bones. "We can't afford our guard getting sick."

Harry wondered what they would tell him if he asked. "Why do we need a guard?"

The two exchanged looks. Edgar Bones heaved a sigh. "Well," he said, annoyed. "You know what happened to our last sacriphant; we can't risk anything happening to another one."

Harry cast a fleeting look at Dumbledore, who remained solemn and silent. The two made no mention of what Grindelwald had done, nor that Alves's murder had been a long-standing tradition by the dark wizards who wished to control magical populations by putting health at risk. Nodding, Harry accepted the bare-bones explanation for what it was.

"We'll just tip you into bed," said Edgar. "You'll want to wear loose trousers. No shirt."

The other men didn't move. Harry heaved a small sigh, wishing for a bit more privacy, but changed into a pair of pajama bottoms. Cold air brushed over his skin.

"You can get in bed," said Edgar. He waved his wand and a steaming goblet trapped in a silvery bubble bobbed into the room. "You'll want to leave," he told the other two. Harry paused in pulling the covers up over himself. At his questioning look, he said: "I've got to give you the potion. There's a very slim chance that they could contract the pox… slim, but there nonetheless."

Harry pulled the covers up over his chest. "And what of you?"

"It's the risks of the job," said Edgar, shrugging.

"Mr. Peverell," said Dumbledore, peering at him from the door, "you've still time to change your mind."

"I'm not going to change my mind," said Harry. Then, when Dumbledore and Moody were gone, and the steaming goblet released from its bubble, a wave of pure trepidation washed over him without warning. Then, suddenly, everything he'd heard about the pox crowded into his mind, shouting at him, reminding him of the pictures of the pox victims that Mulciber and Snape had been so happily showing to the other students. His stomach cramped painfully.

"What Dumbledore said is still true," Edgar said, looking him briskly up and down. There was a wary sort of skepticism in his tone. Even in the grip of sudden fear, Harry realized that Edgar Bones thought he would back out: why else would there be a disbelieving hint of a smirk on his lips. "You can back out. I'll call Moody, shall I? We'll get you back to Hogwarts."

"No," Harry forced himself to say.

"No?" Edgar said, genuinely shocked.

Harry thought of the two people in the other room; they would die if he did nothing. His grandparents, Fleamont and Euphemia Potter, neither of whom Harry had ever known, would die. He might not know them now, but he could imagine a life with them in it. What might his life have looked like had they been around? It would not have been so relentlessly awful, Harry knew. And his father… James would no longer have the white, worried look.

"No," said Harry. "Give me that goblet. I'm not changing my mind."

HPHPHPHPHPHPHP

Before he even opened his eyes, Harry croaked: "How long?"

"Four days," said Dumbledore.

"You… stayed?" Harry asked.

"Not while you were in the depths," confessed Dumbledore.

"Of course not," Harry murmured. "I wouldn't have wanted you to catch it." His eyes blinked open. The interior of the train car was just as elegant as he'd remembered. "How are they?"

"They are both recovering as swiftly as can be expected," said Dumbledore. "Once Edgar mixed the potion from your blood, he was able to give it to them." There was a thread of wonder in his tone. "Their fevers broke not long after – within the hour. It has taken some time, but their… sores have started to heal. I cannot help but expect them to make a full recovery."

Harry squeezed his eyes shut. Tears threatened and he did not wish for Dumbledore to see them.

"It is, of course," said Dumbledore, "extraordinary what you have done."

Harry didn't say anything.

"It is not only your grandparents, but many others who will survive now," said Dumbledore. His voice had deepened and now seemed to be coming from very far away. "But I expect you'll need more rest before you can properly wake up. Sleep now."

Harry obeyed.

The next time he woke up, his mouth was dry and tasted as though something had died in it. Strength had returned to his limbs, he realized, as he thrashed to his side and groped for the glass of water he hoped was at his bedside. It was pressed into his hand. Condensation had gathered on the glass; Harry had to work hard to grip it. But he did, and at last, cold, minty water was in his mouth. He gulped it down.

"More, please," he rasped out.

"Very well," said Sirius.

Harry forced his eyes open. "Sirius?" he gaped.

"Drink," Sirius ordered, thrusting the now-full cup back in his hand.

