Scala ad Caelum

by GRND

Ages ago, a wizard known as Herpo the Foul defied Death and doomed the world and those who were yet to be born. His ambition was put to an end, yet briefly, for the events of the past are bound to happen again as the ages come and go. It is in the present age, as Voldemort's reign of terror is deemed as over, that the Wizarding World would understand the story had yet to finish.

69. Chapter 64 - An ilusion of normality

Hello there, again!

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It fascinates me the tools our mind, soul and body make use to drive us to overcome guilt, trauma or sorrow. I have seen broken men spring to their feet with smiles on their faces, and only after I got a confession out of them, once they deemed themselves as beyond salvation, I understood they were broken.

Most of the time, and to most people, this point of no return is not reached. They wander around with a heavy burden upon their shoulders, allowing truth to seep once in a while through their eyes or bearing, and only those close to them seem to grasp it. Those, they need to be confronted about it, for, most commonly, they refuse to do it themselves. Madness is a swallowing pit we all carry within us. We are the ones to fall into it when we give up. We are the ones who may hold to the ledge, refusing to let it go, refusing to give up on life.

Now, am I broken? Perhaps. I would like to think I am not yet broken. Have my reasons to be, I am afraid. I also have my reasons to not give up yet.

I ask all of you to hold most fiercely to those reasons. They are your salvation.

Lawrence the Third, in 'Ramblings and thinkings of an old man', chapter 146.

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Chapter 63 - An illusion of normality

"So, can I go now?" Ron asked, trying to put as much frailty and exhaustion as possible into his voice. "Sir?"

The man before him, sitting on a stool all across the large, wooden table, stared at him with hawk-like eyes. Though he resembled a lion more than a bird. With that mane of blond—in which streaks of grey could already be seen—and those long sideburns, he was a man rarely mistaken. Not to mention his blue eyes and the coldness within them. Indeed, this was how a proper Auror should look.

Beside him, a stout witch dressed in robes of a fairer shade of blue resumed the scratching of her quill against the parchment. She wore round glasses which fell down the bridge of her nose. She too waited for his response, eyes upon the paper before her, in a smaller table the Auror had conjured for her to use.

"You may go," Rufus Scrimgeour snarled.

Ron was quick to rise to his feet, giving the man an awkward nod of his head as a farewell. He almost trotted out of the classroom which had been used for the interrogation.

"Wait a moment, Weasley," the Auror commanded suddenly.

Hand upon the door's knob, Ron turned around slowly. "Yes?"

"This beast who killed Walden Macnair and took Faith Gourcuff into the forest, don't you remember anything from it? Anything at all?" He leaned onto the table, both hands beneath his chin, looming on Ron like a beast on its prey. "Take in mind that we are questioning the girl at the same time. And Umbridge's memories are to be examined by the Unspeakables. You better speak truthfully, boy."

Ron's lip trembled. "I… No, I don't remember anything, sir. I couldn't see it, as I said a while ago. It all happened too quickly. There was shouting. Umbridge's, I think. A shadow, a huge one. And then… Well, I raised my eyes from the ground and found Macnair, his head…" Ron swallowed thickly. "It was all a mess, sir. The grass soaked in blood, an inert body… That's all I remember."

Scrimgeour stared at the red-haired boy, looking for any weakness within his facade. A facade, Ron hoped, portrayed perfectly that of a scared boy.

The witch finally raised her eyes from the parchment, halting her writing, and glanced at the Auror with reproval. "By the love of Merlin, Rufus, he's just a boy! A boy who's seen something incredibly traumatising. He's not one of your criminals to interrogate!"

Scrimgeour frowned, waving his hand. "Bah! Off you go, child." Their argument continued well after his leave, and their loud words could still be heard from the outside.

Ron put his ear into the wooden door, holding his breath.

"He's just a boy!" the woman said again.

"He is a witness to a most strange crime," the Auror snarled. "This whole thing, Betty, it smells like a barn full of shit. Too many blanks and holes in the case. A Professor went missing, who was a Nighteye. A damned Death Eater beheaded; some good news, at least. And a beast lethal enough to take both of them out. No, there is something else here. And I cannot guess it for as long as I try."

A sudden noise startled Ron, that of a heavy chair being dragged across the rough floor. And the Auror's voice grew louder and closer. "But I will reach the end of this, that I know…"

Echoes of his words reached the redhead as he bolted away, running on his tiptoes to make as little noise as possible. He only halted once a few hallways stood in between him and the Auror.

"That man, what a pain in the ass," Ron sighed, ruffling his hair in exasperation.

A flash of blue gleamed above him, coming to rest upon his shoulder. "He was rather suspicious of you," Gerd observed. "A clever, sharp man, that one."

"Scrimgeour's a bloody legend in this country," Ron told her. "Not to mention how poor our tale was, so full of holes. Hell, if I were a tube, I'd have flooded the room due to how much water I leaked. Still, it worked, or so I think. They didn't hold me there for too long, nor asked me too many questions. In the end, Shana was right. All I needed to do was to make them believe I was a s-scared li-little bo-boy. And now all we can do is to pray for her Compulsion to be without flaw."

Gerd crooked her eyebrow. "I sincerely hope you did not act like that in front of that man."

"Of course I didn't! It wasn't so… exaggerated."

Ron hopped into a moving staircase. Its bannister was dirty, covered beneath a layer of some kind of black dust. He picked up a bit of it with his finger—was it ashes, perhaps? What little he had seen of the castle had been proper of a battlefield. It made him wonder what had really transpired here in the last few hours. How far the twins and the Army had gone?

"And you," he asked instead, "what did you get?"

Gerd sat down with her legs crossed beneath. "That woman by the name of Amelia Bones interrogated Alaine. She was quite soft on the girl. It only took her around five minutes to send her away, in fact, and she seemed satisfied with the answers she got out of her. So I took a fly around the castle. There was this journalist, a woman with blond, curly hair, going everywhere, asking the students every kind of question. Skeeter, that was her name."

"And what did they tell her?"

Ron entered a dim-lighted hallway. On the walls, the pictures were empty still, its habitants yet to come back. There was a spot of dry blood on the floor, just beside an armour which had crumbled down; its helmet was missing, and the blunt sword it had wielded was broken just above the hilt.

"Not much. Fragments of the battle which took place in the castle. She did not seem very happy with their answers."

"Good," Ron nodded. "Skeeter is a nosey woman who solely lives for the sake of drama. The less she knows, the better for us."

Light fell upon him as he exited the hallway. Before him, a stone bridge connected the two corridors. Looking above, one could see the upper floor—the fifth—and looking down there was a moving staircase which led to the fourth. And voices came from down there.

Dean Thomas, who walked with quite a limp as he leaned most of his weight onto a wooden crutch, was accompanied by Susan Bones and Anthony Goldstein, who had a bandage around his head.

"And Harry stood there, doing nothing!" the Gryffindor said with a huff. "I was exhausted beyond words, and my leg was killing me, and yet I gave my all against that bloody Auror. But he… He did nothing! Well, nothing except standing aside and watching how we all fell one by one."

Susan shook her head weakly. "After what happened to Hermione, he was never the same. I think he blames himself for that."

"I wasn't there," Anthony observed sourly, "so I cannot say. Meads took me out before the real fun started."

Dean fell behind, staring at them in annoyance. "You were there, Susan. And you saw it as well as I did. Look, all I'm saying is…" Their voices faded as they deepened into the hallway, well past Ron's hearing.

Gerd jumped down his shoulder. "Do you want me to follow them?"

Ron thought about it for a moment. "No. I don't really care about them, to be honest. Besides, they had each other to talk about their problems. They'll do well enough."

If there was one good thing Umbridge's cruel rule had bestowed upon the castle, that was a newly found unity among the Houses. Not with Slytherin, of course, but that was to be expected. Ron found it ironically funny that something Dumbledore himself had not been able to accomplish, Umbridge had done it as efficiently as the old Headmaster could have only dreamed.

"And do you want me to find your friend, Harry Potter?" Gerd prodded.

This time, it took Ron a while longer to decide. "Right now, not so much. I feel sorry for him, if what those three said about him is true. But I feel like this is something that he needs to sort out himself. I want to help him, of course, but I will not treat him like a sick child. He granted me that right when I was a gloomy bastard, right after the whole Heir of Slytherin mess."

Gerd nodded to his words, gliding down to sit on his shoulder once more. "And I agree with you. There are things one must face on their own." She turned eerily serious out of a sudden, "And talking about you, how are you, Ronald? You can speak your mind to me. I will hear every word you may say, for as long as that might take."

Ron knew very well what she meant with that. Smoking blood, pale features so ridden with hatred and surprise, lifeless eyes, a Blade aflare by death… Macnair's ghost was quite a heavy burden to carry around.

"As good as I can be, I suppose," Ron said with a sigh. "I try not to think much about it, telling myself it was necessary and there was no other way. That it was him or us. Sometimes I succeed. Sometimes I fail quite miserably. Today, meh, is quite a good day."

Gerd gave him a firm nod, content with his answer. She wisely chose to not prod him further.

Ron took a walk around the castle, coming to appreciate the true consequences of his plan, as he pondered about the future. Umbridge would end up in Azkaban, but it would take time for all the bureaucracy to pass as the law had it. Shana had disappeared, her promise of a future reunion still fresh in his mind. All seemed to be on standby as the world refused to halt. Demons of old being reborn, a promise of revenge of times past by Herpo the Foul. A wrath lost amidst the vastness of the world, the horror of a man whose name many still refused to utter.

And he, what was he to do as everything crumbled?

He was to-

"Ron?" a voice said from behind. "What are you doing here?"

-he was to get interrupted, it appeared.

He turned around swiftly, coming to face his sister Ginny.

There was something strange about her. A hesitation in her bearing which did not belong to Ginny Weasley at all. It was not that depressed shadow she once had been after the Heir possessed her, when faint memories of her doings had plagued her nightmares. No, this was something different. That subtle biting of her cheek from inside her mouth, those hands hidden beneath the sleeves of her white shirt, her deep breathing, that doubt before taking a step. Long ago, as children, he had learned to see these gestures of hers as a sign of her worry because she thought she was going to have a nightmare that night.

He saw that worry today, too, written clearly within her eyes. For him, he understood.

"I'm taking a walk," Ron said. "Trying to relax, you know. After all that's happened, I needed it."

"Ah," she said. "All by yourself? Mind if I tag along?"

Well, he could not say no to that, could he?

"Of course!" He smiled at his sister. A perfectly normal smile given the circumstances, he thought, still the shadow within her eyes did not go away. Perhaps it had been too normal a smile given the circumstances.

This lying art, I'll never get used to it, I swear!

Their walk through the castle was a silent one, each fearing to ignite a spark of conversation. They crossed plenty of glances. Plenty of awkward smiles, too. Gerd abandoned them shortly after, a flash of blue soaring away, to give them a bit of privacy. It made it all the more uncomfortable for Ron.

Fortunately, there was always something out there to save them from engaging in talk.

