# January

Musca

Rating: PG13
Genres: Angst, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 29/03/2007
Last Updated: 20/11/2007
Status: Completed

"But once, just once, to know how it would end, to know where to go, what to do. How different that would be from the bloody, straggling ends of the war he keeps fingering, hoping they’ll show him a way out into life."

## 1. Prologue

Disclaimer: They belong to JKR, I’m only playing.

A/N: Please forget the existence of Voiceless and read this for itself. Different time, different story, therefore people behaving differently. Not much sunshine in the beginning but beginning’s are like that. Things will get better, I promise. I also promise to update once a week. I foresee about 14-16 chapters, and have written 7 so far, with the rest planned out. Enjoy, and please give my beta miconic a big smacking kiss because she’s the coolest and I put her through hell with the first drafts of this one. Still am.

And finally, Thank you for reading!

***

“‘I quite agree with you,’ said the Duchess; ‘and the moral of that is--“Be what you would seem to be”--or if you'd like it put more simply--“Never imagine yourself not to be otherwise than what it might appear to others that what you were or might have been was not otherwise than what you had been would have appeared to them to be otherwise.”’

Lewis Carroll: Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland

--Prologue--

Even twilight fails to rescue the castle. The spires and turrets refuse the mercy of the soft light, and the trees snub the breeze. The stone walls stand darker than ever, the towers taller somehow and more severe than he remembers. Defiance radiates from the closed doors and windows. Someone’s trying viciously to swallow down tears. Someone’s trying to stand tall while inside the walls are crumbling, the bones giving way one by one.

It’s not wise to linger here. Other skeletons will come to life, some other weeping.

Harry bypasses the front doors and ducks round to the south side. The last time he was here, he had left a window unlocked to the Great Hall, using an obscure spell he'd filched from one of Hermione’s tomes. He’s been praying that he got it right, that the spell wouldn’t be over-written by one of Hogwarts’ regular security spells. He pushes the window and it springs open with a creak. The blown glass pattern has snagged a bit of stray winter light like a spider web snatching a bright insect. Muttering to himself in relief, he hoists himself up over the windowsill and into the Great Hall.

From here, progress is slow.

Cobwebs hang from the ceiling like sails of a burnt ship. Darkness and dust have settled like sediment, thicker with every passing day when no candles are lit, no windows thrown open. Harry mutters a Lumos, trying not to hold his wand out like a sword. There are dark stains on the floor which he does not dare look too closely. The walls are scarred as if made of flesh, as if the very skin of the founders has been touched, slashed.

Suddenly the wand-light goes out. Swearing, he lights the wand again and holds it out. The marble staircase gleams on his left. The last two times he was here he had systematically covered all seven floors, the towers and the dungeons to no avail. Today is a desperate kind of day. He is hoping to find it blind, by chance, by luck. Not that he thinks he has any, but still. He begins to climb the stairs, his footsteps echoing.

*

Finally, hours later when there is nowhere else to search, no excuses to linger in rooms and passages he’s already scoured many times over, he trudges up to the Astronomy Tower. The skylight above the spiralling staircase illuminates his climb but around him everything is dark. Harry remembers seeing a statue here long ago, to one side of the stairs, a broken statue with a missing leg and two faces staring in opposite directions. There is no sign of it now. The heavy brass brackets along the wall have not held light for months. The stairs seem unsupported, suspended in dark, a stairwell ascending to the night itself.

The door at the top of the stairs is unlocked, just as he’d left it the night before; a precaution against unreliable spellwork. He pushes at it and emerges into a night stitched together with feeble stars. A blast of chill air makes him draw a sharp breath and wrap his arms over his chest. The grounds are blessedly amorphous in the dark, hiding all fractures and wounds; the chimney devoid of smoke, the skeletal greenhouses, the vegetable patch finally conquered by the forest.

His thin shoulders hunched, he leans over the crenellated rampart, defiantly cradling his hunger as he stares carefully at nothing.

If it’s not in the castle, where is it?

It was a foolish idea from the beginning, he knows that. But once, just once, to know how it would end, to know where to go, what to do. How different that would be from the bloody, straggling ends of the war he keeps fingering, hoping they’ll show him a way out into life.

How Ron’s blood was so awfully red, how Hermione didn’t look him in the eye for weeks afterwards. How light remained in a familiar, cluttered cottage when life didn’t. How sturdy stone walls that always offered protection suddenly turned on those they protected.

How Remus smiled the final time. How surprised the twins were, still grinning at each other, the final time. How Molly wept.

How hard it is to breathe when so many do not, to be alive when so many are not.

He’s put an end to an era of terror, but where does it end for him?

The forest scrapes to and fro in the wind, treetops scratching at the dome of the sky like gaunt hands fumbling in an airless, lightless room. The moon lurches through a series of thick clouds, barely visible. He ought to return now. Hermione wakes up at the drop of a hat these days. In fact, he’s certain she hardly sleeps through the night. Besides, the closer it came to dawn, the trickier Apparating became.

He pulls the door behind him and walks slowly down the stairs, scoffing at himself. He pulls both hands through his hair, screwing up his eyes and yawning. Points of luminosity dance in front of his eyes. He blinks to clear them. He’s exhausted beyond telling. At the bottom of the stairs, he pauses, distracted. A few points of stabbing light still float at the edges of his vision and he blinks again rapidly. He opens his eyes again, straining to see through the murky glow of the skylight.

A silvery glint still remains on the edge of his left eye.

He whirls around, heart hammering, wand out and lit. Solid wall meets his eyes, overlaid with shadows of other walls and the stairs. In the open seam of a series of overlapping shadows, almost hidden by the stairwell, he spots something small, cylindrical and partly silver.

He strides over and picks up a scroll case, disappointment tempering his heartbeat. Disturbed dust wafts over him and he sneezes several times, his eyes watering. He stares at the case in puzzlement, blinking his runny eyes. It’s carved of black wood with a silver handle and lid, the body carved with a simple design of entwining leaves. He tries to work the silver catch on its lid in vain. Then something else catches his eye behind the stairs.

Harry draws closer, absently pocketing the scroll case.

Then he stops breathing.

A swathe of cobwebs covers the once-sleek body and hangs down from the throttle and clutch levers like ribbons. The headlight is broken and a dent shows in the front fender. One of the wheels seems to host a nest of dust and other unidentifiable scraps. He reaches out a hand; his forefinger comes away padded thickly with dirt. A minute face peers out at him from the top of the bike. He reaches out and pulls at a small wooden bead, a pendant or talisman, attached to a long cord and twined snugly round the headlight. A small face, its features lost in the dark. He draws in air as if just remembering to breathe and is overcome promptly with a fit of coughing. The wand-light faltering, he sinks to the floor next to the bike.

How? When? How long? Who? And why now?

He whispers a spell, fingers hovering over the small mirror and speedometer. The grime disappears, the glass clears up. He feels so small, sprawled at the bottom of the staircase, the roof arching above and questions spiralling around. The walls seem to open endlessly and fall away; a crumbling, defeated gift box which nevertheless kept this hidden, almost intact, beneath layers of magic and time.

Hours later, a desolate door groans slowly shut behind a figure darting ahead into the sky.

--end prologue--

## 2. Chapter One

Disclaimer: They belong to JKR, I’m only playing.

A/N: Thank you everyone who read and reviewed the prologue. I appreciate every word you left me, especially the questions/wonderings because they help with where the story goes. I know it’s hard work with WIP’s, when you have to stick around a long time to see any sense. I will be updating every week, that’s a promise, hope that helps. And please feel free to nitpick!

And kisses for miconic for the beta, as always.

***

--Chapter One--

Light stretches over the landing, thin and pale, clawing for a hold. The window has been scoured many times; twice by Mrs Weasley herself, but the glass recovers the thick layer of grime overnight each time. The winter afternoon parades in a brilliant icy blue outside, but reaches the inside of the house swathed and smothered like an invalid.

The thing is, Harry doesn’t remember how Number 12, Grimmauld Place ended up being home.

He certainly didn’t plan it that way. One morning after…everything, he simply looked around and thought it was natural to just stay where he was. So easy. His few belongings were in the house, Ron didn’t seem inclined to return to the Burrow, nor Hermione to her mum’s. And he himself had nowhere else to go.

They tried half-heartedly to make changes, a dab of colour, a splash of light, but the house prevailed. A flock of starlings drummed their way inside the roof at the start of winter, their flighty cacophony resounding in the street at dawn and dusk. Apart from that, the only form of life bright enough to flout the gloom are Ron’s fish.

Ron draws a deep breath and dispels the stillness around the tank.

“They don’t seem to like each other very much, do they?” he mutters in dismay, his eyes on the water choked with silk tropical grass, peat moss and pale stones.

“Give them time, Ron. They’ve only just met.” Harry keeps a straight face.

Hermione huffs, a loud, well-articulated huff despite being hampered by a hissing, wriggling Crookshanks in her arms. “They are called fighting fish, Ron.”

“They haven’t only just met, it’s been a month! And only one of them’s a fighting fish.” He threads a tentative finger through the water. His thin shoulders stretch his faded shirt, the bones protruding like the ends of clipped wings. Puddles and streams of reflected light rearrange themselves over the ceiling and walls. Crookshanks paws at a sliver of light spitefully. A set of resplendent turquoise fins and tails sway warily from behind a miniature hill of shingles.

“And he’s the one who’s hiding,” Ron continues to wail.

“Look, the mollies are quite happy to be out and about.” Two coats of translucent gold navigate the water above the hidey-hole of shingles and silk grass, keeping a wide berth of each other.

Harry turns towards the stairs. “Come on, leave them be. They’re probably feeling the pressure with you clucking over them.”

A key turns in the door, the sound amplified in the empty hallway, followed by a loud oath and a thud. The door clatters open, and a vase on the dresser next to the door falls over as a thatch of red hair stumbles into view.

“I swear I’ll take a hatchet to that sodding door one day!”

“Hey, Fred.” Harry slides his wand back in his pocket and Hermione’s shoulders relax. “Good to see you too.”

Fred stands in the doorway, scowling and blinking to adjust his eyes to the gloom. “Why the hell do you keep changing the charm on it?”

“We don’t. It just keeps changing on its own.” Harry leans over the railing. Ron limps over to join him. “We’ve tried doing another Fidelius but it didn’t work.”

“Yeah, if it’s any consolation, Harry was locked out twice last week.” Ron chuckles and earns a glare. Fred raises a hand in mock salute.

“Hey, little brother. Playing with your fish, are you? You know, keen as you are, I’m not sure keeping fish is a fitting enterprise for a wizard.”

He pulls off his cloak, revealing an old knitted jumper with the letter G on it and drapes it over the umbrella stand. As he makes his way across the hall, the strained light picks out bleary eyes and an almost skeletal face.

“But anyway, about the door, what, not even she-who-knows-everything can figure out why a tatty old door’s not behaving itself?”

He yawns hugely, peering up at Hermione. Harry and Ron exchange a glance.

Hermione lets the sneer pass by. “Well, the whole house is behaving very oddly. Not that it was ever normal, but this is even stranger. Last Friday the dining room table cracked in the middle while we were having dinner--and no Ron, it wasn’t because of the way I cook cauliflower--so, no doubt the door itself is part of Mrs Black’s grand plan to kick Harry out.”

She reaches for her wand, waves it at the fish-tank and sets Crookshanks free. He promptly bounds towards the tank, scrabbles up the tall, bandy legged stool and reaches gleefully into the water. Then he drops back to the floor in great haste.

While the kneazle stalks off with a wounded glare in her direction, Hermione brushes her skirt and stands up. Her hair hangs around her pale face in untidy clumps.

“Anyway, how’s things? Haven’t seen you in a couple of weeks.” She turns to Fred.

Fred passes the portrait of Mrs Black, backtracks and gingerly lifts the grimy curtain. “Ah, I see you’ve managed to silence her.”

Harry follows Hermione down the stairs. “Actually, she just went quiet all of a sudden. We didn’t do anything. We didn’t think we could do anything. It’s like Hermione said. The house is doing strange stuff.”

Fred regards the portrait thoughtfully. “But if the house was really trying to kick you out…”

Ron clatters down the stairs slowly. Hermione watches Harry’s neck become stiff with the effort to not look around. Her own fingers are flexing. Harry clears his throat.

“Yeah, we thought about that too. Frankly, I have no idea. And I don’t think I want to know.” He shrugs. Ron makes it to the bottom of the stairs and sighs heavily, pausing to let the world stop rocking around him. Harry and Hermione let out a breath. Hermione wanders over to the dresser and picks up the ornate brass vase that fell over with Fred’s entrance, fingers its twined serpents and sets it down half-heartedly.