It was gone again in a few swallows. Harry lay back on his pillow, mouth no longer tasting of death, and eyed his godfather warily. "What are you doing here?" he asked. It was more accusation than question.

"My godson gave himself the pox, that's what I'm doing here," Sirius said; his words were knife-edged. Then, a moment later, he slumped, looking as defeated as Harry had ever seen him. "I shouldn't have said that," he said, rubbing at his eyes. "But blimey, Harry. I asked you not to do this. I begged you–"

"No," Harry said in a hard voice. "You ordered me not to do it. You didn't ask me anything."

Sirius only nodded. There had never been such an awkward, angry silence between them before. "I ought to have been… less…" Sirius muttered. "I should've remembered…"

"You should have known that I would do it anyway," said Harry.

"I should have," he said. "Merlin knows that I could have been more persuasive–"

"-you couldn't have," Harry said coolly.

Sirius continued on. "I was so angry that you would jeopardize yourself like this–"

"-you don't know me as well as I thought you did."

But it was as though Sirius were having a private conversation with himself that Harry was not privy to. The gray eyes were unfocused on Harry, but on the other side of the room. "Your parents, your grandparents, none of them would have asked you – would have wanted you to do this."

"In fact, I got my dad's permission," Harry said.

"What?" Sirius barked. "You what?"

"I didn't tell him anything about the veil," said Harry. "But I needed permission from someone to do this and I wasn't getting it from you. So I asked him a hypothetical question and got his permission that way." Harry drew himself up as much as he could, lying in bed as he was. "Sirius, I needed to do this. I couldn't let them die."

"You don't know how much you've changed," said Sirius.

"Neither do you," said Harry. He licked his lips, which were suddenly dry again. Without his having to ask, Sirius refilled his water glass and handed it to him. Now as thirsty as he'd been minutes ago, he gulped it down again. A reluctant sort of gratitude filled him. During their fight, it had seemed Sirius's anger would not relent. Now he saw otherwise. "I'm sorry, but what if I made things better?"

"You might have," Sirius finally relented, face haggard. "You might have, Harry."

Tears stung the backs of his eyes.

"You need more rest," Sirius said, slapping his knees and standing abruptly. Then, looking down on him, frowning, he added, "They would be proud of you, you know, if they knew what kind of sacrifice you were willing to make for them. Sacriphants are… well, they're courageous. I wish you hadn't, Harry. But… maybe I was wrong."

"I get it," said Harry. His eyelids were feeling quite heavy.

"I've got to… go do something at Hogwarts," mumbled Sirius. Then, to Harry's astonishment, Sirius grabbed at his head and pulled off the battered old tiara Sirius had found long ago.

Unable to comprehend what he was seeing – why Sirius had been wearing an invisible crown upon his head – Harry just gaped at him. "What the–?"

"It's nothing," said Sirius, soothingly. "Go to sleep."

It took a couple of minutes of solitude, but Harry rolled over onto his stomach, sighed, and went back to sleep. It turned out to be the final sleep of his illness, and it was plagued with odd dreams. Time blurred all together, and by the time he woke up for the third time – feeling quite well and full of a restless sort of energy – Harry had not quite forgotten the crown, but had convinced himself it had been part of the unusual dreams the pox had given him.

Harry shoved the covers off of him and leapt out of bed. The train car rocked as he did, and the chimes above the windows tinkled. It was a merry sound; merry enough to match the feelings inside him. He'd done it; unknown to Voldemort, he'd been able to thwart his plan without even meeting him. A smile welled up inside him. It was still there when the door behind him opened and Edgar Bones walked in, carrying a carafe of coffee and a bit of cake wrapped in a napkin.

"Ah," he said, "there you are. I wished to meet with you before I send you back."

"Here I am," said Harry. "My – the Potters?"

Edgar did not seem to notice the slip of his tongue. "Almost entirely recovered and have been moved from the train car to their home. Their sores are entirely gone. Entirely." He repeated this as though bewildered. "We think it was because the phoenix… Well. Mr. Potter will have a slight scar on his elbow, but that's it. We've seen similar recoveries…"

His voice trailed away.