The first time, it was Cedric Diggory and a bunch of Hufflepuffs cleaning a hallway close to the Great Hall. He saluted the Weasley siblings in a shy way, almost dry, whereas the other badgers simply did not acknowledge them. None of them had belonged to the Army nor the Party. Still, a girl had a white, thick bandage wrapped around her temples. She set her jaw tightly as they strode past them.

Both the Army and the Party had been pardoned for their many law infringements. McGonagall herself had said so in a speech. They were not to repeat these actions, of course, unless they wanted to experience severe punishment first-hand. Also, within her words had been implied a non-spoken punishment. That of forcing the members of one side to collaborate with those of the other, trying to instil a new semblance of comradeship between them, as they fixed the chaos they had unleashed upon the castle.

Or at least to make them understand they had gone too far and the fact no second chances would ever be given to any of them.

Next, it was an encounter with Crabbe, Bole and, surprisingly enough, Hannah Abbot and Lavender. Too much colour in the hallway. Green and red and yellow had never fit together in Hogwarts, much less in recent times. Professor Sprout loomed nearby, her eyes upon them, keeping the peace which felt about to snap broken.

"We aren't moving until this place is spotless!" she said sternly. "Perhaps a bit of hard work will teach you a lesson. Oh no, Vincent, you aren't allowed to use magic today! I want you to sweat out that fighting spirit of yours!"

When the Weasleys strode past them, Lavender raised her head, mouthing a silent, "Get me out of here," which he had to ignore. Sprout had glanced in their direction, her mouth about to open, so all Ron could was seize his sister by the arm and trot away before it was too late.

He only slowed down when silence and peace embraced them once more.

"Phew!" Ron sighed. "That was close!"

He glanced down at Ginny, who stared back at him with a seriousness so improper to her. "Why are you trying so hard, Ron? To mask your emotions and make everyone believe you are okay? That you are strong enough to overcome everything. You weren't like this before. I could read you just as well as you could read me. But you've changed so much that it almost scares me."

Ouch. Straight and sharp like a blade, this girl.

"What makes you say that?" Ron asked with a sigh.

Ginny jumped in front of him, making him come to an abrupt end. "You!" she snapped, her finger tapping against his chest. "You make me say that, dunderhead!" Were those tears in her eyes? "I've talked to Alaine. She doesn't remember anything at all, and still she has nightmares every bloody night. Pomfrey says it's because of the shock that her brain has erased all those painful memories. She's so traumatised she can't round a corner without looking back over her shoulder in fear, that the mere mention of that day makes her weep and tremble. Now, you? Here you are, walking around as if nothing had happened at all! I don't believe you! Not one bit!"

Her rambling ended with an acute note, her body shaking slightly by either rage or sorrow with each ragged breath she took. Or perhaps due to both of them. Ron placed his hands upon her shoulders, giving them a soft squeeze.

Merlin, what a mess!

"I'm doing just fine, Ginny," he said softly, taking her toward a nearby staircase, where he made her take a seat on the first step as he crouched down before her, eyes at the same height. "I don't have nightmares. Horror has not consumed me. I know it should have, but one way or another, I'm fine enough."

Ginny's lip trembled. "Is it because… Because of Tom?"

"Maybe," Ron replied thoughtfully. "That bastard sure changed us, didn't he? Made us stronger, also, even if pain was all we knew at first. Without him, I would have probably lost my mind that day. Hell, without him, I wouldn't even have dared to fight so fiercely against Umbridge in the first place. Either way, I'm not broken, Gin. Thank you for worrying so much, really, but I swear I ain't broken. Trust me, please. Just as I trusted you in the past to overcome your demons. We, Weasleys, are far too stubborn to give up so easily."

She allowed herself a weak smile; one devoid of mirth. "I'm glad to hear that. I felt like I owed it to you. This talk, I mean. You did the same for me when I couldn't escape that hole I threw myself into this summer. Through thick and thin, remember?"

Ron gave her a grin, helping her jump up to her feet "Through thick and thin, Gin. Always."

---

Harry sat with his back against the cold, stone wall of the Astronomy Tower, twisting and clenching into his hand a rubber ball he had found in the aftermath of battle; trying to pour all his rage and anxiousness into the poor thing.

The moon held itself proudly atop the black sky, blessing the castle with its bright rays. A full moon, it was, without any cloud to darken its beauty. He had never been one to appreciate it before. When one lived so many years in an alcove under the staircase, he was granted few chances to appreciate it. Today, however, Harry had no other wish but to sit beneath the shadow of the Tower and glimpse at the moon. To be as far as possible from the Gryffindor Tower, where his friends slept.

Alone with his thoughts. In silence.

All he could do was replay the events of two days past in his mind. He had betrayed his friends. Denied them his help when they needed him the most. He had stood rooted to the ground as they all had duelled that Auror, a foe well beyond their skills. Could his intervention have changed anything? Perhaps not. But that was not important. It was the look on their faces. Some had been furious at him, and not without a reason. Others have ignored him. Some have even come to pity him.

Harry did not know which of them all had hurt him the most.

He had spent the last few hours all by himself, embracing those foul sentiments, thinking, and knowing, he deserved every bit of them. Picturing Umbridge's face in his mind. She always smiled down at him; that infuriating and cruel smirk of hers. Oh, how he wished to have been the one to erase it from her face!

But she was gone now, fortunately. And so, Harry would have to live forever with a doubt—had she stood before him, would he have frozen in fear as he did with the Auror?

Perhaps, if he had…

Footsteps resounded from behind, inside the spiralling staircase of the Tower. Faint, light, yet firm and relentless at the same time. The heavy iron door was pushed open, but it did not budge an inch.

A sigh, then a too familiar voice uttering a spell. "Alohomora!" There was a faint click, and the footsteps drew closer and grew louder.

And then Neville let himself down beside Harry. No one spoke a word for a few minutes, their eyes too busy taking in the bright moon.

Harry had to tear apart that silence, which had grown too heavy. Too accusingly, like invisible fingers pointed at him. "What are you doing here, Neville? It's too late."

"Couldn't sleep," he said with a shrug. "Started turning around on the bed, again and again, until the pillow felt as if it was made of rocks. I figured a bit of fresh air would do me plenty of good."

Harry raised his brow, eyes still staring into the sky, "And you came here, all the way to the Astronomy Tower, just because of the fresh air. Huh?"

"Kind of."

That said, silence took over them once more.

They both knew what to do. Harry wanted to take that first step he knew not if he could, whereas Neville waited patiently. An uneasy dance in which their minds knew the steps yet their feet felt about to stumble with one another.

Until Harry took that first step. A few words, they were, and yet they felt like a jump into the void.

"I'm so very sorry, Neville."

But, oh, it did feel well to get it out of his chest! It sure did!

Neville grimaced. "It was not your fault, Harry."

"It was! I don't care what anyone says. I was-"

"No, it wasn't!" Neville snapped back. "Umbridge and she alone is to blame, damn it all! Did you torture any students? Did you frame any Professor for a crime they did not commit? Did you expel Hermnione? Did you…" A sudden pause, a moment of hesitation, "Did you break my wand? Because, as far as I'm concerned, you did none of those things."

He breathed in deeply, closing his eyes. Harry did not tell him otherwise, feeling grateful to hear those words, chastising himself for that at the same time, staring everywhere but at his friend.

"But I was stupid and acted too recklessly. And that made her act all the more cruel and vile."

"Well, yes. But there is a long way from that to being the culprit. And I don't excuse the way you acted, all be said. You were desperate, as we all were. And yet, we stuck to the plan Professor Gourcuff thought for us. To move in silence and act from the shadows, to fight to defend our own and not to cause harm to others."

Neville let out a weary sigh, glancing at Harry for the first time. "I don't hate you, Harry. Hell, I don't even resent you. In fact, it pains me to see you this way, so unlike yourself. It pains me way more than a silly broken wand, as dear it was to me."

Harry closed his eyes, cursing himself once more. "May I ask why it was so important to you? Your wand, I mean."

"Only if you promise to let go of your bloody foolish blame."

"I cannot do that, Neville. Not until I speak with Hermione." Harry opened his eyes again. The night was still as bright as before. It seemed to be mocking him, almost. "But I'll try, I promise you."

Neville hummed softly, accepting his words. For almost a minute, silence was their loyal and dear companion; a much warmer one than before.

Until it was no more.

"That wand, it was my father's. He's quite sick, you see. Almost gone, like an empty husk of his real self. He sees without seeing, he hears without hearing. It's been so since I was born. He barely recognises me nowadays, only in his best days." He halted, sitting up and hugging his legs. "Grandma treasured his wand like another son of hers. She'd always hoped I would wield it one day. That I would be as great a wizard as my father once was. Much to her sorrow, it never worked out for me. Not one bit.

"Sure, I can do magic with it. I've grown used to it since we have spent so many hours training with the Army. But still, it does not feel right. As if touching a fine silk with numbed fingers, or seeing through teary eyes. It is good, but not ideal. I know it's hard to explain, but do you…"

"I do, Neville."

It was all Harry could say, for he was speechless. He had known Neville for almost three years now, he had spent most of his days with him, and he had become his best friend. And yet, they had never talked about their parents. Harry's case was known all over the world—his brave parents had been murdered by Voldemort, and he had survived. And Neville's…

He could only prod further into the matter.

"And your mother?" Harry asked softly.

"She's… she's the same."

And there it was. He had feared for his hunch to be right. There were many things Harry wanted to ask him. How had such a tragedy come to happen; how did he feel; the classical 'I'm sorry'... None of them felt right. Not now.

"I understand you."

Now, that did feel right to say. Because even if Neville's parents were still there, merely empty husks of their true selves, Harry knew how it was to grow without them. Those cold nights plagued with dreams and nightmares alike, with foolish scenarios which would never occur. The sound of their laughs, their smell, their advice… Things which only existed in the depths of his mind.

And what he had of them?

Harry remembered most vividly a bright flash of green, shouts of terror above that light of death. He did not have those moments so frequently anymore. Hogwarts had changed that. His friends had changed that. Still, would Neville have one of his own? Did they still visit him at night?

Neville hummed in response, not trusting his voice.

Harry took upon himself the duty of keeping the conversation alive. He felt there were many things he needed to say, to rid himself of them so he could take that weight off his conscience. And also, because he owed it to Neville.

"I didn't know it, Nev. I mean, I did know you had always lived with your grandma, but never bothered asking. You looked so… normal, I guess. So alright. Look, I'm not good with words, so… All I want to say is that I'm here to listen to you. If there's anything you wish to say, of course."

Neville allowed himself a sheepish smile. "Thank you, really. It felt good to tell you about them, much better than I ever thought. There were times in which I almost felt I was living a second life, keeping so many things from you guys. I'm not ready to speak further about them, but… One day, I will introduce you all to them. I'm sure they'll be happy to meet you. Deep inside, they will."

It amazed Harry how a few simple words could change so much. He felt much lighter, much better, free of that oppressive veil which had coiled around him, strangling him with each breath he took. As good as he had not felt in so long a time.

"I look forward to it."