“Well, if things get out of hand you could always move into the Burrow. There’s plenty of room there.” Fred laughs, a terrible sound. “Which is why I’m here, Ronnie. Mum wants to know why we haven’t seen you around for a while.”

Harry slides his hands in his pockets. “How is Mrs Weasley?”

Fred cocks his head. “How do you think?”

Silence pushes into the space around them, trying to stopper the emptiness between words. Everyone stares carefully at nothing. Hermione grinds the heels of her palms into her eyes and shakes her head.

“Come on. Let’s have some tea.”

*

A guttering fire lights the basement kitchen. Out of all the rooms in the house, this is the one they frequent most. A pile of books stand in one corner of the large uneven table, next to a couple of bottles of ink. A broken glass tank languishes in the far end, remains of Ron’s first attempts at keeping fish. A dishcloth rests on a stack of plates on the dresser, waiting to be put away. Crookshank’s curled in the cushioned warmth of armchair in the corner near the fire. Fred sits at the table, leaning his head on his hands. Harry gathers crockery and sets them out while Hermione tends the stove. A wand lies forgotten on a chair. Ron sits across Fred, looking at his brother thoughtfully.

“You been in Diagon Alley?”

Fred nods. “Went to look at the shop.” He fiddles with a chipped mug on the table, ignoring Ron’s pointed look.

“How’s Ginny?” Ron tries again.

Fred shakes his head. “Haven’t seen her for a while. She left with Tonks a couple of weeks ago. Or maybe three, who knows. Tonks said something about Snape being seen somewhere in Amsterdam and wanted to check it out.”

Harry drops a teaspoon with a loud clatter. “What?”

Hermione turns from the kettle which is beginning to whistle.

“What, what? Ginny or Snape?” Fred sneers. “What’s Ginny doing hunting Snape or what’s Snape doing still alive? Which part concerns you the most, Harry dear? Is it--”

“Fred. Don’t start.” Ron’s voice is even.

“Oh, I’m not starting ickle brother. I’m just sticking around to see how it’s all going to end. Five down, four to go.”

“Well, you can stop acting like it’s Harry’s fault. Or Hermione’s for that matter.”

“Actually, five and a half. Must count your leg.” He tips his chair back and threads his fingers behind his head.

The kettle hoots persistently through the thick silence. Hermione jumps up and turns the stove off. Harry drops to a chair.

“Why didn’t Tonks tell me she had a lead?” he croaks.

Ron looks over at Hermione. She avoids his glance with practiced ease, turns around and begins pouring out the tea. Its warm, homely smell wafts over the kitchen; their throats thicken with it. Hermione brings the tray over to the table and sets it down.

“Harry, it was my idea.” She looks away quickly when he raises his head.

“What was?”

She pulls a chair and sits down, her hands out of sight on her lap. A gathering wind slaps at the loose floorboards, pipes and windows. The house snarls like a wild thing caught in a snare.

“Harry, wherever Snape is, he won’t rest until he’s--he’s got you--”

“Thanks a million, Hermione.”

“And the Order is in shambles and you--you don’t have the Ministry’s protection any more--”

“I don’t need their protection!”

“Right. I knew you would say that,” she mutters to herself.

“What did you do, Hermione? What did you say to Tonks?” He leans across the table. She meets his glance with a stony look of her own.

“I asked her to keep you out of it.”

His jaw tightens, his face going paler. He rounds on Ron.

“Did you know about this too?”

Ron sighs. Hermione answers before Ron can speak. “I only told him a couple of days later. But the point is, Harry--”

He pushes his chair back savagely and stands up. “The point is that I look like a fool, Hermione, sitting here having a tea party while someone else is out there looking for that bastard who’s after me!”

“Harry, she has a--”

“Shut up, Ron! How could you do this, Hermione?”

“Harry, stop yelling--”

“I said shut up, Ron--”

“No, you listen to me, you idiot! You don’t have a lot of people left to watch your back when you go gallivanting on these little missions of yours, you hear me? The Ministry doesn’t care two hoots what happens to you anymore--”

“The Ministry never gave a fuck what happened to me!”

“And people are too busy trying to fix their own fucking lives to worry about how the Ministry’s treating you or even what happens to you. London’s a pile of ash, in case you haven’t noticed. You see, you’ve won their bloody war for them, so it’s thank you and goodbye. Snape and Malfoy are only after you: they’re not a threat to anyone else, and no one’s going to have time to worry if they get you.” He clutches the table, leaning across at Harry.

“So you’re in more danger than you ever were, Harry, because always before there was an army of people ready to do something to save you--”

“That’s bullshit!”

“To at least make a noise about it, because you were meant to be their fucking saviour in the end! Now you only have just the few of us, and I don’t know if it’s going to be enough.”

Harry gazes steadily at Ron for a moment. Pale fingers of steam rise from the teapot on the table. When he speaks, his voice is quiet.

“But I always only had just the few of you.”

Ron draws a deep breath and lets it out slow. He leans back in his chair.

“Yeah, whatever. You know what I mean. The point is--listen, you have to stay safe, mate.” His fleeting glance wavers around the table: Fred’s flat stare, Hermione’s red-rimmed eyes, the empty chairs and the forgotten tea things. He swallows.

“You’ve got to stay safe, Harry. There’s not very many of us left.”

Harry drops back to his chair and lays his head on his arms. The teapot cools on its tray, droplets running down its sides. Several old rings of tea or coffee stain the table. They managed to repair the wood but a faint uneven line still runs through the middle, marking where the wood had snapped. A deep silence brews in the empty cups, scented with other times, other conversations long gone now, lost with the voices they belonged to. They weren’t exactly times of great happiness or peace; his life’s always been stained with fear, but he remembers laughter, and hope that when it’s all over, there would be time. And now it’s all over, and no time left. He gropes for his voice.

“But how’s sending Ginny off with Tonks going to help? Tonks hasn’t been herself for ages now--”

“Has anyone?”

“--and your sister--”

“Knows how to look after herself when she puts her mind to it. Listen--” Ron nods his head in Hermione’s direction. “At first, Hermione was going to go, but we couldn’t figure out what to tell you so you wouldn’t get suspicious. Anyway, Malfoy broke into the house, so we figured it was better to have her stay here.” He holds up his hands at Harry’s look of incredulous indignation. “I know, I know, it was terrible of us and we’re sorry.” He turns to Hermione meaningfully.

Harry turns to her. Firelight burnishes her hair gold and conceals half her face. She shrugs and quickly hides her eyes from him. Harry sighs.

“Okay, do you two see how wrong all of it is? First of all, you can’t keep me under your noses all the time just to keep me safe, clucking like a pair of bloody hens. We’re not in school anymore.” An uncomfortable look passes between Ron and Hermione; Harry’s hit home.

“Secondly, this house isn’t exactly my friend, so I’m not really in any less danger by being here as we’ve already seen. Thirdly, someone else shouldn’t be out there risking her neck for me while I sit here. Snape maybe after me but that doesn’t mean he’s no danger to anyone else.”

“Mate, Ginny offered to go,” Ron says in a strained voice. “You know her, she can’t be stopped when she makes up her mind.”

“That still doesn’t make it right, Ron.” His voice drops several notches. “In fact, that makes it even worse.”

He stares for a moment at his hands. Elongated shadows tread the dirty kitchen walls, giant chairs, teacups, pots and pans.

“Besides, Voldemort’s gone, remember?” he’s almost speaking to himself. “You said it, Ron. No one needs a saviour anymore, certainly not one who botched the job. And no one has to bring in the entire Auror ranks to protect me because I don’t need to be protected anymore. I’ve done m--”

“Oh, for god’s sakes!” Hermione gets to her feet so fast her chair flies backward. She strides over to the door and wrenches it open.

“When you’ve stopped feeling sorry for yourself, Harry, come find me!” The door slams behind her. The cutting board on the dresser slides down with a thud to the floor.

Harry drops his head into his hands. A log splits in the fire, sparking a shower of embers. A car alarm rings out dully from the street, a thick, strangled sound.

“Great.” Ron leans back in his chair. “Now you’ve put her in a mood. You’re a moron, Harry.”

Harry opens his mouth to speak but changes his mind. The fire crackles, spitting sparks into the gloom.

“You know what, she’s right.” Ron grabs the table for support and hoists himself up. “It’s bullshit, the way you carry on sometimes.” He secures the crutch and hobbles across the kitchen. The door swings shut once again.

Fred, whose presence Harry had almost forgotten, jumps up. “Well, what a fine tea party it has been.” He makes a mock bow at Harry, bending and straightening like a wound up puppet. “Thank you very much indeed for the fine brew and scintillating conversation, but I must now be on my way, places to go, people to see--no, no, don’t exert yourself, I shall show myself out--and good evening to you too.” With the vicious flourish of an imaginary hat, he too is out of the door.

Various footsteps stab through the house and various doors slam. The wind hitches, the house snarls louder, and gloom goes back to sharpening its nails.

--end chapter one--

## 3. Chapter Two

Disclaimer: They belong to JKR, I’m only playing.

A/N: Because you’ve been so good and I’ve had more time on my hands with a 4-day weekend, an early post. Less than happy chapter still, though. Once again, thanks to miconic for the beta. Which reminds me, any typos, grammar, odd stuff are entirely my fault, not hers. Feel free to point, nitpick, question--the usual.

***

--Chapter Two--

They visit him every night. Vernon Dursley, quivering with rage, Aunt Petunia with her wide, unreadable stare and Dudley, angry and frightened. They crowd around his bed, peering down, waiting, accusing, a ravenous yellow glare at their backs. He burrows further and further into the clammy sheets, but there’s no getting away.

We raised you, we fed and clothed you, but what did we get for thanks?

He clamps his hands over his ears and screws his eyes shut. But he can still see them, hear them, even louder and clearer than before.

I was right, wasn’t I? You never had it in you.

You’re coward. Do you hear me, boy? A coward!

The fire treads closer, high enough to reach above his uncle’s head. Petunia begins to scream, pulling at Dudley sleeve. Smoke fills the room. Harry tries in vain to move, get up, breathe--

You’re coward and you left us to burn. You left all London to burn! Look--

His feet kick out against the bedstead, the pain finally startling him awake. He gasps for air, lungs full of phantom smoke. He gropes for his glasses. The luminous face of the clock reads twelve minutes past six; he’s slept for less than three hours. The house is full of small creaks and rustles of the wakening day. He sits up and stares at the dark which smells foul with fear and guilt. Leaning over, he tugs open the heavy curtains at the window. Outside, dawn breaks slowly. Another January dawn, washed-out and nervous, its cold skin mottled with the black veins of stripped trees.

Slowly, he gets to his feet and shuffles out.

*

Hermione has a page-a-day desk calendar on her bedside table. Each page is the size of half a piece of standard parchment. The pages are marked at the top with the date, month and year in large letters, and finer print at the bottom mentions holidays.

Hermione detests this calendar.

It’s currently the recipient of a morose glare over her bastion of tepid bedclothes. She hears the soft creak of floorboards across the corridor from her room and wonders how long Harry has been up. A whole white day, empty. Winter sits gleefully over everything, cackling with rain and frost, shaking its cold fist over an empty city, a city she turned into ash--

She swings her arm and the calendar flies off the table. It hits its neighbouring glass of water. A pale stain spreads over the old wood and shards of crystal glint in the sallow light. Hermione closes her eyes.

*

Ron starts up at the sound of shattering glass. He listens for a moment and closes his eyes again. He was up, up in the air and the wind was rushing madly along his arc across the sky. He reaches for the lightness again but the dream’s vanished. He sifts and prods the shapes in his head desperately but they’re all earthbound, hobbling carelessly through his mind, trampling everything in their way. Where is his broomstick, anyway? At the Burrow? No, no, Ron, don’t go there. Not the Burrow, empty in a way only the Burrow can be empty. He hears the shower running and wonders if it is Harry or Hermione. Under the mountain of blankets, it’s as if his legs aren’t there. In a sudden rush he feels again the bite of magic in his muscles, the burning, blinding ache. He didn’t bleed much, not after the first instance, but wishes he had. He’d have had something to show for all the pain afterwards.

Something rattles downstairs, probably the door. He blinks slowly. Someone else will have to get it, thank you very much, for he’s trapped for the moment, beneath the lumbering shapes in his head.

*

Harry walks down the stairs slowly, pulling on a jumper, his hair thoroughly damp. Sleeplessness has given him an odd clarity of mind, and he picks out every bend and mottle in the wood on the banister, every uneven rasp under his palm. The rapping on the door is persistent but even. He has a good idea who it might be. He takes off his glasses and rubs a hand over his eyes. The inmates of Ron’s tank gulp and bubble in their pale-green prison. Harry feels sorry for them suddenly, left to each other and their own reflections. Hermione’s been against the idea from the beginning but held her silence.