Harry fidgeted under the other man's gaze. "Did you – erm – need me for anything?" He looked around. "I can go back to Hogwarts, yeah? Now I'm better? Unless – you don't need more blood?"

Edgar shook his head. There was a puzzlement in his expression.

"Erm," said Harry. "Did you say I could go back?"

Edgar finally gave a short, sharp nod. A long, steady breath escaped him. "It has been quite – quite awful these last few years," he said, now looking out the window onto the magical scenery. "There is a reason why we had our – our last sacriphant in protective custody. And even more than just a few years, if I'm to be honest."

Harry was silent, scratching at the back of his neck.

There was a fierce sort of light in the healer's eyes when he turned back to Harry. "Very little good news has come out of the last years," he said. "I've been taught not to expect it. And yet… your blood… it's healing people. Not everyone, not completely, but a lot. I was expecting…"

He'd been expecting what Sirius had remembered from the first time Sirius had been in 1978, Harry realized. Discomfort filled him, and he edged toward the door. "Erm, did you need anything else? Is that why you wanted to meet?"

"No," said Edgar, firm and sure. "I wanted to meet with you so I could shake your hand, and thank you to your face. You're quite a man, Harry Peverell."

Harry accepted the handshake; his neck was very hot. He might have mumbled something, but he didn't know what. Ever since he'd returned to the wizarding world at the age of eleven, he'd been used to people thanking him, for looking at him with respect that Harry did not feel he had entirely earned. After all, he hadn't remembered defeating Voldemort the first time, had he? But this was different. He'd been stripped of his fame – one of the better aspects of having time traveled to the past – but now, in Edgar Bones's eyes, he saw the same sort of respect witches and wizards had given him in the future.

It was no less bewildering.

"And here," said Edgar, after shaking Harry's hand rather robustly for more than a minute. He fumbled in his pocket and brought out a thick silver coin the size of a galleon: on one side was a rather elaborate crest, on the other was a heavily stylized coin. "This isn't a Ministry coin," he said. "Dumbledore and I agree that however much recognition you deserve–"

"I don't want any," Harry said firmly.

"-be that as it may, as I said, sacriphants hold a precarious position in society. Therefore, we are keeping your role in this as quiet as we can. There is no record of your name anywhere. However, a large sum of money has been placed in an account under your name at Gringott's. And… you have this."

"I honestly didn't need anything," said Harry. It was enough for him that his grandparents were still alive; hopefully, they would live well into the future.

"This is just from me," said Edgar. "This grants you a favor from either me, or anyone in my family." His face fell into solemn lines. The coin lay on his palm, heavy and glinting in the soft lights embedded in the ceiling of the train car. "Take it, please, Mr. Peverell."

"But–"

"It is yours," said Edgar.

It felt churlish to refuse, so Harry accepted it. It was even heavier than expected. "I can ask a favor of any of you?" Harry asked. Perhaps he could ask Old Bones to pour him some tea or pass a frog; then the Bones family would no longer feel they were indebted to him.

Edgar shrugged. "There are some estranged members… and we have some children as well… they couldn't be expected to pay a family debt. But any adult will come running to help; all you have to do is tap the coin with your wand."

Harry nodded and tucked the coin in his pocket. "Thank you," he said.

Edgar shook his head. "That's our thanks to you," he said. After a hesitation, he looked to the side and back to Harry. "My sister's daughter – my niece – was very ill. She's alive now… it wasn't just – it was personal. So thank you."

"You're welcome," said Harry, after clearing his throat. There was another long, awkward moment. Harry found his restlessness growing: he wanted to get back to Hogwarts. Ginny was there; he wanted to reassure her he was fine, just as he'd thought he would be. He wanted to hold on to her and kiss her again and–

"-ready?"

"What?" Harry said, blinking.

A flicker of amusement lightened the solemnity in Edgar's expression. "I assume you're ready to return to Hogwarts? We've set up a floo leaving from this train… it took a bit of hoodwinking the Department of Magical Transportation, and it'll only be open for five minutes – for your safety, you know. So we may want to hurry along."

Harry did not need to be told a second time. Scrambling back, he took up his small rucksack, tossed it over his shoulder, and strode out the door. Sure enough, the flames in the grate in the middle room were burning hot and high.

"There's floo powder on the table," said Edgar.