He still owed an apology to Hermione, and to the rest of the Army, but the night did not feel so cold and dark anymore. And the silence, it did not feel so incriminating, as if an invisible finger pointed at him all the time. He enjoyed this one by Neville's side, and for the first time, Harry believed it possible to let go of Umbridge's ghost.

---

Albus Dumbledore walked under the wide arc of the Wizengamot's chamber, of stone painted in golden upon the otherwise dark enclosure. Fickle torches tried their best to set the chamber alight, their weak, blue flames rising in fiery spirals, clashing vainly against the dark blue bricks of the large room. It was something he had never understood—why make the place so gloomy and dreadful?

It should be a warm place. A place for debate and thinking. A place to forge a better future. However, and unfortunately, it was far from that nowadays. And mainly because of Albus, who had allowed that to slip from his fingers over the years. His inaction had seen to that, for he had been given the power as Chief of the Wizengamot, yet had refused to wield it as he should.

He shall never wield such power again, as he was not worthy of it. He was to oversee them all. Keeping them in check, guiding them through the right path. Never force them unless there was no other way to prevent a disaster.

Focus, you old fool, Albus told himself. Today is not a day for dwelling and brooding. She awaits, and I must be as sharp as ever. Otherwise, she will eat me alive.

All around him, benches crafted from the finest woods were displayed in crescent rings. The lower lines belonged to the lowfolk; non-important politicians, wealthy merchants and men of different businesses, purebloods of lesser rank and the likes. Up there, in the upper rings, the benches resembled private suites, separated from one another by coveted walls. These were for the highborn purebloods, who most belonged to the Sacred Twenty-Eight, and the important politicians.

Amidst them, one seat stood out, that which granted the best view of the atrium. Albus's. Once, many years ago, it had resembled a throne more than a chair. Of high back which rose past his tall height, riveted in gold and silver, pillowed by the comfiest and softest silk. That last thing, he had preserved it; his old back was in need of a bit of comfort. Everything else, he had tossed them aside. Now all there was to see was a regular chair of brownish wood, surrounded by a large, oval table.

A voice suddenly cut through his reminiscence.

"You've come, I see."

Albus stared at the woman and saw in her a tired lady whose relentless mind did not allow her to rest for one second. Because that was what Amelia Bones was, a lady. Proud and strict, with a lethal grace to her, sharp of wit and tongue, and with a sense for fairness and justness to which Albus could only nod in respect. And right now, there was very little of those traits within her.

Amelia leaned her head upon her hand, eyeing the many papers on her table with a tired eye which looked even sharper through her monocle. Her brown hair, usually flowing down over her shoulders, was now tidied in a tight bun. The black robes she wore, formal and elegant, made a perfect couple with the deep bags under her hazel eyes. A golden and black quill lay forgotten amidst that sea of white.

"You've spoken to her, I take it," she said while tapping her finger against the table successively.

"I did," Albus hummed in response, conjuring a chair so he could sit, about five metres away from the woman.

"And…?"

"You ask me about the veracity within her words, or the sincereness within them?"

She huffed in annoyance. "The latter, of course. Veritaserum and Legilimency saw to the first."

"We both know there are ways someone skilled enough can make foolery out of the truth serum. And Occlumency stands a worthy foe for its counterpart."

"And you would label Dolores Umbridge as such? Pardon my ignorance, then. The fifteen years I have known her must have tricked me into believing otherwise. Besides, why would she ever, such a spineless and amoral rat, admit herself to blame for such horrendous things?"

"You underestimate her, Amelia. As I did in the past, and it proved to be a catastrophic mistake on my behalf. And then, about her intentions… I believe that is why you summoned me here, is it not? Because you think there is more to it."

Amelia finally raised her eyes from the papers, staring at Albus. "There are too many holes in this case, Albus. Rufus examined Macnair's body, and he thinks no beast which dwells in the Forest could have killed him in such a way. His beheading was far too clean. Outworldly clean, he says. I have not seen the body myself, but I trust that man and his word blindly. In this regard, I do."

"I cannot give my honest view on the matter, as I too have not seen the corpse. However, I would not point to the theory presented as impossible. Only the Founders knew what really dwelled in their Forest. I have ventured into it myself plenty of times, and in all of them, I returned in awe. There is a reason why it is out of bounds for the students, Amelia."

"And you admit to me so freely and casually the existence of such dangerous beasts so close to the students?"

"They are not without protection, Amelia. Never have and never will. Besides, I thought you had summoned me for a different matter entirely."

She took her monocle out, arranging the papers in a more tidied bunch. "And what about Umbridge? I, for once, do not believe in her sudden repentance. Like I said, I have known that woman for many years. Blood does not run through her veins, Albus, malice and ambition and foulness do. What she admitted before the Aurors, is a crime worthy of Azkaban. We are talking about severe corruption, unintentional homicide and damage toward minors. And I have to believe she has somehow gained a conscience of repentance? Bah! Too many holes here, as I said."

That was something Albus had believed himself. The actual reason why he had implored so fervently to see the witch once he had been pardoned of his persecution. And what he had found in their meeting had baffled him greatly. He had seen evident regretment in her words, that which could not be faked. He had spoken to the Unspeakables and asked them about the woman's memories, and they had told him they were pure and unaltered. Veritaserum and Legilimency had confirmed their word, also.

Still, he knew there was more to it.

Instead, he smiled at Amelia; a smile countless students had seen, kind and soft, accompanied by a twinkling of his eyes.

"You know me very well, Amelia. You know my beliefs. I have always been one to trust in people, to trust we all deserve a second chance if there is a will to change. All my life, I have believed so. Even with Voldemort, at first. I will not be the one to judge Dolores as one beyond hope."

Amelia said nothing, frowning. She sat with her back straight as an arrow, neck held tall and proud. Albus remembered the young her, that daring girl with a fiery sense for fairness, of easy smile and a terrible yet fickle temper. Many had believed she would have been a fine Gryffindor, but she had been an ever finer Hufflepuff. There was little left of that girl within this woman. The Great War had seen to that. It had died when her sister and father were murdered by Rabastan Lestrange. When a niece turned into a daughter had stormed into her life.

"Do not look at me like that, Amelia. You asked for my opinion on the matter, and I gave it to you."

She blinked, her demeanour unchanged. "Would you examine her memories first? Do it, examine them hard and thoroughly, and if you return with your opinion unchanged, then I may start to believe in that piece of foolery you have just spluttered."

Albus crooked an eyebrow, surprised. "Have not the Unspeakables seen to that already?"

"Yes, they have indeed. But, as good in their craft as they are, none of them is Albus Dumbledore."

She is too perspicacious, Albus thought fondly. Amelia was causing him a great deal of problems now, but he would not have it otherwise. To witness a child he had seen grow into such a fine, relentless woman, filled him with joy and pride in equal measure. Even when the questions she asked were not the sort he appreciated.

"And well," he started, "where is that Pensieve?"

Amelia pointed to the left with a tilt of her head. Beneath the first line of seats, a little stone structure had been set. Quite fountain-like, a trunk of carved, grey stone rose upward into an open basin filled with some thick, greyish fluid, which shone with an ethereal, gloomy light.

A Pensieve, truly a wonder of recent ages.

Albus had no idea how they worked, nor how they came to exist. All he knew of their story was that, a few centuries past, a young Unspeakable woman had revealed their existence. Once, it had been a modern work of magical engineering so rare and useful it had cost fortunes equal to entire highborn households. As years had passed, however, its price had devalued as plenty had filled the markets. As of today, it was a luxury still, but one which its acquisition did not entail a mountain of gold.

He made his way over it, coming to see his distorted reflection upon the gloomy fluid. Were he to move his hand through it, it would feel warm to the touch. And thick too, like a mass of melted yet cold wax. It was not how it worked, though. All one needed to do was to take a deep breath, dip their heads into the basin, and…

Paleness grew all around him, draining all traces of colour from the place he loved dearly. It was a world full of life; breathing with the emotions which gave it a semblance of shape; saw through other eyes which did not belong to Albus.

He saw Dolores wake up that morning in the company of Walden Macnair. A curious couple, those two. There was no love within their eyes, nor fondness for one another. And yet, they were bonded by something only known to them. Let it be because of interest, a strange kind of emotion or even a need to satiate their carnal needs.

Once up on their feet, each carried out their routine; having breakfast in the private chamber, staring at the dawning sky through the window. Not a single word was shared between them. Not even a single look. A bond joined them, indeed. One of ice and coldness.

Until an elf burst into the chamber through the door.

"Mistress! The students are fighting! Chaos! Explosions! Fire!"

"What?" Dolores snarled, rising from her chair with a half-eaten toast in her hand.

Macnair leapt away from the window, a grim smile stretching his face, showing glimpses of his white teeth. "Finally! The time to show those brats their place has come!"

"Wait a moment, Walden! Fetch both Dawlish and Williamson. We need them now."

Macnair strode past her, shoving her hand away. "I'm not your dog, woman, so don't you dare to order me around. I have pressing business with some of those students. They will repent having made a mockery out of me."

The door burst closed after him, and Dolores was left alone in her chambers. Gaping, drawing in deep breaths, fingers twitching in anger.

Albus saw how the events of the morning unfolded. The chaos within Hogwarts, the students fighting among themselves. Few Professors were there to stop the conflict, much to his surprise—and none of the Heads of the Houses were. This had been no simple battle, often caused by a simple spark of violence between the two sides. No, this was much more. A very well-thought-out plan. A game of chess in which a player had moved both blacks and whites.

For the better part of an hour, Dolores sowed calm whenever she went, putting down chaos with violence of her own. Albus stood aside as she did so, staring at his students, worrying for them. Fortunately, she never came to harm them. She used plenty of curses and spells but limited herself to immobilise or knock out the brawling students.

And then she halted, glancing down at the red wristlet on her right arm. It had coiled tightly around the flesh, pulling from it. "Bastards!" she hissed, running back to her chambers. "Bastards!"

There, amidst a chaos so particular to a room which had been searched and vandalised, stood Ronald Weasley and Alaine Baldwin. The girl held a bloodquill in her hands. Albus saw it all happen, yet did not pay attention at all. All he could think about as Ronald was disarmed and put down, was about the bloodquill. A tool solely born to harm and maim. To think it had been used on children filled him with anger. Fury toward himself, mostly, for it had been his fault Dolores was able to install her reign of terror within the castle.

A brief conversation. A walk into the Forbidden Forest. A long wait which preceded a brewing storm. Two children to be turned into a lure for a woman Dolores hated, who had betrayed her trust and friendship. And yet, all the memories looked real and pure, untouched, unblemished. The intervention of the woman named Faith Gourcuff, her brief exchange with Macnair and her sacrifice.

It was then that Albus noticed something strange about Dolores's memories.

It was too subtle a change he understood why the Unspeakables had thought nothing of it. The memories flowed fluidly and vividly. It all looked perfect to the eye. Still, Albus could feel something amiss. It was the intensity through which Dolores had lived them. Too strong. Like a voice which could not be silenced for much one tried to close a pillow around their ears, like a foul sight to which one could not look aside as there was someone else holding their head still.