He gets to the bottom stair and blunders down the dark hallway. He straightens his glasses and pulls open the door.

“Hi, Luna.”

Bursts of colour and cold trail her and Harry catches a glimpse of a cluttered sky behind her.

“Goodness, Harry, you look awful.” She pulls off her bright green cloak and hangs it over the umbrella stand. “It’s freezing, close the door, will you?” She stamps her feet and rubs her hands together, her breath forming clouds in the air. “Oh, and I found these wedged into a brick outside the door.” She hands Harry a couple of damp envelopes. “Where is everyone?”

Harry looks at the runny St Mungo’s crest on the battered envelopes and shoves them in his pockets. “In bed, I suppose. Haven’t seen either of them yet.”

Luna’s fair hair is clamped down with a tasselled beanie, a knitted scarf wrapped tightly around her neck. Her gloves have tassels too, little woollen balls that bob with every small movement. Beneath her cloak she wears another knee-length coat, and underneath that what looks like a woollen jumper. Her feet are encased in tightly laced boots.

“Is it really that cold outside?” Harry gestures at her winter gear.

“Oh, it’ll freeze the crest off a white-horned trundledanger.”

At Harry’s raised eyebrow, she waves her hand vaguely.

“It’s a vulture-type bird that nests in the Karakoram range. You know, in Tibet, where it’s really cold. Anyway, why do you ask? Are you going anywhere?”

Harry takes off his glasses and rubs the lenses with a corner of his jumper. “No, not me. But it’s Hermione’s day to see her Mum.” He looks away.

“Oh.” Luna looks at him sympathetically. Harry rubs his arms briskly and turns towards the basement. “Come on, let’s go have some breakfast. And it’s much, much warmer in the kitchen.”

*

Hermione opens the kitchen door, holding it wide for Ron. A fire roars in the grate and the smell of frying and toast fills the air. Hesitant warmth tries out all the nooks and crannies in the room. The small window has been propped up fractionally to let smoke out faster. The ground is level with the bottom panel of glass, lined on the outside with a few bedraggled weeds and a breath of black mould spreading from the lone burnt tree in the backyard. Luna sits at the table, teasing Crookshanks with a tasselled glove. Ron gives her a wide grin.

“Hi, Luna.” He hobbles to a chair.

“Good morning, Ron. How’s your leg today?”

Hermione greets Luna and moves to the dresser to pull out plates, trying to smother a small smile. Harry catches her eye briefly over his shoulder, smirking. Only Luna can ask after Ron’s health and not get her head bitten off.

Ron grimaces. “Like a big lump of nothing. I hate this stupid crutch.” He reaches for the pot of coffee. “But it pains from time to time and they say it’s a good sign. I’ve another appointment at St Mungo’s this week. I’m waiting for them to confirm the time.”

Harry turns from the stove, rummaging in his pocket.

“That reminds me, Luna picked up the mail for us. St Mungo’s for both of you.”

He tosses one envelope across the table, holding the other in Hermione’s direction. She pretends not to notice, laying out plates and cutlery on the table. Harry crosses his arms and leans against the counter, still holding the letter out pointedly. Finally, she rolls her eyes and turns to him, snatching the envelope off his hand with a scowl. Harry turns back to the bacon.

“Friday, ten o’clock.” Ron groans. “And it’s that old codger Ethelbert who’s going to be there.”

“Healer Bellamy is the best in the field for magical impairments,” Hermione says loftily.

Ron glares. “All he does is prod and poke, and by the time I come home, it pains all the worse.” He accepts a mug of coffee from Luna.

“Besides, I’m not ‘impaired’, thank you very much. And if you think he’s so good, how come you turned down his offer of an Apprenticeship?” He takes a sip of coffee and waves an airy hand at the letter in Hermione’s hand. “And I see they’re still after you.”

Harry cuts across with a plate of eggs and bacon and sets it down on the table in great haste.

“Toast, Hermione?”

He’s sure she hasn’t forgiven him for last night but decides to risk severe damage to his vitals to prevent a small war and steers her firmly by the shoulders to a chair. Hermione complies reluctantly. Ron butters his toast with great nonchalance. Luna, who has been watching the exchange with mild interest, reaches for the marmalade.

“Of course you’re not impaired, Ron. I’m sure that’s not what Hermione meant. In fact, my dad says the curse the Dark Lord used on you is actually a ceremonial war curse in the ancient Pacific Islands. For them, it was actually an honour.”

Ron goggles over a hurried gulp of coffee. Luna elaborates.

“It’s like a bestowing of a sabbatical. When you’re a respected warrior and you’d been around a long time, keeping your tribe safe and fighting all their wars and all, they’d hold a ceremony for you and hit you with the Crippling Curse, so you get to stay home for a while. You know, enjoy all the finer things without feeling any guilt about not putting yourself in danger for your people. A sort of justification for taking time off.”

Ron gapes at her, fork halfway to his mouth.

“Forever?” Crookshanks tumbles around the room, engaged in a one-sided chase with one of Luna’s gloves.

“Of course not. Just for a while. And then the curse is lifted, once again ceremonially.”

She takes a bite of her toast with a small sigh. “It’s a pity we don’t know how to do that. But then, it seems you were hit with a modification of the original curse, so we don’t know how that works.”

Harry looks across at Hermione, aware of Luna breezily talking herself to a corner, a dark corner where no one wants to go. Especially the two of them.

Hermione takes the hint. In a corner of his mind, he notes that she is indeed still angry at him, but not as much he thought she’d be. “How is your dad, Luna? The Quibbler must be doing well, now that the Prophet’s almost vanished.”

Luna munches a bit of bacon. “Well, the Quibbler always held its own, you know, no matter what the Prophet was doin--ouch, Harry, are you all right?”

Harry rubs his eyes, looking blindly around him. He’d left the table to get more coffee and passed too close to the wall that held the old bolt-shooting grandfather clock. His glasses lie in a nest of shards on the floor.

He mutters under his breath, squinting as he makes his way back to his chair.

Hermione picks up the shattered frames. “We really have to get rid of that clock. Nothing in this house is more dangerous than that cursed thing.”

Harry thinks suddenly of the bike hidden upstairs and tries not to look guilty. Hermione looks around for her wand and spots it on a chair where she’d left it last night. She lays the glasses on the table and holds her wand at it, muttering a Reparo under her breath.

Nothing happens.

She spits out the charm again, a little louder this time, but the glasses remain shattered. Annoyed, she holds the frames up and tries again. Still nothing happens.

“Oh, the stupid thing!” She passes the wand to Harry, along with the glasses. Harry mutters the charm and the frames assemble back together. He puts them on and sets the wand aside, glancing at Hermione.

“Thanks.”

“I didn’t do anything,” she hisses. She moves away to get coffee. Silence coils like a rope until Luna tugs it down.

“I wouldn’t worry about it too much if I were you, Hermione. Spells and charms have been doing very strange things lately.” She ignores Hermione’s smouldering scowl and takes a bite of toast. “Dad thinks it’s because magic’s running out.”

Ron splutters on his coffee. “Magic doesn’t run out!”

Hermione returns to the table, rolling her eyes. “Of course it doesn’t. Don’t be silly, Luna. Magic’s not something that runs out like, like coal or water or something.” She sets down the pot with a thud and coffee sloshes over the rim. “It’s too farfetched even for you,” she mutters under her breath.

Luna gazes at her with maddening serenity. Harry feels laughter struggling in his throat despite the tension in the room. He throws another log in the fire and returns to the table. The fire roars and a glossy skin of warmth stretches over the table.

“Of course, I wouldn’t expect you to be familiar with the idea, Hermione, as well-read as you are.” Her tone is entirely without inflection and therefore offence, and Harry watches Hermione surreptitiously as she struggles to stay frowning. “It’s not something mentioned in many books. Remember how there was next to nothing about Horcruxes when you were researching them? Well, this is like that. It’s not something people want to think about.”

Luna reaches for a napkin and stalls Hermione’s next question. “I only know about it because Dad is friends with an Unspeakable from the Ministry who’s doing some work on it.” She starts as if she’s just remembered something and turns to Harry.

“That reminds me that I almost forgot that that’s why I’m here.”

“And here I was thinking you were here just to see me.” Ron grins and spears the middle of an egg.

“Of course I am, Ron.” She pats his arm. “Harry, Dad’s friend’s speciality is the Room of Magic in the Department of Mysteries--you did know there was such a room there, didn’t you? So, anyway, she asked Dad--because he knew you and I were friends, you see--if I could ask you if you wouldn’t mind helping her out with her work--”

“No!” Ron’s and Hermione’s mugs slam on the table in unison. Luna, her eyes stretching their limits, looks around in consternation. Harry sets his fork down and ducks to pull Luna’s glove from between Crookshanks’ paws.

“Absolutely not.” Ron mauls a bit of bacon emphatically.

“After the way they treated Harry, Harry doesn’t want anything to do with the Ministry, do you Harry?” Hermione takes a fortifying gulp of coffee.

“Exactly. Luna, you do know they blame him for London burning down?”

“They refused to give the slightest bit of support when we were looking for the Horcruxes--”

“And despite all he did to save their sorry hides, that swine Scrimgeour refused Harry a Ministry patrol when we found out Snape and Malfoy were still at large--”

“His resources are stretched too thin, he told Tonks--”

“Resources, my arse! He doesn’t have any, except a bunch of morons running the place, but the least he could’ve done is show Harry some support--”

“Oh, but he was peeved you see, when Harry didn’t want to go into Auror training, he--”

“Can Harry remind everyone that Harry’s sitting right here?”

His ears ringing, he glares at the two of them. Ron gulps guiltily and mutters. “Sorry, mate.” Hermione looks away. Luna sits up straight in her chair. A stray cat passes across the window and Crookshanks rushes to scratch ineffectually at the glass.

“Well.” She dabs at her mouth with a napkin. “I had no idea you felt so strongly about it,” she says faintly. Harry wonders vaguely if he’s ever seen Luna thrown or surprised.

“I don’t.” He returns to his breakfast savagely. Hermione opens her mouth to speak and he stops her, without even looking up.

“Don’t, Hermione. Luna, I don’t know, I’m not sure. Why do they want me? If this is some sort of publicity stunt cooked up to make the Ministry look good, well, you know what I’m going to say. Can you get me more information?”

Luna looks again at Ron and Hermione and clears her throat. “Actually, all Dad told me was that it was something to do with the theory of depletion of magic.” She raises her voice to be heard above Hermione’s disgruntled muttering. “I’m sure I can get him to find out more.”

Harry nods and speaks around a mouthful of eggs. “Thanks. If it’s something worthwhile, I’m sure I wouldn’t mind.”

Ron frowns at his tepid coffee. Hermione takes her half-eaten breakfast to the sink. Crookshanks trails after her. Harry lays down his fork and props his face on his hands.

Luna reaches for her glove, now a little bedraggled after Crookshanks’ attentions. She doesn’t seem to mind.

“Did you really turn down the offer for entry into Auror ranks, Harry?”

Harry grunts.

“But why? You’d make a great Auror too--I mean, you already practically are…”

Harry lifts a shoulder and reaches for a lie. “I’m sick of Scrimgeour and his lackeys.”

Luna makes a small sound of assent and straightens up. “Oh well. I’d better be going. I’m meant to be doing some interviews for Dad. Thank you for the breakfast, Harry.”

“I’ll walk with you, Luna,” Hermione says quietly, drying her hands on a tea-towel. Ron and Harry turn to look at her. Feeling their eyes on her, she colours a little.

“Where are you going?” Ron pipes up. A small gust slips under the window and the flames shiver.

“Home.” She doesn’t meet anyone’s gaze.

“Oh. I forgot today’s Sunday.”

Ron looks cowed for a moment. Then he glances at the clock.

“But you’ve only just had breakfast. Lunch is still a long while away.”

Harry winces.

“I’m not Apparating, Ron. I’m catching the train.” Her voice is quiet and brooks no questions.

She turns to Luna. “Could you give me a minute to grab my things?”

Luna nods, pulling on her gloves. “Of course. I’ll be at the door.” She turns to Ron. “Bye, Ron. Take care.” She takes his head in both her hands and plants a kiss on the top of his head. At any other time, the look of Ron’s face would have made Harry smile. “Bye, Harry. I’ll be in touch.” She smiles at him and follows Hermione out the door. When the door shuts behind them, Harry pushes away his cooling breakfast, takes off his glasses, and lays his head on the table, in the cradle of his crossed arms.

--end chapter two--

## 4. Chapter Three

Disclaimer: They belong to JKR, I’m only playing.