"Thanks," said Harry, now fervently grateful to be on his way to Hogwarts.

Edgar gave him a wry salute. There was a commotion from the front of the train. Moody peered in, glanced at Harry, and gave a grunt. "Better get out of here," he grumbled. "They're ready to move the train… we can't stall 'em any longer."

"Well, bye then," said Harry. The powder was scratchy and left glittery green streaks on his fingers when he tossed it into the fire. The flames roared and leapt. "The Headmaster's office, Hogwarts," he said firmly, and stepped into the fire. His last sight of the train car, the small garden it contained, and the moors outside the windows was of Edgar staring at him. The coin was heavy in his pocket, dragging at him. And then he and the train car were gone.

HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP

A radiant sort of urgency filled him the moment he stepped out of the grate and into Dumbledore's office. James's happiness at the survival of his parents must be immense; Harry wanted to witness it. There would be a small party that evening, he knew, in celebration; Harry wanted to be part of it. But most of all, Harry wanted to see Ginny. Thought of what awaited him made his conversation with Dumbledore short and his steps swift. He was enjoying the return of his energy so much that he was nearly sprinting by the time he reached Gryffindor Tower.

"Flutterby Flibbit," he managed, stopping before the Fat Lady. "Are they already celebrating?" he asked, grinning. Surely James would have heard by now.

"All has been quiet," the Fat Lady informed him. "No one's come out all morning."

"They might be having a lie-in," said Harry, still beaming. If anything, he was beaming even harder. If they were still sleeping, James would not have seen the owl. He'd be able to see his dad's face upon learning his parents would be making a full recovery. "I hope they're having a lie-in!"

The Fat Lady chuckled and swung open.

Harry swiped his robes over his nose. The tower really had been closed up. There was a thick, even cloying scent that clung to him. Sneezing, Harry stumbled into the common room–

–only to find his parents, Sirius, and Remus all slumped around the room in various poses. His parents were nestled together like spoons; Sirius lay over the arm of a chair, facedown, his long hair brushing the ground. Ice flooded his belly. Remus sprawled half on the table. The scent of lavender was even stronger inside, even though the windows were open.

"James?" Harry said, striding over to his father, and shaking him. "James! Wake up!" But no matter how hard Harry shook James's shoulder, he didn't awaken. Frantic, now, Harry shook his mother, but Lily was no more responsive than James. "Sirius," he muttered, striding over to him. His young godfather tumbled to the floor like a heavy burlap sack. The thud was loud in the total silence of the room.

Panic bolted Harry's feet to the floor while the same ice flooded his brain. They were breathing; all of them were breathing. But why wouldn't they waken? Harry sneezed three times in quick succession. Why did everything smell of–

"Lavender!" Dismay burst out of him. With newly horrified eyes, Harry stared at each of them in turn. The heavy scent of lavender was one of the signs of the Draught of Living Death. "It's lavender. Oh, fuck."

But where was Ginny? The thought collided into him and broke his paralysis. Where was Ginny? His gaze swept the room again; he would have noticed her, surely, but there were shadows here. He checked each one in case one of them hid Ginny. It wasn't until he'd checked under the long sofa – even knowing it was impossible for Ginny to be hidden under there – that he gave in. "Her room," he muttered.

The silence weighed heavily on him. Ginny's door was just outside the common room; for a split second, he weighed whether to knock or not. Then he flung it open so hard it bounced off the opposite wall. And there she was.

"Ginny! GINNY!"

She lay sprawled on the floor in a pool of dark liquid.

"No!"

He flung himself down to the ground and rolled her over. His hands came away black as pitch; his relief that it was ink and not blood made him dizzy. The ink was spread all over; an entire bottle had been knocked over… the Draught of Living Death had overcome her while she'd been – drawing? – on a bit of parchment on the floor. But all of his thoughts were slow and tinged with horror as he stared down at her, the scent of lavender coming in waves off her, so much heavier and more unpleasant than her usual flowery scent. Face pale, eyes closed, she looked dead enough that Harry could not look beyond it.

Gathering her up in his arms, he stared at her, stared down at her, willing this to be a nightmare.

HPHPHPHPHPHP

Author's Note: And this arc is finished!