It often happened when reliving traumatic or strong experiences. But this was not that. It was way more. Something he could not express in words. Something he could only understand himself.

Compulsion.

Someone skilled enough in the foul art had instilled these memories upon Dolores. Not a master of the art, certainly, for there were subtle hints. Almost unnoticeable, but there for one who knew what to look for.

And then it all burst into madness.

A shadow lunged from the depths of the forest, so Dolores glimpsed from the corner of her eyes. Large and winged, so fast it moved like a blur undecipherable to the eye. Shouting began. Alaine fell to her knees, weeping, face struck with horror. Umbridge turned around, wand held by trembling fingers, eyes opening widely as they caught sight of the horror within the clearing.

Macnair lay dead on the ground. Head separated from body, the green and tall blades of grass coated in a deep shade of red. Ronald stood close to him, hands up to his mouth as he stepped away with a shaky stride. And shouts resounding above it all, terrified, agonic, shock-struck. A sombre choir most fit to the tragic scene. They must have belonged to that woman, Faith Gourcuff, the Nighteye.

What unfolded next lacked importance to Albus, as he was now certain of Dolores's fake repentance. A weeping on her behalf, words of regret and fear and shame. A promise of atonement. Her weak, shaky stride as she walked the terrified children back to the castle. Delivering herself to Auror Williamson, who could only retain her as shock fell over him.

There was nothing else to see within her memories, and so, he simply allowed himself to be returned to the real world. There was a faint dizziness at first. He had started to feel it in the most recent years, despite his vast experience in the field. Time, it appeared, was not polite enough to spare him of its toll.

"And well," Amelia's voice reached him from behind, "what do you make of them?"

Albus tilted his head as he turned around. "If there was something strange to see within those memories, I could not find it. It makes me kind of happy, you know. I want to believe Dolores changed after the traumatic events she lived. Incredibly late, perhaps, when so much irreparable damage has already been caused by her actions. Still, it is better than to never repent." He let out a tired sigh, allowing his words a bit of time to reach Amelia. "Am I so delusional as people often say of me?"

It was a question to which he expected no answer. Merely an embroidery to his facade. To lie, it felt as natural as to breathe to Albus. He hated it and cursed himself for it. And he reasoned it was necessary for his students' wellbeing.

"Am I free to leave?" he asked the woman, who had yet to voice out her opinion about his hopeful rambling. "Am I allowed to go back to Hogwarts? Are my Professors, who were persecuted and expelled by Dolores, allowed to return to their jobs? Is the student she cruelly expelled, Hermione Granger, allowed to return without a single scratch on her record?"

Amelia stood up. "Yes, yes. To all of them. However, you are not yet allowed to act as Headmaster. Until the Board of Governors approves of it, which they will for much they hate so since there is no other option, Minerva McGonagall will have to act as Deputy Headmistress. Does this sit well with you?"

"I could never think of a better woman for the position."

"Good. We are finished, then."

Albus nodded to her as a farewell, then he simply strode out of the large chamber. The echoes of his footsteps felt heavier than ever. It was not the emptiness of the chamber alone, but the fact he now carried the weight of another lie. No one uttered a word in his direction as he made it out of the Ministry, much less tried to stop him for any mundane reason. They all saw the dwelling expression on his face.

There were far too many answerless questions, and mysteries to solve. And the key to them lay within Hogwarts. Within a boy of fourteen years of age.

Ronald Weasley.

---

Before coming to Hogwarts, Ron had thought he would hate exams with all his might. A time in which he was to be tested about the knowledge acquired through a year and those before? Madness, there was no other word to name it. Everyone hated them, not only the twins. Well, everyone but Percy, but also, everyone knew Percy was not good in the head in regard to some matters.

Back in his first year, Ron had discovered they were not so awful. Not if one prepared accordingly. Besides, what were a bunch of questions and exercises when compared to facing Voldemort himself? A bloody shit, they were.

And so, when Flitwick asked him to perform a bunch of spells in succession, Ron did it flawlessly. A chain which left the Professor in awe.

"That was fantastic, Ronald!" he squealed, clapping loudly. "It's been a while since I last saw a chain of this level in a student."

It had not been that awesome, really.

"I've practised quite a bit," the boy replied, giving the Professor a thankful nod. "My teacher was quite strict and didn't allow me anything but excellence in such simple things. His name is Covan Redfield. I think you know him."

Flitwick's eyes gleamed. "Oh, I do! Covan is a remarkable duelist and an even better man. I'm glad you are under Nurgon's wing, Ronald. You are to do great things, surrounded by such incredible people!"

Ron wished to have as much faith in himself as Flitwick did. Exams, that he could do. Saving his loved ones from fated doom? Now that was a very different story.

He also wished he could erase History of Magic from existence itself. Without a doubt, this was his worst performance. How could he care about Witch Hunting in the Medieval Age, when he had to deal with Umbridge all year long? And the few classes he had tried to pay a little attention to the ghost's monologue, they felt as if vague memories from a past life.

Some woman named Wendelin the Weird who had taken so much joy in the burnings she had allowed herself to be caught a hundred times. And there was the Statute of Secrecy too, a key event in history, and to which its mention Professor Binn had nodded curtly. Those two, he remembered about them, but the rest… Well, he simply could not care less.

Still, it would be good enough to scratch a pass. Or so he hoped.

Next, that very same day though in the afternoon, came Transfiguration. And this, he liked it far more.

It had a rough start to it, for Minerva McGonagall stood at the end of the classroom, seated atop her large, wooden table; arms folded upon her chest, a frown upon her face. "You are to transfigure a teapot into a tortoise," she said. "You may begin now."

Ron drew in a deep breath and allowed his magic to run free. It was simple work, he reckoned. To recite the incantation, to perform the wand motion as finely as he could, to imagine the change and give it a purpose, and… The chamber was alighted in orange, and what once had been a steel teapot was now a greyish tortoise. The thing stood still as… Well, as one would expect of an inert creature.

Dean had complained aloud that his turtle had steamed a puff of steam through its nose, and Parkinson had spoken in bitter whispers about the lack of a tail in hers. Hermione, however, that bloody girl, had complained her transfiguration looked more like a turtle than a tortoise. Was there a difference between those two, to begin with?

Ron, at first, limited himself to observe his transfiguration, nodding convincingly at what he found. It looked good, definitely.

McGonagall eyed it from above, refraining herself from making any comment. Instead, she questioned him, "Is there any difference between an Animagus who is able to manifest the whole of their animal form and those who do it partially? Who is the more skilled in the art?"

Ron blinked his surprise away, taking his time to gather his thoughts. "It depends. If we assume one to manifest its animal form partially as they are not able to do it whole, then it is not a matter of mastery but of lacking it. Now, if one is able to manifest different parts of their animal form at will and per choice, that is a much greater feat than shaping oneself whole. It requires a level of mastery, not only about the art itself but also of magic, beyond belief. And a total understanding of oneself, too, both of mind and spirit. So did Professor… Uhm… Professor… Uh… Arcaicos! Yes. Professor Arcaicos was first to speak of this in his work, about a thousand years ago."

McGonagall finally raised her eyes from the tortoise, which had just reverted into the teapot. There was a hint of a smile on her face. "You may go, Ronald. We are finished."

And with those words, the first day came to an end.

The second one started as its predecessor had done. A hot morning in which Tracey rambled her nervousness away to a distraught Ron who did his best to break his fast, nodding absently to her words. The moment she took notice of it, she quieted with a blush, almost fuming. No further word was spoken to Ron as long as the morning lasted. He kind of deserved it, he supposed.

Potions was the longest and most draining exam of the year, with no hint of doubt. Red-faced and sweaty, with the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to his elbows, Ron tried his best to crush the scurvy-grass into a thick, mashed pulp. The cauldron smoked with a furious whistle, thick tendrils of vapour rising into the ceiling, as the lovage boiled to make the liquid thicker.

And now comes the sneezewort. He peeled off the snowy-white flowers from the thin stem. These were to be mixed with a mash of scurvy-grass, and the said mix was to be added into the cauldron once it was thick and smelly enough. And he did so, praying to whichever force watched from above; if there was even one, to begin with.

The result was a bluish liquid with a foul smell. It had a texture similar to that of water, as his spoon found no resistance when going through it. Did he achieve it? Most probably, as Snape did not frown nor sniff at his work. Was it the best piece of Confusing Drought ever? Surely not.

"Off you go," the Professor said, waving his hand at the boy. "Vincent is next, do tell him."

Ron found Crabbe quite easily; he was rather hard to miss, a boy of his size standing so menacingly in the adjacent hallways, back against the wall, arms folded upon his chest, a storming look in his eyes. It reminded Ron of the mountain troll they beat in their first year. Ignoring the lack of green flesh, one could take them as distant cousins, perhaps.

"Your turn," the redhead told him with a smirk, refraining himself from laughing in his face. "Don't glare at Snape like that, though, else there will be nothing of you to retrieve." Ron heard a growl as he walked away. Crabbe was one to not let go of grudges, it appeared.

Laughing and mirth would abandon him shortly after, as he discovered when standing before Babblings.

"And well, Ronald, what can you tell me about the Rune of Negation?" the Professor asked.

It had been a long time since they had last seen Runes in lectures. Umbridge's regime had seen to that. Ron squeezed his brain for answers, but few of them seemed to be there. And he kept a straight face while at it, lest did the Professor take notice of how lost he truly was. He should have studied a bit more, certainly.

"The Rune of Negation is used to nullify any kind of magic which may interact with it," he answered, at last. "Similar to the Finite spell."

"And if it is so useful, why is it so rarely used by those who are not experts on the matter?"

Merlin! Straight to the heart.

"Because… It is hard to control? I mean, this Rune is supposed to nullify everything. I guess that can achieve some unwanted effects when worrying about the more important objective."

"Perhaps. If so, which Rune is most often used to save one from these… unwanted effects, as you just said?"

There were seven Elemental Runes; one of which they were already discussing, and another of which had been lost since the Ancient Age. One of five. He would take those odds any day.

"The Rune of Reduction."

The answer flowed out of his mouth confidently. A confidence which flew away the moment Babblings crooked her eyebrow. A confidence which was shattered to dust when she asked him to draw the glyph for each Rune.

Well, at least, he could do that quite well.

About to go through the door, Babblings's voice made him halt. "And Ronald, a combination of Detection and Reduction is often used to mitigate Negation's undesired effects. You have passed the exam with good enough grades, certainly, but I expected a bit more from you. I hope to see it next year. Have a good day and do enjoy your summer."

Ron surely enjoyed what was left of his day, for the exam of Magical Creatures had been suspended for evident reasons. No one made a comment about this in the common room—a corpse beneath the ground and a prisoner in Azkaban spoke by themselves.

Also, Tracey had set aside her anger, as there were plenty of doubts she needed to sort out. "So, I should've linked the Freezing Spell with the Fire-making Charm? Agh! Well, I didn't do it so bad, I think. Flitwick smiled at me."