A/N: Thanks muchly to beta, miconic, and all of you for R&R.

***

--Chapter Three--

Just when her eyes have sunk deep into darkness and her body into the languor of the slow-moving carriage, the train lurches to a stop. She startles awake and looks about her wildly. Seeing the signage outside--peeling paint and large black letters--she jumps up, gathers her coat and duffel bag, rushes down the aisle and hops down to the platform just as the flag snaps smartly and the whistle blows.

The train pulls away, trailing a comet’s tail of empty wrappers, newspapers and other station debris.

The wind pulls at her hair and drains her face of all feeling. She steps out of the station and follows the avenue of squat cypresses--entirely too green for winter--her feet crunching on fallen sprigs. The pressed fragrance makes her sneeze and her eyes water. She rummages for a handkerchief and settles for a corner of her scarf. Pulling her coat on with difficulty, she tries to walk at an even pace.

But the walk is long and the wind strong. Station Avenue bursts into the main street with greetings in graffiti. Demented scarves and hats dash across the square. Her bag slaps heavily against her thigh.

Her mother keeps a tidy house, tidier than Hermione remembers it ever being. She also holds her head high, her back straight and smiles readily. Dust never gathers inside, the windows are always clear. She keeps the garden trimmed for winter, the gutters clean, the driveway swept. She sees patients as usual, shops as usual and wakes and sleeps at the usual time. She sees the same friends, reads the same paper, walks the neighbour’s Labrador the same time each day.

But the thing is, nothing is the same.

Suddenly Hermione wants to go back, just for one Sunday; to go back home to Grimmauld Place and spend the afternoon buried in her room, the world tuned out and turned away. She stops and looks over her shoulder, but over the hedges and roofs of the square, the raised platform stands empty. She can’t stand the thought of waiting for the next train. An empty railway station, she’s found out this winter, is the emptiest place on earth. Maybe she could Apparate back to London, just this once.

But then bile rises in her throat and a shivering begins in her belly, so she tucks her head down and begins to cut through the wind.

*

Harry throws the window open despite the cold. The wind snaps jaws at garbage cans and loose gutters along the street, rain biting experimentally over rooftops. Charlie took Buckbeak to Romania long ago but the smell of droppings and forgone meals persists faintly on damp days. The room’s now taken up by forgotten sentries of another bygone life; Gryffindor robes, boxes of stationary, a couple of cauldrons among other school things. Ron sprawls in an old armchair draped with a Gryffindor scarf and pokes half-heartedly at a pile of books. Harry looks on for a moment and Ron catches his eye.

“It’s weird, isn’t it? She doesn’t seem to care about these anymore.”

Harry grunts and lifts a shoulder, resolving to put the books away somewhere more respectable.

“She reads other stuff,” he says defensively, though he’s not sure what he’s being defensive of.

“Yeah, Muggle stuff. Which is different.” Ron tries for a scoff but comes away with a petulant whine. A gust of wind sends a piece of parchment scurrying across the floor. Ron rubs his arms briskly.

“So, anyway, what’ve you got to show me? It’s freezing here.”

Harry runs a hand through his hair and clears his throat.

“Okay, well. Here goes.” He strides over to a dark shape in the far corner and rolls back and lifts away the heavy brocade curtain draped over it.

“Bloody hell!”

Ron drags himself forward in the chair. Harry pulls the final corner of fabric away with an awkward flourish and rests his hands on his hips.

“What do you think?”

His grin grows wider and wider. Light from the open doorway and window kindles a sudden gleam in his heart. Total astonishment whips away the clouds from Ron’s face. It’s as if they’re boys again together, eleven years old.

Ron reaches blindly for his crutch and raises himself up. “Is that--really--is that what I think it is?”

Harry hasn’t had much time but he’s managed to give the bike a thorough brush-down. The black body shines like new. There’s no trace of dust or insect nests; a damp cloth and a couple of faltering spells have taken care of years of debris caught in the wheels. The flat tyres have been fixed, once again with a charm. The mirror, headlights and windshield are immaculate, and silver gleams on the exhaust and fender, now dent-free.

Ron leans heavily against his crutch, a hand hovering reverently over the polished seat.

“It’s amazing, Harry. How the hell did it get here? It is Sirius’ bike, isn’t it? Where has it been all this time?”

Still grinning, Harry walks around a cardboard box containing a few grease-stained rags among other cleaning gear.

“Long story. Short version is that I found it at Hogwarts. And yes, it’s Sirius’ bike--hang on, how do you know that?”

“Hogwarts? What were you doing there?”

“Never mind that, nothing important. Important thing is I found this. Remember that broken statue under the stairs to the Astronomy tower? Some Greek god, I dunno. Anyway, that’s where this was.”

“What, just waiting there for you to find?” Ron hobbles around, intent to look at the bike from all angles. His face suddenly has colour.

“No, I don’t think so. I don’t know, really, how long it’s been there or why or how, I dunno.”

He rummages in a box and brings out the scroll case. “And I found this too. Not too sure what it is…” He holds it out, but Ron’s more interested in the bike. “So, anyway, I brought the bike over--”

“Did you--oh bloody hell--you flew it over, didn’t you--”

“Of course, how else would--?”

“And it was all right? I can’t believe it!”

“Yeah, it was fine, a bit creaky but it flew all right. Like your dad’s Ford Anglia, I guess.”

A pause fills the air.

“Yeah, it is, actually.” Ron looks away, fiddling with the talisman around the handlebars. His eyes shed some of its sheen. He clears his throat.

“When Fred and I were sorting Dad’s things, we found some diagrams and instructions Sirius had given Dad. Ages ago, just when they’d got to know each other--the early days of the Order, I suppose, judging from the dates. Anyway, the instructions were about how the bike was made to fly. And Fred said they were the same sort of spells used on the Ford Anglia.” He looks at Harry, an apology in his eyes. A curtain hovers over his previous fair mood.

“There’s a photograph too. Dad and Sirius with the bike.” A corner of his mouth lifts in a brief smile. “It actually looks exactly like that,” he says, gesturing. “Pretty buff.”

Harry walks over to the window. The wind’s died down, a touch of rain glistening on the cobbled street. The rustle and tapping of the starlings in the roof are louder here in the upper floors. A yellow raincoat sprints blindly across the street, head down.

“So, what’s this?” Ron tugs at the small bead he’s been worrying.

Harry walks over and looks at the bead in Ron’s hand. “I don’t know. It was there when I found the bike. I think it’s charmed into place…I couldn’t get it out to clean.” He stares at the small double face, and something slides into place. “Actually, that looks like the statue.”

Ron looks at him, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“Well, the statue had two faces. And this has two faces too. So maybe they’re meant to be of the same person--god, whatever.”

“Ahh.” Ron releases the pendant and clatters around the bike slowly. He leans against the window, his head almost touching the top frame, the crutch leaning awkwardly against a leg. “A mystery worthy of Hermione.”

Harry remains quiet. The room is suddenly gloomy, with Ron blocking the light. Something scuttles above the ceiling, raining down a spray of dust.

“You haven’t told her.”

Ron’s eyes are narrow and his voice quiet. Harry doesn’t know how or when, but Ron’s lately developed an even, steely tone that Harry, much to his irritation, has discovered on several occasions to be quite effective. He rubs the back of his neck, trying to formulate an answer.

“And you’re not planning to, are you? Not any time soon,” Ron persists.

Harry recounts his reasons silently, but under Ron’s glare, they seem insubstantial.

“Look, I’m in trouble with her already, all right? I will tell her but not right now, not with her ready to bite my head off anyway.” He drags an upturned crate closer and drops down onto it.

“Can you imagine how mad she’ll be if I tell her I flew the bike from Hogwarts?”

“Not to mention that you’d been sneaking off to Hogwarts while she’s worried sick about two murderers being after you,” Ron adds smoothly.

Harry turns his head aside. Raindrops track the slow throb of silence. Clouds of breath blossom in the cold air.

“Have you noticed that she’s way more--way more…” He flails, not wanting to say it out loud, as if it’s somehow a traitorous thing to say. Ron has no such qualms.

“Way more paranoid than she used to be at the worst times during the w--during the last few months?”

“She was never paranoid.”

“All right. Protective?”

Harry grimaces. He wonders why it sounds reasonable coming out of Ron’s mouth and yet blasphemous in his own mind.

Ron crosses his arms, looking over his shoulder at the street. “She’s just lost her Dad, Harry.”

“Yeah. And so have you.” It’s out of his mouth before he can blink.

The curtain flicks firmly into place. Ron raises himself on his crutch.

“Yeah, well, it’s different.”

He hobbles across the room, resolutely looking away. Harry opens his mouth to apologise, but words have dried up. He looks down at his feet, his hands hanging awkwardly between his knees. Ron’s uneven footsteps manoeuvre their way out of the room and down the stairs slowly. The house rattles like a handful of marbles in a wooden box. His insides creaking, Harry gets up to pull the old brocade curtain over the flying bike once again.

*

Outside the door, Hermione takes a few deep breaths. Her face and eyes are raw. The cold’s driven a blade into her lungs. She rummages in her bag, pulls out a key and opens the door.

Warmth. And the smell of a roast and something sweet mingling. She pulls off her gloves and drops her bag. The curtains are drawn. A tall glass with a sprig of Christmas roses stands on the mantelpiece. Framed photographs range on either side of the vase; she takes great care to not look at those. She pulls her coat off and hangs it on a hook near the door, grimacing faintly at the long dark coat that hangs there already.

“Mum?” she calls. She walks through to the kitchen, trailing a disconsolate hand over polished furniture.

“Oh, hello darling. Wasn’t expecting you so early.” Her mother sets a greasy tray on the counter and draws Hermione in for a quick hug. Her short straight hair and tall frame is in complete contrast to Hermione’s build and colouring. It was she and her Dad who were a pair.

“How are you, my love? You’re looking quite windblown. It must be terrible outside.” She picks up the tray and drops it in the sink. Her movements are brisk and light, the kitchen airy.

“Yeah, Hermione. Looking a bit pale there. Your boyfriends not looking after you?” Nick grins across the newspaper he’s spread out on the table.

“Hey, Nick.” Hermione drops to a chair. “Homeless once again, I see.”

Nick spreads his arms wide. “Hey, all the world’s my home. Especially when they make roast for lunch. Isn’t that right, Aunt Helen?” The radio’s on, tuned to midday news. Helen turns the volume down and wipes her hands on her apron.

“Well, yes, this one turned up bright and early today too.” She nods at Nick. “Ask him why.” She moves to the electric kettle and flicks the switch on.

Nick sticks out his tongue. “Look what I got.” A silver ring sits within a bed of painfully red flesh. “It got infected, and I was running a fever all last night. But Aunt Helen here fixed it all up.”

Hermione looks at him curiously, swallowing down distaste. “I wouldn’t have thought of you as the type, Nick. And how can you stand to eat with that thing in your mouth? Or speak, for that matter?”

“If you mean the type that’s always out to try out something new, then that’s me.” He winks. Hermione snorts and reaches for a page of the newspaper.

“And I am now happily inducted into the folds of all wearers of tongue-rings,” Nick continues. “That reminds me, when do you plan to invite me into your magical abode?”

Hermione scans the gardening lift-out intently. “It’s not my house.”

Nick snaps the paper smartly. “Yours, Harry’s, it’s pretty much the same thing, isn’t it? What do you say, Aunt Helen?”

“Enough, Nick. For someone running a high fever, you’re remarkably chirpy. You see, Hermione, he has no trouble whatsoever with speech.” Helen wipes the counter and checks the oven.

Hermione turns the page coolly. “How’s your week been, Mum?”

Helen begins to recount her week in selective detail. Nick goes back to scanning the paper. From time to time, Hermione feels his eyes on her but when she looks up, he seems engrossed in the paper. Her irritability, at a persistent buzz since she spotted his coat behind the door, notches up a little.

Nick’s been in and out of the Granger household since he was seven and Hermione no more than a toddler. He shares his uncle’s brown eyes but with a disconcerting slant to them, always darting and curious like a pair of feelers on a grasshopper in an otherwise contained face. Outwardly he’s always groomed and neatly poised, all tucked in like a well-maintained suburban garden, inconspicuous and unremarkable.

Finally, Helen leaves the kitchen to gather a dose of antibiotics for Nick. Hermione lays the paper down.

“What?” she snaps.

Nick grins and makes a great show of clearing his throat. “Does the name Rufus Scrimgeour mean anything to you?”

Hermione starts and regrets it immediately. Nick carries on.

“I see that it does. Well, let me just say that I have made a friend in a high place, and have been given an exclusive tour into the wonderful world of magic.”

Hermione opens her mouth. Nick holds up a peremptory hand, mischief glinting in his eyes. A lock of curly brown hair--so like her own yet not as recalcitrant--falls across his forehead and he smoothly tucks it back in place.

“Of course, naturally you want to know all about it. You see, I have this cousin who I only recently discovered is a witch. Imagine my surprise, but also the intrigue--a witch in the family! Can such a thing be true?”

He clasps his hands over the newspaper. Hermione grinds her teeth, trying to keep her facial expressions in check.

“So naturally, I ask her to introduce me to her world, her friends, her fellow witches and wizards. But alas, my dear cousin does not think it a good idea.” Nick makes a sudden expansive gesture. “But I am a resourceful soul, an excellent sleuth--”

“Oh, stop the act!” Hermione slaps the table loudly, the newspaper crackling beneath her hands. “What did you do?”

Nick looks delighted. He chuckles, showing a quantity of perfect teeth. “Oh, all right. What did I do? Since you were so coy about telling me anything, I wrote a letter.”

“To who?”

“Rufus Scrimgeour.”

“How did you know about him?”

“I didn’t. I just addressed my letter to the Minister of Magic. I gathered that much about the politics among wizardry from the measly information you gave me.”

“And how did you send it?”

“The normal way. It was just one more envelope in the pile of letters I drop off every day for the Library. Once again, refer to the said measly information. You know, when you told me about how you got your first letter to Hogwarts, I thought it should work the other way too.”

Hermione props her forehead in her hands and contemplates the pattern on the tablecloth. The oven emits a loud ring and Nick jumps up to turn it off. From behind, he looks like a younger version of her father, slight but strong, albeit a little taller.

“Look, I meant no harm,” he says, returning to the table.

“And I don’t think I did any. Besides, don’t you think it’s a bit unfair that you’re still trying to keep us poor Muggles--” he makes quotation marks in the air “--in the dark after your activities almost flattened our city? Scrimgeour wrote back and invited me to a tour of the Ministry and Diagon Alley--did I say that right? He met me briefly, then got one of his assistants to give me a tour.”

Hermione wonders about the cold prickle running up the back of her neck. She tries to compose herself, to wear a bland face. She can hardly blame Nick; she herself is responsible for whetting his curiosity with her reluctance to talk about anything magical. But her reasons are her own and she doesn’t care to give them substance, not even in her mind.

“So what did you think of it--us?” She manages to keep her voice even.

“Well…” Nick stretches his legs under the table, leans back in the chair and crosses his arms over his chest. He cocks his head to one side as if considering a particularly puzzling Picasso to which he’s just unearthed a clue.

“I was actually quite disappointed.” He shrugs at Hermione’s raised eyebrow.

“You are all too civilised, all so modern, so…proper. I mean, yes, I should have known since I know you, but…” Hermione refuses to rise to the bait and gazes at him with her chin propped up on her palm.

“I expected blood and hoods and ritual sacrifice and all that sort of stuff but your magic is too clean. Sure, some of you dress and do things in a decidedly odd manner, but that’s got nothing to do with the essence of your magic. It’s very, what shall I say, mundane. Hmm. Maybe it’s like medicine. You know, the profession of medicine used to be all blood and gore and stabs in the dark, cures worse than the disease and all, very mysterious in the early days. But now it’s all clean and metallic and, and…white. The same practice but time has changed it.”

Hermione attempts a sneer. “Mum’s right, that foul ring’s not hampering your speech at all.”

For a moment, she wants to set him right, tell him about the blood and gore and stabs in the dark, of hoods and sacrifices, of fear and hopelessness. About the green curse, or the other one, the one that can hurt you till you’re senseless, or the one that can cripple, or any number of other things…But then the desire wilts, the indignation short-lived like midwinter sunlight.

“Oh, that’s another thing.” Nick stick out his tongue. “This is not just any ring. It’s special.” He wiggles his eyebrows and sticks his tongue out even further at Hermione’s expression. “I got it at a fancy little shop in Diagon Alley.”

“You what?”

“Business isn’t exactly thriving in Diagon Alley, I must say, with so much of it burnt down. But this little shop was open and it had a bit of everything plus a qualified artisan for this kind of thing. It’s got my name magically engraved in it, ‘Nicholas Hatch’…I’d show you, but you look like you’re going to be sick already…” He winks. “You probably know him, the guy who did this for me…then again you mightn’t. A short, tatty man, reeked of smoke--tobacco I think, I didn’t know that people even smoked tobacco any--”

“Oh, Nick!” Hermione drops her face into her hands.

Helen enters the kitchen just that very moment, arms loaded with the contents of a medicine cabinet, trailing a loop of loose bandage behind her.

“I just dropped the first-aid box. Nick, why did you leave a pile of books in the corner? I tripped over it and oh, what a mess!” She drops her load on the kitchen table and Hermione rushes to make room.

“All of this stuff is probably useless now, been on the floor and everywhere, and I don’t know where to put them now! I don’t have a spare box.”

Nick gathers up the bandage and Hermione gets on her knees under the table, chasing small sticky bottles tumbling over the table.

“I’m sorry, sorry, the books are for Hermione--and don’t worry Aunt Helen, just a flick of Hermione’s wand and your cabinet will be as good as new-- ”

“Shut up, Nick--”

“Oh, come on, one little demonstr--”

“I don’t have my wand, so shut up.”

“My, my, for a witch to travel without her--”

“Stop it, both of you! Hermione, darling, I’m sure there are some cardboard boxes in your father’s study, could you get one for me, please? And Nick, you might have to run to the chemist for your antibiotics now that I’ve ruined them--let me write out a prescription. Lunch is going to be quite late, dears…”

*

The room is dark. It doesn’t smell of disuse or lack of fresh air. On the contrary, it smells like a pause, faintly of tea and polished wood and muddy shoes, as if her Dad’s just stepped out not a minute ago. She stands at the door, her hands flexing at her sides. It’s not as pristine as the rest of the house, nor completely disorganised. He was a man of method and kept track of things that mattered. He was careless with food crumbs, much to her mother’s despair, but careful not to get any of it on his papers and the keyboard. He didn’t tidy the shelves bursting with books all that often but his desk was always ordered. Things have been moved, she can tell. His Wellingtons no longer stand at the French window and the couch has been pushed to the far end of the room. The curtains have been replaced. The new ones release less light, swallowing down the sun as soon as it touches the window. She doesn’t know what to feel.

Should she feel angry at the changes that have been made, or sad at the things that have been left the same?

A hand touches her shoulder and she starts.

“Darling, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking when I asked you to look for a box.” Her mother squeezes her shoulder, her cheek against Hermione’s hair. They stay close for a moment and then a hitch begins in Hermione’s belly and she moves away, into the room. Trying to steady herself, she sits down on the couch. Helen follows her.

After a moment, Hermione regains her voice. “What do you plan to do with the room?”

Helen looks at her, surprised.

“Well--I--I thought I’d leave it as it is for a time, until you, until--”

“Until I get used to him being gone?” Hermione shakes her head at some thought she cannot bear to voice.

Helen sighs and comes to sit beside Hermione.

“I meant to say, until you make a decision about where you’re going to live, what you’re going to do with your life.”

“Oh.” Reddening a little, she glances briefly at her mother. “Sorry.” She draws her knees up on the sofa.

Helen leans back. “It’s all right.” A dark coloured throw rug decorates the sofa, made of a soft material. Hermione presses her cheek against it. The room has a low ceiling and as a result has always seemed cosier than anywhere else in the house. The far wall holds a few shelves with various bits and pieces which Hermione recognises as her own handiwork from aeons ago. A large paper spider from nursery and a cross-stitch castle. An old Christmas garland made of dried holly and forgotten toys from an unremembered play group. The bookcase too holds a portion of her life; primers and readers from her time in Muggle school. There are various photographs too, propped up haphazardly on any available surface and she doesn’t have to look close to see who’s in them.

They are not pieces of her life, but remnants of his.

How can she tell her Mum that one of the reasons she wouldn’t move back home is this very room, which sits in her heart with its door always swinging to and fro, its darkness and love always more alluring than the life she has now?

She sighs and hugs her knees, glancing at her mother. Helen stares at the ceiling, her head tilted back against the sofa. Her eyes have shadows beneath them and her skin looks taut, held together with effort. Her hands lie slack on her lap, her ring glittering in the gloom. Hermione wonders what Harry and Ron would be doing. Harry might be making lunch, Ron cleaning out his despicable freshwater prison. She hasn’t told her mother about how Malfoy came calling and how it was understandable because Harry had killed his father. The house would be quiet and dark, full of soft shadows. There would be no need to talk, despite all that remains to be said.

“There’s no hurry, is there, Mum?”

Helen smiles. “Of course not. There’s all the time in the world.”

--end chapter three--

## 5. Chapter Four

Disclaimer: They belong to JKR, I’m only playing.

A/N: This chapter and next probably should be just a single long chapter, but I’m wary of long chapters. So this week you get two for the trouble of one. Once again, smooches to beta the lovely Ai, and thank you ALL for R&R. And con-crit is VERY welcome. Speaking of which, I’ve left a couple of anonymous reviews unanswered, simply because I don’t know if you’d know if I did. I mean, PK doesn’t do email alerts for Anon review-replies, does it? But thank you, all the same!

***

--Chapter Four--

Hermione sees him leaning against the wall in a dark corner as the train draws into King’s Cross. She gathers her bags, tightens her coat and picks her way wearily through the dispersing crowd. He spots her immediately. His shoulders ease up and he slides his hands in his pockets, walking up to meet her.

She’s used to this now and knows it’s her fault. He’s paying her in kind.

He’s in a long overcoat with the collar turned up, making him appear even leaner and taller. His face still bears traces of cuts and bruises; he’s too far for her to see them right now but she knows exactly when and where and how deep. He has the body of someone trained to move quickly and lightly, mostly to inflict pain; to hurt before he’s hurt, kill before he’s killed. Months before the war, the Order made sure that Harry knew how to fight with or without magic, and not necessarily to defend.

But his hair still falls into his eyes and when he smiles, the walls in his eyes fall away.

She tries to hide her gratefulness as he crosses the platform, summoning an expression of great disapproval.

“Harry, what are you doing out here? This is not sa--”

“You missed the train.”

“Yeah, and I caught the next one just fifteen minutes later.”

“You also left your wand at home.”

The disembodied station voice saves her having to reply. Harry never comments on her sudden aversion to magic, unlike everybody else. He takes the heavy bag full of books from her hand and hoists it over his shoulder. The voice chimes off and a whistle blows. He sighs, slipping a contrite hand into hers and the cold recoils back into the night, darkness recedes a step.

Only four platforms are back in operation so far. The station’s been colonised by long green construction netting and a shipload of metal. Rain’s fogged the high windows. The yellow brick leaches all luminosity from the overhead lights, throwing up a sallow glare. Weary waiting faces breathe out clouds. He leads her out into clear air, ducking around netting, pushing through ragged crowds.

Out in the street, they slow down. The night’s full of noises without origin or direction; low hummings and shouts, faint conversations. She thinks she should let go of his hand but doesn’t want to. Words have been so blind between them lately, bumping into raw spots and staggering down dead ends but this touch seems simplicity itself.

“So how come you were late for the train? And how’s your Mum?”

He hoists the bag up higher on his shoulder and the movement tightens his fingers around hers in reflex. She recounts for him Nick’s introduction to Scrimgeour and Mundungus and the events of the afternoon. A car passes them, taking the slick road slowly. It’s a non-residential street that backs up against a row of offices so there’s little traffic on a Sunday evening. Streetlights perforate the darkness. She finishes her tale with a tired yawn and they walk in silence for a few minutes.

“So, you think Scrimgeour’s up to something. Something to do with Muggles,” Harry says finally. Hermione finds that if she tips her head just so, it fits perfectly against his shoulder. Beneath the smell of his familiarity, she catches a trace of something oily that she can’t put a finger on.

“You know, Hedwig brought the Quibbler today--just after you left actually--and apparently the Muggle prime minister’s hounding Scrimgeour for answers. It seems as if the memory charms weren’t all that…effective. Many Muggles have come forward and several newspapers are running stories.”

Hermione rubs her eyes. “The memory charms were a stupid idea from the beginning. It wasn’t some odd leak of magic, it was a complete catastrophe. Some people would never forget no matter how much mass Obliviating went on. How many people did we end up killing anyway?”

He draws a sharp breath like a string pulled through a fresh gash. A moment passes and she waits for his rebuke. It never comes. He continues as if she said nothing out of the ordinary, which suits her fine.

“Do you think Scrimgeour knows that Nick’s your cousin?”