"Flitwick smiles at everyone," Ron observed, absently passing on the next pace of the Defence book. Tracey's head shot up, glaring daggers at him. "Okay, I'll take that back. I'm sure you did it wonderfully, Tracey."

"I don't accept your apologies," she huffed. "Unless you help me with the Defence exam, that's it." Ron groaned in protest, massaging his temples, though he closed his book with a loud thud. Tracey's grin stretched her whole face. "Aren't you a lovely friend? Well, Red Caps. How do I best deal with them?"

"They are nasty fuckers, but weak and cowardly. Show them true power by taking out a few of them quickly, and the rest will flee. Use simple spells, also. If you can use them in an area of effect much better. Those bastards are quicker than they look and rather good at dodging spells."

"And what about Grindylows? Merlin, look at this picture of them! They are ugly, aren't they?"

"Ugly and nasty, indeed."

"Why do all of the creatures have to be nasty?" Tracey complained with a groan. "Couldn't we face like, I don't know, sunflower demons?"

"Then, they'd be nasty too," Ron chuckled. "Don't worry about Grindylows too much. They hate the heat, and though I doubt your Incendio is powerful enough to scorch them underwater, plenty of spells may cause them lacerations. One hit, and they'll flee away. They are carnivorous and do enjoy our flesh, but they know which prey is out of their reach."

"If you say so…"

Ron allowed himself to lean back on his couch; the comfy leather hugged him warmly. "Why are you so worried about this particular exam? I saw you face the Boggart, the foulest creature we were to study this year, and make a show of it. Lupin congratulated you in front of the whole class. And, in case you missed it back then, there was awe in the eyes of everyone. Even in Malfoy's."

"That was a long time ago, though. Many things have changed."

"Perhaps, but so have you. You are brave and strong, Tracey, more so after this year. What we lived through the Army, that relentless and fair fighting spirit, it cannot be learnt through books."

Tracey quieted for almost a minute. Ron knew her far too well by now, so he waited for her silence to come to an end. He was not prepared for her words, however.

"I care a lot about this exam, you know. In these past years, I've realised something very important. I'm so very weak." She raised her hand the moment he opened his mouth, shutting down his qualms with a firm look so unusual to her. "Last year, I couldn't do much in the Forest. Had it not been because of Daniel and his sacrifice, the Heir would've won. This year, though I fought bravely and gave my all, I was simply outclassed by many students from the Party. Trust me, you weren't there to see me running in defeat with the tail between my legs. I'm sick of it, Ron. Mostly, because I think this will not change. That each year, there will be something to fight against."

Ron's throat dried. "What makes you think that?" he mused.

"I don't know," she let out a deep sigh. "Just a hunch of mine, I suppose. That, and well… I cannot forget that strange man who attacked Harry in Hogsmeade. Why would he stab Harry in the forearm, to then escape? I might not be the cleverest girl around, but I can smell trouble coming our way."

She let those words hang in the air. An invitation for him to take. For him to confess to her there was something more. She knew. Not the specifics, of course, but she knew still.

Ron shut his lips into a thin line. Looking away, avoiding her pleading eyes. He was not so brave as to lie to Tracey in her face. He would rather take the coward's way and remain in silence, even if that was the worst thing he could do.

Her next words hurt him far worse than a stab. "I see," she said meekly. She scrambled up to her feet, storing all her books in her bag. "Have a good night, Ron."

Once she was gone, Ron cursed at himself, ruffling his hair in frustration. It did not take him much longer to also retreat to his dormitory. Sleep was not kind to him that night. Many faces visited him whenever he closed his eyes. Tracey's, disappointed and hurt. Macnair's, pale and lifeless. Shana's, Umbridge's, Herpo the Foul's… The list went on and on.

When dawn arrived, he was already up on his feet and dressed. Ron made his way to the Great Hall alone, in silence, haunted by his own very thoughts. Once there, as he devoured his breakfast, Gerd came to him as a flash of blue. She took a seat on his shoulder, speaking no words, feeling his frustration through their bond. It was all he needed at that moment.

Fortunately, he would be forced to shut down his mind shortly after.

Slytherin as a whole—their third-year promotion, that's it—had been summoned to the classroom of Defence, where, much to their surprise, McGonagall awaited, displaying a show of sternness so usual to her.

"The exam will be a very special one," she started, taking them through the hallways with a quick stride. "Professor Lupin devised it, and although he is not here to see it done, the Headmaster thought of it as a great idea. So I will see it done today."

That great idea consisted of some kind of obstacle race in which they were to face different creatures; turning the theory they had learnt through the year into practice. No shackles were bound around their wrists, for they were allowed any kind of magic which served them best to pass each task.

Ron could not help himself but feel a bit giddy. After so many boring exams, this one looked like a very exciting activity. He walked at the back of the line as they crossed Godric's Courtyard, rolling up the sleeves of his robes already—it sure was a hot day!

Along the way, he spotted a bunch of dark spots in the distance. Flitwick led the Gryffindors, a chaotic line marbled with reds and yellows. Snape did the same with the Ravenclaws, a far more organised bunch, blues shining above the black of their tunics.

Within the Slytherin line, Tracey walked at the front, following the Professor in earnest. She had not spoken a single word to him this morning, nor glanced in his direction. I will fix it later, Ron thought to himself. Now I must focus on this exam. Perhaps there is something useful to learn.

They were taken into the Forest, much to the horror of Parkinson, Bulstrode and Tracey, and to Blaise's and Malfoy's discomfort, who could not help themselves but to shift in worry whenever there was sudden noise around, like the snapping of a branch or the chirping of a bird. Nott was unbothered by all of it, and the same went for Crabbe and Goyle.

It seemed the looming shadow of two murders was nothing to the madness of one and the sheer idiocracy of the two.

Their hike into the Forest reached its end soon enough. They had barely ventured into it. That seemed to put most at ease, and the little clearing in which they had stopped was filled with relieved sighs.

McGonagall took the word for herself, not caring about their thoughts or feelings. "One by one, you will all start from here in alphabetical order, with a lapse of five minutes in between each. This race is not to take you deep into the Forest, for the trials have been set around its boundaries. Some of them will be dangerous, undoubtedly, but never without your reach. The trials are not the same, for they may vary whether you take one direction or another. Now, regardless of the path you may take, only three trials are needed to complete the exam."

She took a bit of pity on them at last, giving them a much softer look. "Of course, your safety will be guaranteed. I, alongside other Professors and some of the older Prefects, will be keeping an eye on every one of you. The moment we judge a situation out of control, we will intervene. Were it that way, your grades would be decided upon your performance prior to the exit. Now, good luck and give your all."

Ron saw them leave one by one, as he was the second last of the line. He did so by sitting down on the soft ground, under the shadow of a tree on which his back leaned against. Nearby, Blaise paced around the clearing; too nervous a state for his usual character. A few times, he halted as his eyes travelled toward where Ron rested, the shadow of a conversation dwelling as his mouth opened. Yet it was always closed a second later.

At long last, McGonagall strode into the clearing. "Weasley, you are next."

Ron stood up, stretching like a cat, crouching down to warm his knees and ankles, then jumping a few times on the spot. Yes, he was ready. He approached the Professor, who gave him a funny look.

"I'm going to venture into the Forest once more," she told him. "You'll know when to start." Echoes of her footsteps waned as the Forest swallowed her.

A voice from behind startled him. "Ron? Ehm… Good luck." Blaise's meek words made him turn around. The coward had already turned his head to the side, dodging his eyes.

Ron rolled his eyes, turning toward the Forest once more. Bloody coward.

He was given a start when a yellow flare soared upward into the skies. He trotted forward; neither too quick at first to not get easily exhausted, nor too slow to lose some precious time.

Rarely enough, the Forest was alight today under the sun's scorching embrace. Its rays seeped through the thicket with ease, coming to grace Ron's flesh, heating him. He jumped across roots, his feet landing on the dry ground with a soft thud. Wand already at hand, the redhead waited for the first enemy to jump into his way.

Because that was what these creatures were, enemies. He needed to think so of them, lest he underestimate them and they were to take him by surprise.

The scenery changed gradually. The ground started to wet, squishy sounds coming from it each time his boots sank into the mud. Roots were not in his way anymore, and the air felt way more suffocating, more humid. A large marsh had been instilled into the Forest. There was a bothersome effort to each step he took, the water hugging his legs and not letting go of it.

"Set forth, wanderer!" a voice broke through the stillness. It was soft and alluring. "Do not turn left, or the wetland will swallow you whole!" A puff of bright smoke could be seen through the fog. "Follow me, wanderer. I will guide you to the exit!"

Hinkypunk.

Little, one-legged bastards who enjoyed throwing wanderers out of their paths with enthralling promises of help and their kind voices. Frail creatures made of smoke wisps, harmless-looking. To the Sense, they felt rather strange. Like a faint light amidst the darkness, a semblance of warmness and kindness upon a cold signature. They did not blend at all. A fight between its nature and purpose. A fake kindness as a weapon which could not fool the Sense.

Ron turned sharply toward the left, and the water raised to his knees. To walk, it became a great challenge; a mighty task which made him sweat as if living in a furnace.

"No, don't go that way, brave wanderer!" the voice exclaimed. It had a very realistic touch of fear to it. Of real worry for his safety. "Here! Come with me! Let me save you!"

"Do shut up!" Ron shouted back, his back turned on the puffy cloud of smoke. "I know what I'm doing."

Actually, he did not. The water kept rising, hugging him, wanting to sink him. It now reached just below his chest. Panic and doubt blossomed within him. Had he made a mistake, perhaps? Ron ignored those loud voices.

At last, and fortunately, the water started to recede. The edge of the wetlands started to form through the fog, a piece of solid and dry ground, full of green and brown shades. The Forest as he knew it.

"No!"

His Sense detected a wisp of magic flaring behind. Turning around, wand alight in blue, Ron casted a ring of water around the fireball. A Finite would not have worked so efficiently, as this was a kind of magic so different to that wizards wielded.

Now, his magic would certainly work on the offence. If I'm being watched, best to put it on a show, right?

"Lux Aeterna!" Left hand upon his flaring wand, a beam of light was born, cutting through the mist, its scorching heat a furious whistle as it dispelled the thick, foggy veil away. He missed on purpose, of course. Had this spell hit the poor creature, it would have been reduced to cinder. It was merely a warning, though a rather extreme one. It worked, however, for the voice allowed him to continue.

To walk on solid ground once more was a blessing, even if this hill he had yet to crown was quite a stepped one. Fatigue had yet to reach him, so Ron maintained this pace of march, only halting for a second to get rid of his soaked robes, hanging them from a crooked branch so he could later come back for them. Aura expanded all around him, he felt as if the Forest belonged to him. He knew how much a foolery that statement was, of course, but the confidence he felt today could not be explained in words.

And maybe because of this, Ron was all the more surprised when he fell into the trap.