“I don’t know.” She looks at him. “Would it mean anything if he did?” She yawns again.

“Nick’s never been my favourite person but I have a feeling he could be heading for trouble.”

He lifts a shoulder. “I wonder…is Scrimgeour just making token Muggle friends who just might come in handy to prove a point, or is he trying to keep tabs? I mean, do you reckon he thinks Nick knows more about what happened than the average Muggle?”

Hermione walks in silence for a moment. “I don’t know.” She sighs. “Nick doesn’t know anything in great detail. I had to give him some sort of explanation…but he knows just the basics.”

“Just the basics?”

“Yes. Just the basics.” Her voice even, she gestures with a carefully vague hand.

The road veers right and becomes narrower, the footpath dropping away.

“What’s that on your face?” She squints at him. He turns to look at her.

“What?”

“You have something on your cheek…just here...” Her finger comes away with a smudge of something black. “Is that…grease?”

Harry drops her hand to rub at his cheek. “Ah, must be just dust. I was just cleaning out Buckbeak’s room.” He rubs harder than necessary. “I…um…I boxed up your books. They were getting damp and tatty from just lying there.”

“Oh. Thanks.” She wraps her arms around herself. For a moment there, she thought he was going to come clean. But as long as his nightly excursions don’t start again, she thinks she’ll try not to mind.

Secrets have a certain taste, slightly vinegary at the back of her throat, filling up her mouth like bile if prodded too much, burning when forced back down. And the word covers a multitude of silences--omissions, denials, a million ways of not saying something.

Suddenly, she makes up her mind.

“Harry, there’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.”

Her voice is quiet but determined. He senses danger. They’re only meters from Number 12. Lights are few and far between here; no matter how many times they’re lit up, no matter how strong the spells are, every night several burn out.

They pause and he looks at her. She takes a deep breath.

“I think…I think we should tell Ron exactly what happened. At--at Hogwarts.”

He heaves a sigh and slides the bag full of books off his shoulder, pushing his hands deep in his pockets. A light falters deep in the house. Many things happened at Hogwarts but he knows exactly what she’s referring to.

“Exactly what happened?”

“Yes, exactly what happened.”

“Which is?”

She holds his eyes. “This isn’t a game, Harry.”

“No. Of course not. It’s a punishment, isn’t it? For all three of us.”

“Don’t be silly.”

He picks the bag up again and walks to the door. The steps are still damp but he doesn’t care. He sits down and continues as if she’d never spoken.

“Well, seeing as I’m the one responsible for exactly what happened, punish me. Ron doesn’t need to be tortured too.”

“Harry, please don’t be so drama--”

“Nor you, for that matter.”

She walks over, her arms tight around her chest, clutching her handbag. She regrets starting the conversation now; she hates this spot, these stairs. This is where they found her Dad, as they Apparated home in the wee hours of the morning after Harry killed Voldemort.

The door at Harry’s back heaves open suddenly and bangs shut again, just as soon. They startle for a moment, then silence settles again. A few lights blink in the other houses along the street, night dripping sooty yellow over rain-slick surfaces. Harry takes his glasses off and grinds his eyes with the heels of palms.

“Do you really think it’s going to make Ron feel better? It’ll probably be the worst thing we ever say to each other.”

She looks away.

“Do you think that just by keeping quiet we’ll make it go away? That by doing nothing we’ll forget it ever happened?” The door opens and shuts again, loud and irate.

He looks squarely at her, his voice quiet. “It’s never going to go away. You know that.”

She refuses to let him change the subject, to drag her somewhere she doesn’t have the courage to go. “Can you honestly say that you won’t be thinking of…that night, every time you look at Ron for the rest of your life?”

“Ron isn’t going to be crippled for the rest of his life, Hermione.”

She winces. “That still doesn’t make it right.”

“It’s merciful.”

“To who? To Ron, or you?”

“Why is this such a problem for you? It’s got nothing to do with Ron, is it?”

“It’s got everything to do with Ro--”

“Really, Hermione, why is it such a big--”

“Because it IS a problem--”

“Why do you treat it like some dirty, despicable thing--”

“Oh that is so--why do you have to always twist--”

“What the fuck is going on here?”

The door’s wrenched open and Ron teeters at the doorway, glaring at one, then the other. A faint whiff of Firewhisky mingles with the cold air and musty smell of the house.

“Whatever you’re screaming about, can you fucking do it inside? This fucking door’s been banging open at every ferreting mice and beetle and bloody bird all day and it’s driving me bonkers! I’ve had to check at least a dozen times to make sure no one’s trying to blast us all off! And then you two decide to have a fucking shouting match out here and if I have to come check on that door one more time I swear I’ll blast the bloody thing off its bloody hinge--just--get inside!”

Sighing, Hermione picks up the bag Harry set down and moves into the house. Harry follows in silence. Still grumbling under his breath, Ron shuts the door.

*

The house continues to simmer through the week. Meals are suffered in silence. They have no visitors apart from Hedwig who bears a scroll from Luna. Rain and sleet drive the sun off and afterwards, the street languishes in pale, bruised evening light. Harry spends his time up on the roof, freezing. Hermione hardly leaves her room, a dozen Muggle books scattered haphazardly on the floor.

There are numerous things about his crutch that Ron finds unforgiving; the way it digs under his arm, the way it makes him lurch rather than walk, the way it’s become indispensable. Then there’s the otherworldly rattle it makes through the house as he tries to go about the necessary, most natural of tasks. Tasks that should not have to be this difficult, complicated, damn near impossible--ones such as spying on one’s two best friends.

When he woke up in St Mungo’s one indistinct morning after…everything, he found Harry and Hermione on either side of his bed. Hermione sat by the window, staring out and Harry was sprawled in an armchair, head cupped in one hand. Neither noticed him. They looked like they’d been up for days, their eyes gritty with things that would take him a while to remember. He felt like he was strapped to the bed by his own body. He counted three breaths, blinked, and said hey. There was a start and flurry, and then a look--a quick flare of miserable, helpless complicity thrown across the bed at each other, then folded and tucked away neatly before they turned to him.

Ron’s been on the prowl for this look ever since. It’s made brief appearances but he’s only ever caught the wind off its hem as it whipped around corners, out of sight, vanishing down pathways not meant for him. And he’s sure The Look’s responsible for whatever’s eating them up right now.

He’s not blind. He sees things they don’t, things as they are, but lately his crutch has been getting in the way.

If he can’t watch them without being heard from miles away, how is he supposed to figure out what’s going on?

So he cleans out his tank and holds a lonely naming ceremony for his fish. It’s been more than a month, but he wanted to be sure the names fit. He names the even-tempered golden mollies Josephine and Angus, though he’s never sure which is which. The feisty fighting betta he names Gogol, after the author of a Muggle book he’s seen among Hermione’s collection. With all this, he tries to drive the anxiety away, telling himself that Friday--the visit to his Healer--is still a long way away.

*

Ethelbert Bellamy’s office at St Mungo’s is a repository of bones. Framed charts with moving diagrams of bone structures take up a good portion of the walls. Further charts are set on the floor, leaning against corners. There’s a life-size skeleton, and various hanging devices support an impressive collection of actual damaged bones, both human and other. Ron once wanted to discuss how these came to be in the Healer’s possession but neither Harry nor Hermione were particularly keen. Now Ron doesn’t want to discuss anything and Harry and Hermione sit dead still, wishing he’d say something. He sits on the pale green bed, back straight, feet dangling off the edge. His face is calm, eyes downcast. A damp smell like upturned earth remains from the ointment used on his leg. Silence blooms along the pale green walls like moss in moisture and shadow.

The Healer’s voice is frail, buried beneath his years. “I am deeply sorry. I understand this is extremely distressing for you. But until we find out why the curse is refusing to lift, or find an alternative counter-curse, if there is one, we will not make much progress.”

He picks up his wand--unusually pale and long--and sets it back down on his table. Impossibly old, he stoops and trembles a little every time he moves. He clears his throat and looks at Ron from the top of his glasses.

“But this does not mean that I have given up, Mr Weasley. Far from it. Go home and rest. As soon as I make some headway, I shall be in touch.”

“In the meantime--” he charms shut the jar of ointment, seals it in a St Mungo’s bag and hands it to Ron. “--keep this. That should take care of the pain. If you run out, you only need to owl me.”

He turns to Hermione.

“And Miss Granger, I still haven’t given up hoping that you will change your mind about that Apprenticeship.” He smiles.

“If you need more persuasion, consider your friend here. With your aptitude, you will be a great asset to our team of fumbling old fools who are at a complete loss about a curse that’s been around for hundreds of years.”

Not knowing how deep a wound he’s probing, he holds open the door for them with tremulous effort. Ron gets to his feet with the aid of the crutch, his averted face a warning to his friends. He thanks the Healer and leads the trio into the corridor. There is nothing to be said. The hospital’s survived the war without so much as a shattered window. The panelled oak corridors bustle with the same green-robed Healers and the same array of patients with the same assortment of improbable maladies. And down the hall where have they no courage to go, Frank and Alice Longbottom still occupy the long-term resident ward.

Why visit other graveyards when they have their own?

*

The garden is grey with frost, a few blackened plants trying to maintain a scrawny hold on the frozen ground. The path running up to the kitchen door is banked with snow and icicles hang from the eaves and weathervane. Several frozen shirts and an apron hang on the clothesline, an empty basket on the ground.

Ron staggers up and raises a hand to knock but is distracted by a shadow in the window. His mother sits at the kitchen table, a china cup raised halfway to her mouth. She’s staring right at him but he doubts she can see him; her eyes are too far away. The window is grimy and fogged, but the setting sun struggles through the glass. Her face is thin and clawed with lines, her shoulders lost in the blouse now too large. The kitchen sink right below the window is piled with pots and pans, dishes and mugs. It’s as if he’s looking into a tunnel, banked with grey and roofed with cold, running deeper and deeper underground. The curtains are pulled tightly shut in the upstairs windows. Nights would be long here, daylight a mere wing-beat, bright and fleeting.

He gulps in cold air, leaning heavily on his crutch. He’s a coward and he knows it. He turns back and stumbles as quickly as he can down the snow covered path. The crutch gets caught on a panel of mouldy wood on the gate. He wrenches it free with an oath. His heart thuds in his chest. By the time he’s finally ready to Apparate, the sky’s wrenched up the last strings of light, and behind him, far down the lane, the house remains dark.

--end chapter four--

## 6. Chapter Five

Disclaimer: They belong to JKR, I’m only playing.

A/N: Enjoy!

***

--Chapter Five--

The house shrinks around a single candle in the kitchen. She’s curled in the armchair, Crookshanks on her lap. He sits at the table. Ron’s been gone for hours. Words have been scarce. Harry looks out the window trying to swallow down the sense of disaster rising in his throat. A half-hearted storm cavorts outside. He gets up to rekindle the fire which has died down to cold cinder. Then he returns to the table, lays his head on his arms and waits for warmth.

*

“Harry, Harry, wake up!”

“Shit, Ron, where’ve you been? We’ve been worried sick--”

“I’m fine, I’m fine. No need to worry. Listen, mate--that’s Hermione in that chair, isn’t it? Is she asleep? Good, good. Come on, come out here, I want talk to you, don’t want to wake her up, don’t wanna--”

“All right, calm down, I’m coming.”

‘Look, Harry--I--”

“Ron, stop and breathe, okay? What is it? Where’ve you been all this time?”

“I went home--well, almost. Anyway, doesn’t matter. Harry, can I take a ride in your bike?”

“Ron--”

“Harry, don’t say--”

“Of course you can, Ron, when you’re…when you’re well enough--”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Harry? Didn’t you hear him today? I’m never going to get--”

“No, that’s not what he said, he didn’t say that--”

“Oh fuck you, Harry! That’s exactly what he said and you know what, it’s better to know that than to keep thinking that one day, just one day I’m going to wake up and it’s all going to be just peachy--Harry, let me take the bike, just once, just once I want to be able to--just--”

“Ron, it’s not safe--”

“That’s bollocks. You flew it over all the way from Hogwarts, and all of a sudden it’s not safe?”

“It’s the middle of the night, and it’s windy out there--”

“Look, Harry, let’s go upstairs or I’ll wake Hermione up this minute and tell her everything--”

“Ron--”

“I mean it, Harry, I really do--”

*

Through the trapdoor, up to the roof. A Silencing charm strains to hold everything in its grasp. The rooftop is wet and refracts streetlights. The starlings are quiet, the street empty. His bad leg’s propped up on one pedal, his hands grip the throttles like claws. There’s no moon and the sky hangs low. Harry stands near the stairs, jaw set, eyes almost black.

No more waiting. A deep breath, a rolling of shoulders. Then the air grabs him and hauls him clear off the ground.

The wind rushes through him.

Clean, clear space.

Speed.

The world below blinks with a hundred faltering lights. It doesn’t matter if the ground’s never solid beneath his feet, he’s far up in the infallible sky.

He whoops with the joy of it, his shirt flapping around him. The bike moves easily, tuning smoothly to the body riding it. One hand arches through the clean currents. Has flying ever felt like this? It’s as if all the times he’s flown before has merged into a single, exquisite rush through the air. Only the memories are swifter. The shimmering sky over the paddock at the Burrow, the exploding colours of the pitch at Hogwarts; everything blurred and earthbound and him far above. Flying has never felt like this. He can’t wait to get back down to share it. He swoops in a low arc over the far end of the street and sweeps towards the rooftop of Number 12, towards the lone figure at the edge. He means to slow down to a hover, just low enough for Harry to hear him, but the current rules over him and the bike responds, drunk with speed. He’s got the use of only three limbs, and the other one, the bad one begins to tremble, doesn’t stop, and the low swoop becomes a scraping, screeching skid: the roof wet, the night blind, the silencing charm pops like a balloon, and--

Get OUT of the way--

*

Hermione’s curled into a well-worn dream. The road stretches like a ribbon before her, flanked with familiar things. Here’s where she first met Harry and Ron, here’s where they freed a dragon. Here’s a black dog, here’s the whispering veil. Here’s a fireside armchair and a window full of snow. Here’s fear, and over here its passing. She’s weary but hopeful. The end is in sight. There are footsteps on either side of her, sometimes running ahead, sometimes falling behind, but mostly marching alongside. As it happens in dreams, she can’t tell whose steps they are, but they too seem familiar. Ahead she can see where the road bends and is supposed to end. Relief pools in her belly.

But then someone snaps the black ribbon and the bend disappears. She shouts after it, not fair, but the road stretches interminably once again. Its familiarity suddenly frightens. Not again, she shouts, not all of it all over again. She looks about for her companions but their footsteps are fading, drowned in other sounds, loud and insistent, explosive, nearer at hand--

Abruptly awake, she stares.

Crookshanks stares back from her lap, unblinking. She pushes him away and jumps to her feet. Her limbs are frozen. She stumbles through the dark kitchen and several open doors. Upstairs wildly, rushing through empty rooms. Her heart rushes ahead of her. Another flight of steps, tripping over the kneazle who bounds into Buckbeak’s dank room. She can’t see anything.

She climbs. The clean air hits her.

There’s a fraction of a second when she tries to sort out the scene before her. A stain on the ground. A large wheel. A motorcycle. A motorcycle up on the roof, sprawled on its side--

But her mind doesn’t hold and she runs over to where Ron’s on his knees, bending over Harry.

“What happened? Ron, what happened? I heard a crash--Harry, are you all right? Oh god, Ron, what happ--he’s bleeding--”

“I’m sorry, so sorry, Hermione, I think I’ve--I’ve--I’m so sorry, I’ve--”

“You haven’t killed me, if that’s what you’re trying to say, you dolt--”

“Harry! What on earth happened? Oh god--”

She leans over him and pushes his hair back over his face white with pain. He avoids her with a shoulder, not meeting her eye, cradling his arm.

“I’m fine, really, I’m fine--”

“You’re NOT fine--”

“Only a cut--”

“Just let me look at it, please, Harry--”

“Take Ron downstairs first, he’s pretty shaken--”

“What on earth were you doing up here in the middle of the nig--”

“I’m sorry, Hermione, so sorry, all my fault--Harry didn’t want to--”

“Ron, stop whining, mate. Everything’s fine, it’s fine--”

“Didn’t want to do what?”

“The bike was a bad idea, he told me, but I just wanted--just once--”

“What bike? What--”

“Sirius’s bike, Harry found it--and now it’s all a mess!”

“Ron, it’s fine. We can fix it, Ron--”

“It’s all a mess, I’ve--”

“Ron, just go with Hermione, we can fix it--”

“Ruined everything.”

*

She’s patching him up again.

With the deftness of a lifetime, a thread of seething anger and a needle of silence.

Nothing to numb the pain.

The blood when cleaned out reveals a shallow split down the length of his forearm. It stings from the antiseptic salve, her fingers firm as she swabs the cut. A loop of damp hair dangles forward, almost touching his cheek. They’re sitting on the floor beneath the window in Buckbeak’s room, his back to the wall. She’s dishevelled and sweaty, her fingers trembling despite her efforts to still them. He’s seen her shaking this badly only once. He wants to touch her, to quieten her hands, to smooth out the coiled tendons on the inside of her arm, but he sits still.

“Is Ron all right?”

She reaches for bandage. “Sleeping.”

“Right.” He clears his throat. “He’s not hurt, is he?”

“No.”

She begins to wrap the bandage starting near the crook of his elbow. Her hair sweeps close to a candle-flame. With his free arm, he slides the candle out of the way. She pulls it back towards her and pushes her hair back roughly over her shoulder. He sighs.

“Hermione I’m--”

“What exactly happened?”

He looks at her for moment, her face swimming in and out of shadows, lip chewed, eyes intent on her work.

“Ron wanted to have a ride. He was doing well, and then suddenly--I think he was trying to land--he kind of skidded across the roof. The bike has an extra brake mechanism, a magical one, very odd for Sirius…anyway, that made sure the damage was minimal. I’ll have to fix the ty--”

“Why?”

He stares at her blankly. She pulls out a loop of bandage and wraps it back again.

“Why did Ron want to ride the bike? You know why.”

“Why did you let him?”

It’s as if she’s hardly spoken. As if they’re speaking across a great distance, too far to hear each other, too far to matter. She tears a bit off the end of the fabric and doubles it back to tie a knot. He winces at the tug.

“Hermione, please look at me. Please?”

She lifts his arm off her lap. “Does that feel tight enough? It shouldn’t come off while you’re sleeping.”

She begins to gather the leftover supplies; the scissors, salve, the small bowl of water dark with his blood.

“Hermione, please. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about…about this. I found the bike at Hogwarts…oh. You knew, didn’t you? You knew I…I went to Hogwarts.”

She clicks the first-aid box shut sharply. He swallows and wills himself to continue.

“Anyway, this is why…well, the bike is what I found. So I brought it over. I was going to tell you, I swear. You see, I found this other thing, while I was there--” He reaches for a box lying on the floor among several rags, wincing as his arm moves. He pulls out the scroll case. “I don’t know what this is, but I thought you might.”

He’s offering all the wrong words but doesn’t know how to do any better. He holds out the wooden cylinder, only to find her already on her feet. Minutes later, he hears the sound of water in the bathroom. She returns, wand in hand. Dropping to her knees again, she lays the wand-tip over the dressed wound, one hand pressing on his arm above the elbow. Her fingers are cold. After a moment’s hesitation and a whispered command, a pale orange shimmer diffuses over his arm.

“There.” She sits back on her heels. “That should help it heal faster.”

He sinks against the wall. His head drops back against the windowsill. One silence too long, one secret too much and carelessly, cowardly, he’s crushed the one green shoot to defy his perennial January. On her feet again, she holds out a hand.

“Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

He looks up at her. Her eyes are tired, her shirt stained. There is no rage, not even anger anymore. There’s only silence and an opacity that frightens him. She’s secured herself against him. He looks away.

“I’m fine. You go on ahead.”

She watches him for a moment.

“All right, then. Don’t forget to blow out the candles.”

She walks over to the trapdoor and pulls it shut. Then she picks up her wand and is out of the door. He closes his eyes.

*

She returns close to dawn, a blanket bundled in her arms. The door’s ajar and inside, the candles blown out. He sleeps hunched against the wall still, cradled in grey light. His sore arm’s pressed awkwardly to his chest, the bandage stained. His glasses lie on the floor. She picks them up and sets them on top of a box within his reach. Close to, his eyes are tightly shut, his face creased as if in pain. She fists her fingers tightly to stall their instinct. The trapdoor doesn’t shut tight and draughts find the room easily. She pulls the blanket over him as carefully as she can, tucking it in over his shoulders, beneath his elbows.

Not daring to linger, she gets to her feet. Something stabs her side and she’s surprised to find her wand still on her. She’d planned to leave the room as quietly as she arrived but suddenly changes her mind. Picking her way soundlessly across the floor strewn with various deserted histories--school, Sirius, Buckbeak, the three of them, him and her--she reaches the trapdoor.

A quick charm, quicker footwork, and she is out on the roof, the trapdoor partly lowered. The wind and cold waste no time; she’s wearing an old, worn coat. She wraps her arms about her and strides to where the bike lies on its side against the short wall at the far end. The eastern sky is undecided about light. A gaggle of starlings burst out of an eave and quarrel over rooftops into the city. A tyre lies in a patch of congealed grease.

She stares at the bike for some time, worrying her lip. Then she squares her shoulders and raises her wand.

She tackles the broken tyre first, levitating it carefully across the roof and manoeuvring it through the trapdoor. Once it’s safely inside, she returns for the scratched and dented bike. She feels a faint rush of pride that she hasn’t lost her touch; the bike is heavy and needs a particularly sturdy hand and solid concentration. Then she reminds herself that she doesn’t care.

She levitates the bike across the room, praying hard for her spell to hold. With only a faint thud she lowers it onto the ground, against the far wall.

She sits down on an upturned crate to catch her breath.

He’s slept through it all, his face still contorted. Her throat hitches and for a moment she considers waking him and persuading him to bed. But that would require meeting his gaze which would be too much to endure. She feels drained, her insides echoing emptiness. Her fingers still hold a slight tremor. Her eyes fall on the black and silver wooden cylinder he’d proffered earlier. She picks it up and runs her fingers over the carved surface. Then, with a sigh and one last look at him, she leaves the room.

*

One night, gathered around a mean fire in some nameless inn in a nameless town somewhere in England, Hermione thought of something. She turned to Harry and Ron and said, we need to figure out what to do if it doesn’t end.

They stared at her blankly. There had been a death that day. The sixth Horcrux was all they had left to find. They’d tracked down the silversmith who’d carved the locket, trudged up a hill in high summer, only to find him dead at his doorstep. Harry and Ron were ready to collapse in exhaustion and here was Hermione speaking in riddles.

She bit her lip and kept going. Who’s to say that killing Voldemort is the end? Do you really think it’ll be sunshine and roses after that?

It hurt her to say it, more than it could hurt anyone else, to look at Harry and say something so awful. He was whittled down to sheer willpower, walking about hard-eyed, tight-lipped. How badly she wanted it to end, for him.

Ron told her to put a sock in it, but Harry kept looking at her. So she kept talking.

Voldemort would know by now what they were doing, she said. Is it likely that he’d leave it at that?

She worried a tiny splinter in her wand, blinking back tears. Neville was already gone; caught while patrolling the castle, along with four seasoned members of the Order. Hagrid and Charlie had been missing for a month, feared dead. Dean, Seamus, Hannah Abbot and the Patil twins had been the very first casualties, right after Dumbledore’s death.

Would the end of the war mean anything to them?

Harry shuffled over and sat next to her, slipping a hand in hers.

I don’t know, he said, I don’t know, but I’ll make sure that at least there’ll be sunshine if not roses.

She looked across at him, her tears startling into laughter.

And we’ll stick together, all right? The three of us, we’ll always stick together, no matter how it ends.

She didn’t know from where he summoned the words; they were so precious, so clear, so alien to the bleakness in his eyes. So she believed him.

--end chapter five--

## 7. Chapter Six

Disclaimer: They belong to JKR, I’m only playing.

A/N: Another miserable chapter, I’m sorry. Also very businesslike, lots of comings and goings. An important chapter too, but hmm, maybe not for the obvious reason. You’ll still be confused by the end of it. Don’t worry, next chapter should definitely help ;) This would be the halfway mark, the no-turning-back chapter. Thank you for reading, for ploughing through, and for leaving me a word at the end. Please feel free to pick and grumble.

And many thanks to beta, Ai. *blows endless kisses*

***

--Chapter Six--

On Sunday he watches her leave, cloaked in crimson. Her face and hair hidden behind the heavy hood, she walks quickly, body angled against the wind. What would she do if he called out? Would she stop and turn around? Would she scold him to go inside, wear something warmer, find somewhere else to sit for goodness sakes, not so close to the edge of the roof? And don’t tap your feet against that eave, it’s upsetting the starlings, can’t you see?

Fat chance, Harry, he jeers at himself. Chances are she’ll keep walking.

He leans against the chimney and picks at his bandage. She’s cleaned him out and wrapped him up afresh, quick and precise, not too tight nor too loose, no stray ends and not a single word in almost two days. Nothing for him to catch and tug to get her unravelling, to get her to rage at him, to yell, scream, hit him.