He stepped into a softer piece of ground, just crowning the hill, and he was engulfed by water. He refrained from taking a breath, calming down and looking around. It was crystalline clear, with a spectral green touch given to it by the flowing algae. Something pulled him down, sinking him deeper and deeper. Something with fangs or sharp teeth, for pain flared just above his ankle.

Looking down, Ron found a sickly-green creature holding to his left leg. Its short, sharp fangs sunk into his flesh, making it bleed. Flat-faced, with little horns sprouting from its head, the Grindylow was too ugly a creature he almost forgot the fact it was trying to devour him. Feeling his eyes upon it, the Grindylow clung to his leg even fiercer, its long, brittle fingers way stronger than he thought.

Ron simply pointed down his wand at the creature, already alight in purple. Relashio! The jinx burst out in search of its prey. The Grindylow was pushed away, shrieking in pain or terror or whatever the bloody creature felt. Red marks travelled down his thin arms, lacerated.

He pointed his wand at the creature once more, which fled in terror. This time, however, the spell went in search of the cavern's depths. Ron soared up, out of the flooded cavern, holding onto the firm grass and pulling himself up, back to the surface. He took a deep breath, coughing out plenty of water to fill a small fish tank.

"Are they trying to kill us?" he spluttered between ragged breaths. Merlin, there was water coming out of his nose!

A flash of blue zipped around him, that of an ethereal eagle. "But you kept a cold mind and solved the situation quite skillfully," Gerd said, flapping her wings as she came to a halt before him. Was that a touch of amusement in her voice? Blasting woman. "I would have not done it better myself."

Ron stood up, squeezing dry the silk of his shirt around his hips; water poured down as if a cascade. "I'm bloody soaked!" Still, he shook his head and resumed his stride. Time was of the essence in this exam, they had been told. He had never been one to care about marks—that has always been Percy's domain—but he wanted to excel today. This was good training.

The following part of the exam was a rather boring one. It included a lot of walking, with a few obstacles here and there to jump or go under, stepped hills to crown, walls to climb and creeks to swim against the current. And with a few puzzles from time to time. Once, he was stalled by some kind of barricade made of dry branches; long and sharp, these briars were a threatening bunch.

Obviously, his first instinct was to burn them to ashes. For much he tried, nothing happened to them, not even graced by a spark of fire. It took him around three minutes to figure it out. It was the opposite, in fact. First, he had to freeze them, a spell they had learnt this year, and then he was to do whatever the hell he wanted with them. Here, Ron chose the less peaceful option.

"Confringo!" A blinding flash of orange alighted the Forest, followed by a loud whistle of destruction and the smell of cinder and dust. "Serves them well," he grunted, breaking into a trot, "for being so bloody bothersome!"

Ron would not admit it aloud, but there was a thrill to this exam he was greatly enjoying. Proof of it was the crazed grin plastered on his face, the redness of his cheeks and the liveness to his stride.

Unfortunately, it ended in a very disappointing way.

The endless path led him into a wide cave; a way into the void itself, it seemed from the outside. "Lumos!" An incandescent ball of light was born from his wand, and he made it float just above its tip. It allowed him to examine his surroundings closely. Walls of rugged stone, unlevelled ground full of dust and pebbles, a perfectly arched, round ceiling well above his head.

This was clearly a man-made cavern.

And it took him a short time to reach its end. The chamber opened as fire sprouted from the countless torches placed on the walls. There was nothing here. Nothing save a wooden vault at the end of it. A simple one, with iron locks to keep it closed.

"Trap?" Ron asked.

"Most probably," Gerd said. She had taken her human form and was now seated upon his left shoulder, as per usual. "Only one way to find out, I guess."

Ron let out a deep sigh, casting away the ball of light, and then made his way over the vault. Halfway through the way, the vault started to shake, the wood cracking and splintering. There was something inside. Wand and free hand before him in a guarded stance, Ron took a few careful steps forward.

"You are afraid," Gerd whispered.

It annoyed him the fact she could read him so well. Yes, Ron was afraid. Utterly terrified, in fact. Not of whatever was caged inside the vault. He feared that whisper from deep within his mind. A whisper of a force he was not ready to wield, not even against a danger so uncertain. A whisper he refused to heed, even at the cost of not achieving his full potential.

Ron would not summon his Blade. He feared Oathbinder too much to wield it yet.

The vault burst open, black mist oozing from it. It started to morph, black wisps of fog stretching allward as if shady fingers. A figure dwelled within the mist. That of a tall man.

Ron let his wand down, abandoning his guard stance. "I cannot believe it. Are we really going through this again?"

The man stepped out of the mist. Tall, indeed, and handsome, with polished robes, bearing himself so confidently the world itself seemed to be his to change and take. "Hello, my dear Ronald. Long time no see."

Thomas Riddle's cruel grin was a sight he had not missed. And one which did not scare him one bit.

Ron walked forth, coming to stand face-to-face with Riddle. There was not so much height difference between them anymore, but he still needed to raise his head in order to stare at him dead in the eyes. That pissed him off greatly.

"Say, will it bother you if I destroy you once and for all?" Ron hissed.

Riddle's form fluctuated as the confidence within his bearing lost plenty of pose. "Oh, but you cannot do that, Ronald. You are weak. Merely a toy for me to play with and then discard once the fun is over. I know-"

Ron's hand bolted up, seizing the Boggart by the neck. It was oddly eerily how natural its flesh felt to the touch; warm, alive, so normal. "I do not fear you, Tom. I hate you with all my might. And I wish you were here in flesh and bone. There are a few loose ends between us two we have to deal with, don't we?" He squeezed harder, taking delight in how good it felt.

Riddle exploded into a puff of black mist, getting sucked back into the wooden vault, which closed and locked itself with a loud crack. Ron stared at his hand, where remnants of a black substance had remained. Was this, perhaps, Boggart's blood? He cleaned his hand into his white shirt, staining it black, and then made his way back to the surface.

"I expected something more," he confessed, entering the stepped hallway.

"And I find it hard to believe anyone but yourself will find this last task so easy," Gerd said. "It was a good trial to finish the exam. But again, you are not a regular student, Ronald. For the better or the worse, you are not."

He did not know whether to take pride in those words or feel sick of them. Either way, he allowed silence to be his companion for the way up, walking toward the light which seeped into the cavern. Now that he had soothed, exhaustion also tagged long. This one was a far more annoying companion, unfortunately.

When Ron stepped out of the cavern, he took joy in the sun and the fresh air. He really hated closed places, didn't he? He allowed himself a deep breath, and… A loud clapping made him turn around, wand ready at hand.

He almost dropped it the moment he noticed who had been waiting for him.

"That was a magnificent performance, Ronald!" Dumbledore said, smiling at him. He wore a long tunic of dark-blue, thin enough to weather the day's heat. "I did not know you were such an able and skilled wizard. What I saw today, it was excellence as the word means it. I'm glad to see Covan was able to nourish your talent and make it blossom."

Gerd disappeared into the skies as she always did when Dumbledore was around. She did not like him. Feared him a bit, even.

"H-Headmaster!" Ron spluttered, lowering his wand. "You… You saw me the whole time?"

Dumbledore walked past him, beckoning the boy to follow him with a wave of his hand. "I did, of course! Someone had to make sure no accidents were to happen to any student. And I picked you for myself."

Cold started to spread through Ron. "Me?" he asked back, trying to sound awed and curious. "Not Harry? I mean, don't take it wrong, sir, but you've always shown quite an interest in him."

"I like to think that I have shown interest in every student, Ronald," Dumbledore hummed. "Of course, I'm only human, and sometimes I may commit mistakes. I lose sight of what really matters as I try to encompass far more than I can deal with. Other times, I just commit the sin of overconfidence, and think I have everything under control until I have not."

Ron chose to remain tight-lipped. It was not as if he had much to say to that.

Dumbledore waited for him to speak, and when it was clear he would not, the Headmaster let out a tired sigh. "There is another reason why I came here, of course. Your suspicion was well founded. Tell me, Ronald, what happened that day?"

Heat slipped away from him as if the sun had been hidden behind a wall of clouds. He had known this question would come the moment he had turned around. All he could now was to run forward with his lie and pray for it to be enough.

Ron began his tale. Every detail was depicted, even the fact he did not break his fast that day. To pour as much truth as possible into a lie made it feel more real, not as much of a lie. So it felt for him, at least. The plan to rain chaos all over the castle. His incursion into Umbridge's chamber. Their ambush. The walk into the Forest. Faith's arrival and subsequent confrontation between her and Macnair. A looming beast upon them. Blood. Death. Tears.

"Umbridge led us out of the Forest, then," Ron finished. "She could barely stand on her feet, yet I felt no ounce of sympathy for her, just as I did not trust her promises and words of regret. All I could was worry about poor Alaine; she was shocked beyond measure. If I did not make her take another step, she simply stood there, frozen and whimpering. At times…"

Ron hesitated, shaking. He need not feign it this time. This fear he felt, it was pure. "At times I thought about taking revenge. There, in the depths of the Forest, no one would ever know what truly happened. I raised my wand at her back once, sure of myself. Yet I couldn't. I felt sick, horrified by my thoughts. Does that turn me into a bad person, Headmaster?"

Dumbledore led him through the Forest with a calm stride, walking beneath the shadow of those tall trees. "It turned you into a hurt person, Ronald. We lose sight of our hearts and souls when we hurt. You had known pain, seen death and understood true evil. It takes a great deal of courage to stand before that, turning your back to them, and to remain a better man than most."

Those words hurt him like very few things could have. He had indeed stood before pain, death and evil. And he had embraced them. His Blade had carried them all in that swift cut. It had been a shout of survival, true enough, with strings of rage attached to it.

Ron dwelled in the silence which followed the conversation. Until he was shaken out of his stupor by cruel reality as the Headmaster came to a halt before him, staring at him.

"I know you are lying, surely you realise that, don't you?" Dumbledore's smile held on to his face, but it did not reach his eyes. That usual twinkling within them, it was no more. "You are a terrible liar, Ronald. Much better than any other Weasley I have met in years—since your grandmother Cedrella, probably—but terrible still."

Ron shifted as he halted his stride, tensing. He was somehow able to mask the surging panic within; the frenzied beat of his heart and the cold sweat pooling all over his body. It felt as if a crushing hand was squeezing him. Although painless, he would have taken that pain instead of this stress.

This man before him, the Great Sorcerer, could not be lied to by the likes of him. He was certain of that.

"I have always been told so," Ron said instead, grimacing awkwardly, trying to rest importance on the matter. "Daphne tried to change that long ago, but she…"

Dumbledore's eyes remained hard as steel, cold as ice, two blue daggers upon the terrified boy. This was not a look to reprimand a child. It was a look to interrogate a criminal.

And Ron, feeling out of options, terrified as he was, chose to run forward with the truth. Specs of it, at least.

"I have my reasons to lie," he said with an unshaken voice. To not stutter here, it took all his will and courage. "Good reasons, I swear. I did nothing wrong, Headmaster. Yes, strange things happened. A man died, a woman was somehow forced to change and to believe in things that didn't happen, and I stood witness to it all. No beast killed them. However, that day, I was not the culprit. I was a victim, an innocent, a passenger. Whatever you may prefer of them. But never a culprit. You have to believe me, please."

But I killed Walden Macnair…

Innocent people did not have blood on their hands as Ron did. Echoes of that man's nature came to his mind like a faint whisper. A Death Eater. How many people had he killed? Murders carried out with a smile on his face, most likely. Did he deserve to die, because of so? Probably. Was Ron the one who shall pass the sentence? Of that, he greatly doubted. Weren't there people to pass judgment in that regard? People far wiser and more experienced than him. If so, why had it been him?

Why?

Dumbledore stilled, though one could read a thousand thoughts on his face. A cold, silent storm brewed within his eyes. "I need to know, Ronald. The safety of my students may depend on this truth you know. I have failed them plenty enough. I do not intend to let my guard down once more. So, please, do not make this harder than it needs."

"They are safe," Ron whispered back. "What happened that day, it has ended for good. It was the last chapter of a book which should have ended so long ago. I swear it, Headmaster. You have to believe me."

"You are not making this easy, Ronald."

Ron straightened his back, armouring himself with every bit of resolve there was within him. He showed a confidence he did not feel. "I cannot do that, sorry. Not yet. One day I will tell you. When I'm ready. All I ask, as I asked of my parents long ago when they tried to re-sort me, is a bit of trust. I'm not a bad person, Headmaster. I'm good, I swear. But I need to hold onto this secret for a bit more."

Dumbledore remained silent for what felt like an eternity. Hard, without blinking, with a stare which could pierce stone and melt steel. And at last, he nodded. It was too subtle a gesture Ron thought he had imagined it; a trick of his terrified mind.

"I could stare into your memories with Legilimency, find the truth there, carve it out of the depths of your mind regardless of your will," he said harshly. "I could probably do it without you being aware of it, silent and painless. And yet, I will do no such thing. I will trust you, Ronald, for I believe in all you said. But please, I beg of you to not push my kindness. Do not mistake it for weakness, as many others did before you. They all ended up regretting it greatly."

Dumbledore would not force the truth from him. Not yet. It took the boy a while to process that thought. To be threatened by the Headmaster instilled a fear so primitive within him Ron, he wondered in awe why he had yet to fall to his knees as a shaking mess.

"I-I won't." There was a tremble to his words he could not mask anymore, of course. That armour of courage and resolve, shattered. Hell, it was a miracle his legs had yet to give up on him the moment they resumed their stride.

Dumbledore's eyes remained upon him, and no smile was there to soften his stern features. All he did to bid the boy farewell was to nod at him curtly as he fell back, and Ron knew the conversation was over. And his life was spared. He almost trotted away, jumping out of the Forest, into the sun's warm embrace.

---

It took Ron a few hours to put his fear past him. There was a constant banging in the back of his mind, reminding him that Dumbledore knew of his secrets, but he somehow managed to ignore it just as well as he ignored his other worries. It was either that or going mad.

To divert his mind from such pessimistic thoughts, Ron took a stroll around the castle. A few times, he bundled in with members of the Army and joined the conversations about the exams and daily life.

"I think I did pretty well in the Defence exam," Susan said happily.

They had come to a halt on a large balcony on the sixth floor, enjoying the sun. Lavender had rolled up the sleeves of her shirt, tanning her flesh as she rested against the stone handrail with her eyes closed. Anthony Goldstein and Lisa Turpin sat in the shadow of the castle, holding hands shyly. Who would have thought those two would end up a couple? Just the entire school but them, it appeared. Ron tried his best to fit in with them. He felt like a lily on a field of roses; welcomed, yet still out of place.

"Which creatures did you face?" he asked.

"Red Caps, Grindylow and some enchanted puppet posing as a Werewolf," the Hufflepuff answered. "And you, what did you…"

Almost an hour later, Ron found a place in which he fitted way more. Fred and George burst into the empty room, a basket full of stolen goods from the kitchens in their hands.

"You are almost a genius, dear brother," Fred said, spilling some crumbs of bread through his mouth.

"Yes," George nodded, popping a plastic bag with his hands. "Your plan was almost perfect."

Ron crooked an eyebrow. "Too many almosts there. What went so horribly wrong?"

"That we haven't been expelled!"

"And that is supposed to be bad? Mum would have murdered you. In front of everyone else to make an example, probably. And Percy would have stood before it, nodding in agreement, musing how much you two deserved it."

"Well, yes. That wouldn't have been a pleasant experience…"

"...but neither is the fact we are yet alive to do the exams…"

"...indeed! I had already convinced myself I was free of them this year!"

"And the OWLs, on top of that!"

Ron raised his hands into the air. "Stop that, you two!" he groaned loudly. "Why can't you speak like a normal person from time to time? At least when I'm around. Please?"

The twins shared an amused look.

"I guess we could do that for you, dear brother," Fred nodded, grinning. "The legendary Weasley who freed us of Umbridge shall rejoice in such a privilege."

And George… Well, he remained quiet for the first time in his life. Thank Merlin!

Ron enjoyed a few hours with his brothers as he had not done in so long a time. But as soon as they left, arguing they needed to replenish their supply of gadgets, which they had used plenty to bid him enough time to assault Umbridge's chambers, Ron felt a void within which took over his spirits.

It was not that of solitude, nor that of sorrow. It was that of a duty he had postponed. Because he owed an apology to a dearest friend.

That night, as Tracey marched toward her dormitories, Ron ambushed her in the hallway. Her hand upon the door's knob, he let himself known, stepping out from the shadows which the torches' flames could not reach. "A word, please?"

She turned around with a start, left hand up to her breast. "Ron? You scared me!" she gasped.

"Come with me, please." He turned his back on her, walking toward the depths of the hallway, where no more dormitories had been built. It was a forgotten corner in the common room. A perfect place for secrets and scheming.

Tonight, however, there would be none of them. It would be time for a confession.

Ron leaned his back on the wall, staring at Tracey eye to eye. She stood a few metres away from him, evident worry in her eyes.

"Ron?" she started, voice weak, full of hesitation and doubt. "You're scaring me. I didn't want to… Well, I wasn't really angry with you. Just a bit disappointed, I guess. But not anymore. If you are keeping a secret from me, it must be for a good reason."

"It is for a good reason," he nodded, a bit relieved. Her words had made this thing far easier, unbeknownst to her. "To protect you, as a matter of fact. Yes, your hunch was right. I too think there's something wrong with that strange man who attacked Harry. I don't know what exactly, but damned be I if I don't fear it too."

She bit her lip, yet remained silent as he found his words.

"I believe, and so do Hermione and Neville, that danger will accompany us for as long as Harry is to be our friend. Even here, in Hogwarts. That bastard is too special for his own good. We've been here for three years, and horrible things have happened in all three of them. So much for a simple streak of bad fortune, right? He tried to send us away the moment he understood this, that bloody fool, but we laughed at him. I don't know what will come next year, but I'm certain something will happen."

It horrified him to see the way colour was drained from her face. Tears threatened to flood her eyes as she took a step back into the light, away from the shadows and their cold touch. They were kept at bay for the time being. Her green eyes, always bright and pretty, were now glassy horror-struck.

"Y-You cannot… He cannot… He isn't back, right? You-Know-Who."

Ron took a step toward her, placing a hand on her shoulder to comfort her. Tracey lunged at him, stretching her arms around his body to then close them in a tight embrace. The poor girl was shaking and almost sobbing.

Fuck me! Why am I so bloody stupid? Touch had never been his strength, and now it was time to fix his lack of sensitivity.

His hand ran down her back awkwardly. This was what his mother had always done to him whenever he had a nightmare. Unfortunately, it did not seem to work so well on her.

"Calm down, Tracey," he said softly. Words, now, he was much better at them. Twisting them in his favour, he could do that. To warn her, to protect her, she need not know of the specifics. One could sight a storm by the faraway lighting, safe from the rainfall and the destruction it may harbour. "It is not as bad as I implied. I'm sorry for that. I've never been good with words, you know that."

She sniffed faintly, but at least her body did not tremble so much.

Ron kept holding her. "What happened to Harry, I think it has something to do with Voldemort. With someone akin to him, to be precise. No, I do not think he's back. But someone who once was very loyal to him, I could see that. Remember what happened to Peter Pettigrew? He was saved by another Death Eater just before being sent to Azkaban. We might be talking about the same person here."

At last did Tracey untangle her arms around him. Her eyes were puffy, her cheeks red and tear-coated. It took her a while to calm herself, drawing in deep breaths, trying to find the words.

"Are you sure?" she asked weakly. "Swear it. Promise me you are not lying to me here."

Ron stared into her eyes—deep blue into bright green. "I swear it, Tracey."

Perhaps Ron was not as good a person as Dumbledore thought. Could a bad person lie to a friend the way he had just done? Ron remembered being told of some white lies by his mother long ago. Could this one be one of them? Did it even change anything, were it? A lie was a lie, as far as he was concerned.

She held his gaze for a few seconds, giving a firm nod as an answer. "Okay."

---

Ron enjoyed a sandwich of ham, lettuce and cheese under the shadow of the tall oak; his favourite spot since his first year. However, he was not alone this time. Tracey lay up beside him, eyes closed, hands beneath her head, her chest raising slowly with each breath she took.

The tree protected them from the sun and its hot touch. All around them, the castle's terrains buzzed with life. Students of every age swarmed the green hills, all wearing light and cool clothes of muggle and wizarding design alike; playing Quidditch atop their brooms, soaring with the wind; taking a bath in the Black Lake; tanning under the open sky; and friends simply talking and laughing.

Almost, it looked as if Umbridge had become a distant memory, a thing of the faraway past. They had all yearned so much for this, for what they had lost, that forgetting such a monster had been too easy a task.

And perhaps for many it had been that easy. For others, however, the scars were far too deep.

Ron himself had dreamed about Macnair for a seventh night in a row. And it had been the worst so far. He could still remember most aspects of the memory with astonishing sharpness. The lightness of the Blade, as if wielding a feather. The ease of the killing. The smell of the smoking blood, its shade a tad darker than he had believed until then. The sickness he had felt at himself and the foul act he had carried out…

But all these things, he had grown used to them.

What scared him the most was the fact he had started to forget Macnair's face. It was sharp and pale, with a pointy nose and dark eyes. That he could still remember. But it had started to blur as if seen through a misty window.

Gerd had told him of this, that it was usual and it did not mean he was without a heart. She had also told him to not regret any bit of the killing. Macnair had been an evil man, rotted to the bone and far beyond salvation and forgiveness, and although he was no one to pass his sentence, it had been an us or them situation.

Ron, to cope with his remorse, had told himself a phrase countless times—'best his mother weeps rather than mine'

"What's troubling you?" a voice startled him. It was Tracey's, who stared at him through her one open eye.

Ron took a bit of his sandwich, making quick work of the bite. "Nothing? Many things?" he replied with a shrug. "Thinking about Umbridge. Her trial is to be held in just a few hours."

He laid back with a sigh, mirroring her posture, dropping his sandwich upon his belly. "They invited me to it, you know. And Alaine, too. We had the privilege due to us being direct witnesses. And I've decided to not go. For as much as I want to see her rot and suffer, I would rather forget about her once and for all, I think. The Aurors collected my declarations, so I'm not really needed for the trial."

Tracey sat up, still looking at him. She bit her lip, unsure whether to speak her mind or not. Whatever she would have said, it would remain a mystery for all but her. Faint footsteps echoed from behind, a soft thudding against the grass.

"Nice spot you two have here," a voice hummed as someone appeared from behind the tree.

The tall figure of Daniel Williams stared at them from above, a confident grin on his face. For a few seconds, Ron had trouble recognizing him. To see Daniel without his tidied and polished robes, without the shining Head-Boy badge upon his chest, it was quite a rare sight. What he wore was so unlike him—some denim shorts and a white, plain shirt.

"May I take a seat?" He sat down in between them, not waiting for a response.

Tracey opened a bit of room for him, but Ron did not bother to sit up. "What do you want?"

"Now, that's quite rude on your behalf, Ronald," Daniel observed, his grin intact upon his face. "And here I am, who thought we could have some idle chat on this warm day of almost summer. Though, originally, I wanted to catch you alone. But I like her, so she's very welcome to stay."

Tracey blushed in a too obvious way, putting a few more inches in between her and the Head-Boy. Ron smirked at her, yet he decided to be merciful and not make an observation aloud.

"And why did you want to talk with me?"

"Why, because these are my final days at Hogwarts," Daniel said, leaning onto the tree. "Exams are finished, and so is my seventh year. Which means I'm about to become a graduate." His grin faded slowly, letting out a long sigh, "I have enjoyed them to their best, even though there were plenty of tough moments. To make it out Slytherin as a muggle-born, it was no easy thing. A Head-Boy, on top of that. And to win the House Cup every year became my dream and ambition. And I did it."

"So that's why," Ron said.

"Yep, that's why," Daniel nodded. "I know how awesome I am, but I couldn't have done it without you, Ronald. These last two Cups, you were indispensable to win them, whether it was your intention or not. You helped me to fulfil my dream. And so did you, Tracey. That night, a year ago, I lost two fingers in the Forest, and earned some traumatic experiences while at it. But I won much more. I won a Cup. I learned that I could be brave and selfless if there was a worthy thing to fight for. And also, yes, it felt blasting good to be a hero. There, I said it. The most unslytheringish thing ever."

Tracey tilted her head. "Is that even a word?" Her blush had faded greatly, though little specks of red still endured.

"Don't think so, but you understood me."

A silence grew among them; calm, soft, warm, like a faint breeze of spring. They all had their eyes set on the Lake, where a group of first-years swam through it in a race. Their voices were loud, too much perhaps. But they were also happy and filled with plenty of laughter. It was a pleasant change, compared to the tension and anger which had marked this year.

"So," Ron broke it, "now comes the Ministry, right?"

Daniel laid back on the grass, closing his eyes. "That's the plan. I'll probably have to wait a month or two, until the exams' marks are out. But then, yes, you might as well start thinking of me as a Ministry official."

"That confident?"

"My academic record is impeccable, Ronald. All the Professors love me, and so do most of the adults I've ever known. I'm intelligent, handsome, refined and witty." He smiled to himself, opening one eye to stare at the redhead, "Besides, Professor Snape might have vouched for me to some of his friends. Important friends, if you know what I mean."

"The Ministry," Tracey mused. "Ain't that a bit too boring for you? I mean, you could do far greater things. Way more interesting stuff."

"It might be boring, but it's incredibly well-paid once you reach a certain position. More importantly, it is easy work. Nothing dangerous, nor stressful nor sleep-depriving. Just boring paperwork, dealing with even more boring folk and learning to side with the right people. My greatest worry will be having to ask for a bigger vault in Gringotts and learning to deal with those greedy Goblins. In my books, that's the definition of a perfect job for one's lifetime."

"Didn't take you for a sycophant," Ron pointed out, amused.

"Didn't take you for someone to know such a word."

"You'd be surprised how many words one can learn when living under the same roof as Percy for so many years." That led him to another thought. "And talking about my brother, I reckon you two will be colleagues soon. It has always been his dream since I can recall."

Daniel hummed, "Yes, I reckon so too. Good ol' Perce and me, a never-ending story. First, competing to see who would get the best grades each year, which he often won. And then for the position of Head-Boy, a battle in which I came out victorious. Still, it was a fun rivalry. Do you know which office he does aspire to?"

"No I don't," Ron answered with a snort. It was an amusing, naive question. Percy did not share his real ambitions—nor any other important emotion—with anyone else. Years of mocking by the twins had seen to that, Ron reckoned. "The one with the most oppressive, boring rules, perhaps? I love my brother dearly, but Merlin knows he likes rules too much!"

Daniel chuckled. "Yeah. That sounds just like Percy Weasley."

They set their eyes upon a large flock of birds, a river of black spots disrupting the endless blue canvas of the clear sky. It all screamed farewell. Those loud voices from the students trying to make the most of what little time they had, laughing as they had not done in the entire year. This silence upon them, which spoke of a permanent goodbye. A thing which a few months of summer would not bring back.

"Aren't you going to miss this?" Tracey asked suddenly, making the boys turn toward her with a start. She shifted in surprise when their eyes fell upon her, yet did not blush this time. Not so evidently as before, that's it. "Hogwarts, I mean. Life here, with its ups and downs. Snape's glaring, eating in the Great Hall, the noise through the hallways, Binn's deathly-boring lectures, that spark whenever there is a Quidditch game… I'd miss it, that I know."

Daniel took his time to answer, lost deep in thought. When he did so, his voice was so faint Ron had trouble understanding his words.

"Of course I'm gonna miss it. I love this castle with all my might. Here, I've laughed and cried and shouted as I had never done before. I made friends, some of which I will treasure for as long as I live, and I also made enemies, who made me stronger in every sense. Life out there, in the real world, that of adults, will be shit when compared to this. But, like I said, I made the best of these seven years. I leave with no regrets."

He stood up, tidying his clothes, shaking them free of dirt and rust, though plenty of grass blades stuck to his back. "You two were part of this story, too. A good, although brief, part of it."

"Now, you are going to make me cry," Ron said with a snort. "I never thought the high and mighty Daniel Williams would be a softie."

"Oh, come on, Ron!" Tracey winked at him. "Don't be like that! I'm sure this is hard for him. We don't want to hurt his feelings on his last day at Hogwarts, do we? Though he would never admit it aloud, I'm sure he's cried himself to sleep tonight. Oh, poor boy!"

Daniel gave them a dead look from above. Ron laughed so hard he almost folded himself in half, and he let it all out until his stomach hurt. Tracey's snickering joined his own, blushing once again.

"I take back all I said," Daniel said. "I hate you two. Agh, whatever. Look, before you make a further fool of me, all I want to say is that, if you ever need a favour of mine, all you have to do is to ask. I'm quite fond of you two, not to talk about how greatly you've helped me. If there's something my mother taught me, it was to be nice to those who were nice to me. Now, do not ask me for a fortune, nor for a dragon as a pet. There are things not even I can accomplish, as hard to believe that is."

"And here I was about to ask you for your wet pillow," Ron chuckled. "I'm sure those tears of yours could be sold for a fortune. Think about it. The tears of the great Daniel Williams, the whatever number it might be Minister for Magic."

"Bah," Daniel gave him the finger. "You are insufferable, Weasley." Still, when he walked away, there was a wide grin on his face.

There also was one in Ron's face as he laid back once more, closing his eyes. Hogwarts won't be the same without that arrogant bastard. That's for sure.

---

The dormitory was as dark as usual; utter penumbra prevented from taking over the room by a few specs of green and blues. It was also cold enough to make him forget about the heat wave upon Hogwarts. He was kind of fond of the coldness of this room. It was so Slytherin, a place he had come to like and felt part of it despite his initial hatred.

And talking about hatred. He raised the newspaper before his eyes, reading the piece for a tenth time.

Dolores Umbridge, the recently proclaimed Minister for Education, was sentenced to Azkaban for the next twenty-one years.

Yes, you have read that well. The Wizengamot rarely speaks, but when it does, and all its Eyes fall into agreement, its voice always shocks the entire country. Yesterday, Dolores Umbridge was judged upon her crimes of unintentional manslaughter, corruption and abuse toward minors, both physically and mentally.

Yes, you have read that well. The woman who assumed control of Hogwarts, replacing the old and often-questioned Albus Dumbledore, was a danger to its students. Today is a day to feel shame toward our country, indeed, and…

The rest of the piece lacked any importance to Ron. He had neither the spirits nor the time to read Skeeter's rambling in which she, somehow, had fired some shots at Amelia Bones, who had been the fiercest force against Umbridge in her trial; the loudest voice to call out her many crimes. In her opinion, twenty-one years in Azkaban were too many for a woman of Umbridge's age.

Skeeter could go to hell, for all Ron cared.

Sighing, the redhead dropped the newspaper upon his bed and got himself to retrieve all his possessions and store them into his vault. They had survived another year. Against all odds, they had. Farewells were always tough, and Ron could not help himself but feel a bit sad. Hogwarts had a magic to it no one could resist.

It took him longer than he fancied to tidy all his possessions. If Percy was here, he would have nagged him about the impotence of not leaving things for the last moment. Where the hell had come from all these notes? Had he really written so much this year? It was a miracle they all fit into the vault. The wood cracked as he jumped onto it, forcing it close with the weight of his body. A few pushes were needed for good measure.

"I should listen to Percy's advice from now on," Ron grunted as he stood up, straightening his back, feeling a dull ache after crouching down for so long.

He froze.

Something caught his eye. There, beneath his pillow, a pointy, red thing stood out. Curious, Ron seized it. What is this? A paper-made swine, plain after being crushed under the pillow, was rolled in between his fingers as he admired its beauty.

Ron opened its wings as wide as they went, the paper being extremely flexible and soft to the touch. About to toss it away, thinking of it as a joke from Nott or a stupid scheme from Blaise, he noticed something. On its side, which had been covered by the folded wing, a bunch of letters had been written in beautiful calligraphy.

He read them in silence, paling, feeling cold out of a sudden.

I will meet you on July the first, right before dusk. All you need to do is to walk away from your house and lead me to a spot you consider good enough. Just as I promised, I will keep you informed. I hope you do the same. To grow a true alliance, trust must go both ways.

The paper swine burnt shortly after, cinder falling upon the green covers of his bed. Ashen spots were left on Ron's fingers, warm and dry.

It felt as if to being awakened from a beautiful dream. He had lied to himself in the past few days, had even tried to forget that Albus bloody Dumbledore was into him. Hogwarts and its exams were not his main worry or priority. Life was not so beautiful, unfortunately.

It had merely been an illusion of normality which had lasted for too long.

---

Well, there it was. The closing to the third year at Hogwarts. Only one more chapter to go before the start of the fourth 'book', which I believe it has the potential to be the best.