He watches her disappear round the corner, feeling hollow and tired. Something rattles below and he peers down over his knees. The kids are back. They count, call out, then dart across the street. Hide and seek. There are four of them and scarcely anywhere to hide in the stark street. They scramble about giggling and shouting, kicking up dirty, scant snow. One of them runs towards the end of the street and collides with a group of people turning in.

Two counts of red hair and one lanky blue.

Harry straightens up and takes a deep breath. He leans against the chimney and hauls himself to his feet.

*

“Mum made this for you.” Ginny uncovers a large cake stuffed with raisins. “She said to say hello, and to come and see her sometime.”

Harry tries to pretend she’s talking to Ron, but her eyes are on him. He nods without looking up. She draws out the chair next to him. The cake looks as if it might stick to his palate at first bite, syrupy and cloyingly sweet. Fred reaches for a knife, digs out a raisin and tosses it in his mouth.

“Mmmm. This is good. The sweetening charm must have worked this time.” He settles more comfortably in his chair and points the knife at Harry and Ron.

“So what’ve you two done to Hermione? We ran into her at the station and I’m telling you, she did not look happy.” He gestures at Harry’s right arm, grinning. “She finally had enough and punched you, did she?”

Ron stays silent and Harry shrugs carelessly, aware of Ginny’s glance again. “She’s having lunch with her Mum.” He turns to Tonks.

“So, what did you find out about Snape?”

Tonks stretches in her chair, almost toppling it back, yawns loudly and shakes her head. Her hair’s been blue for months now. “Nothing. Nothing at all.” She rubs her face. “Either he was never there or he was long gone when we got there. I couldn’t stay on any longer or I’ll be out of a job.”

“Who gave you the lead?”

“Kingsley. And don’t ask me how he knew.” She glances at Harry. She looks decades older. “And I’m sorry we sort of kept it covered. Fred says you were a bit...upset.”

Fred snorts and Harry shrugs. “It’s all right.” He looks out the window. “So, what do we do now?” The glass is so grimy that he can barely see anything outside.

“I’m sorry, Harry. I have no idea. Malfoy hasn’t tried anything else?”

Harry shakes his head. He feels that if he let himself, he could spend his entire life in this chair, in this kitchen, in this mouldering house, slowly becoming a part of the peeling wallpaper and rotting floorboards.

Fred leans forward. “So, is that all that’s left of the death squad? Ferret boy and Snivellus?”

“Yes.” Says Tonks. A little too quickly, thinks Harry.

“Interesting.” Fred leans back. “So, Harry, remind me, why is Snivellus after you?”

Harry throws him a look. “For the same reason he’s always been after me.”

Fred’s fingers drum on the table. “Hmm.”

Ron snorts. “Just spit it out, Fred.”

Fred makes a mock-thoughtful gesture. “I’m just saying, it all seems a bit…odd to me. I can understand why Malfoy would like to chuck a curse at you, since you did away with his folks. But he had the chance, didn’t he, when he broke into the house? I mean, you had no idea he was in the house until he was trying to get out. Snivellus, on the other hand--sure, he hates you and it breaks his heart to see you alive but…don’t you have more reason to want him dead than the other way round?”

“I don’t want anyone dead.” Harry says brusquely.

“What’s your point?” Ron leans across the table, glowering at his brother.

Fred scratches his chin nonchalantly. “I dunno. May be that Malfoy and Snape are actually trying to keep out of your way? I mean, we all know you can be a one-man death squad yourself--”

Next to Harry, Ginny flinches aloud. “Fred!”

Ron growls. “Yeah, of course. That would be why Malfoy decided to break into the house. To stay out of Harry’s way. Just shut up, Fred.”

Fred holds his hands up, about to say something more. Tonks intervenes wearily.

“Just give it a rest, will you? Look at you, growling at each other like a bunch of alley-cats over a scrap of rotting fish!”

Harry leaves the table pretending to get more tea. The kettle’s lifted a little too quickly, the water poured too fast. A plume of steam clouds his glasses, a few droplets searing his skin.

As he returns to the table, Ginny clears her throat. “Ron, Fred said you had an appointment with the Healer yesterday. Mum wanted to know how it went.”

Still bristling, Ron shrugs. “There’s nothing more he can do…for the moment. Not until they figure out what exactly the curse was and then find some way to reverse it.” He fiddles with a wizard chess set he’d found among their school things in Buckbeak’s room. Half the pieces are missing.

“Ah well, Ronnie, you know what they say, time is after all the greatest healer.”

“Fred!” Ginny scowls. “You’re so horrid!”

Ron snorts dully. “Please, don’t start fighting over me.”

“No, I’m serious.” Ginny continues to glare at Fred. “You think you’re funny but lately you’ve just been…just vicious.” Fred flicks a raisin at her.

“Don’t mind her, Ron. Look, this’ll cheer you up.” He fumbles in his pocket and brings out a small battered box tied with string. Ron frowns at the peace offering. Fred tosses it across the table, and Tonks catches it. A rare look of delight flashes across her face.

“The original Weasley’s Wildfire Whiz-Bangs.” She grins at Fred. “I’d no idea you still had these. You know, having moved on to bigger and better things.”

“Yeah, well, neither did I.” Fred shrugs. “And I don’t know about bigger and better. My shop’s burnt to a crisp and my partner’s dead.”

Tonks sighs and sets the box on the table in front of Ron. He makes no move to pick it up. “If it’s any consolation, Ron, Ethelbert Bellamy is the best in all of Europe for this kind of thing. If anyone can do something, it’ll be him.”

“That’s what Hermione keeps saying,” Ron mumbles.

“Is this the same Healer who invited Hermione for an Apprenticeship?” Ginny’s voice is a little too casual.

“Yeah.” Ron reaches for a fork and begins to mangle a piece of cake. “He mentioned it again.”

“And what did she say?”

“Nothing. I don’t think she’s interested. Why are you so curious?”

“No reason.” She shrugs. Harry turns to Tonks.

“Luna’s bringing a friend of her Dad’s who works in the Department of Mysteries. It would be great if you can hang around. They’re working on some project and they want me to help them with it.”

Tonks tips her head. “The Ministry? I thought you’d sworn off Scrimgeour and his lot.”

Harry shrugs uncomfortably. “Well, Mr Lovegood’s in on this one and I trust him. Besides, I haven’t really given my word yet.”

Tonks nods. “Well, all right. I’ll stay. But don’t you need Hermione around for this type of thing? I may work for the Ministry but she can cut through most people’s codswallop a lot better than any of us.”

Harry tries hard not to look away. “I’m sure she’ll be back then. Luna won’t be here for another few hou--oh. Where’s the clock?” He stares at the rectangle of unstained wallpaper on the wall where the old bolt-shooting clock had hung.

“Ron, the clock’s gone,” he says needlessly.

Ron shrugs. “Hermione must have taken it down. Remember how she was going on about how dangerous it was?”

Tonks rises from the table with a groan. “Well, if I’m staying, I need to find me a bed first. I feel like I haven’t slept for months.” She clatters across the kitchen, bumping into half a dozen things in less than a minute.

Harry throws another puzzled glance at the wall, then turns to face the Weasleys.

“You, too, are staying, of course. Care for some lunch?”

*

She’s falling asleep, the sofa so warm, the rain lilting against the window. Her mother’s been quiet and thoughtful, now nowhere to be seen. She ought to think about getting back now, but her body feels weightless, her eyes swimming in and out of afternoon light and the gloom of a dreamless sleep. A faint rustle and footsteps, then a blanket settles over her. She pushes her bare feet and cold hands gratefully into its warmth. She really should get back. Time drifts by. She opens her eyes. Out of habit her glance falls towards her door, always left half open, just so she can see Harry move about in the house, silent and sleepless through the night. Sleepless but safe, where she can see him. But the door’s not where it’s supposed to be and no candlelight spills through the hallway, and a moment later, she realises she’s still at her Mum’s place. She means to check the time, to get up, catch the train. But she’s too tired, so warm. Sleep pulls her again and she relents, a faint traitorous thought whispering in her mind. She’d never spent a night away from Grimmauld Place since the end of the war; unimaginable to leave Harry to his nights.

But tonight, just for one night, what a relief it would be to not to have to meet his bruised eyes.

*

“It’s hard to explain…harder to understand. Magic covers the earth like a web without a centre, with enchanted strands. At certain places the strands are thicker or are intertwined and at these places magic’s stronger. I suppose you could call magic a natural property of the earth…like gravity, perhaps.”

Harry barely registers the words but he is keenly aware of the speaker, Sally Page, Unspeakable Grade 2, resident archaeologist of magic at the Department of Mysteries. She has short jaw-length hair that twitches around her face, and amber eyes with enlarged pupils as if she’s just come indoors from a bright day. Something about her seems intensely, urgently familiar and he finds himself drifting constantly trying to put a finger on it.

“…But it would also be wrong to call magic everlasting. It simply…waxes and wanes…”

They’re all gathered in the kitchen again, the fire roaring away and tea poured out. A flighty wind snaps at the window; Luna and Sally have arrived with a sweep of rain. Hermione still hasn’t returned. With effort, Harry turns his attention back to the Unspeakable.

He thinks she’s the most unlikely Unspeakable he’s met, though he’s not sure what he expects from an Unspeakable. He’s only ever known Bode and Croaker, and that was only from a distance. There had been something sinister about them whereas Sally seems merely nervous, sitting very still as if by the slightest motion she might startle herself. Harry gets the feeling that the words she’s laying before them have been through many rehearsals.

“So there’s an end to magic? Is that what you mean?” Tonks swats at a moth.

Sally hesitates. “Well, not really. There have been times in the past, long ago, when due to some great upheaval in the magical world, magic became…unpredictable. Sometimes it’s only for a short time…often it returned to form just a few years later like a...like a healing limb, I suppose. But there have been other times when it took decades, or even longer.”

Tonks scratches her head and screws up her face. “When, for instance? And how come we’ve never heard of such…occasions?”

Harry feels something brush against his legs. He pushes his chair back and Crookshanks hops up to his lap, curling carefully away from the injured arm. Sally looks at him, drawn by the movement in the still room. For a moment, it seems as if she’s about to lose her confidence. Then she turns back to Tonks.

“Well, for instance, when Hogwarts was built, the magic used in the construction and concealment of the castle was so great that for many years afterwards, not a single spell could be summoned within fifty miles’ radius of the castle.”

Harry taps his teaspoon against the table. “So, that’s mentioned in Hogwarts: A History?”

“No. Of course not.” She smiles, a quick flurry.

Harry raises an eyebrow.

Sally clears her throat. “Well, Hogwarts was built at a time when people seldom wrote things down. Written records are very rare from that time. This is why we’re not even certain of the exact date the castle was built.”

“Hogwarts; A History was compiled very recently, when compared to how old the castle could be. Besides,”--she smiles again--“despite claiming to be the authority on Hogwarts, the book is very…selective in the information it gives, isn’t it? It never mentions house elves, does it?”

Ron makes a small sound next to him. Harry scratches behind Crookshanks’ ear vigorously enough to make the kneazle squirm.

“Well, if there’s nothing recorded anywhere, how do you know about this…this waning of magic or whatever you call it?” Ginny scowls. She seems to have taken an instant dislike to Sally; Harry has no idea why.

“There’s no record of it in Europe. But there are records of similar occurrences in a few other wizarding cultures. Some of which have long since died.”

“Sally’s just returned from Egypt,” Luna chimes in.

“I can’t prove that these cultures declined because magic itself did, but--” she shrugs barely noticeably “--it’s a possibility. Especially since the dwindling of magical ability was one of the last things they recorded. You can’t go for decades without magic and still expect to remain a magical community.”

“Which year were you again?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Fred squints at Sally as if trying to remember something. “You look familiar, but I don’t remember you at Hogwarts.”

“I didn’t go to Hogwarts.”

Fred waits for an elaboration, then lifts a shoulder.

“So, magic is running out then?” Harry asks the archaeologist, a quick look taking in the bemused faces around him. He glances at the spot where the clock had hung, thinking about trains to London.

Sally hesitates. “Yes and no. I wouldn’t call it running out--”

“All right, waning, then?” Crookshanks lays his front paws and hairy chin on the table, contemplating a ring of moths circling a candle-flame.

“Yes.”

“Only in England?”

“Yes.”

Rain picks up speed, spurred by lightening. Harry listens to its steady grumble, idly wondering why no one’s asking the most obvious question. Tonks leaves the table to rummage in a cupboard, muttering about ‘something stronger’.

Luna’s voice winds through the silence. “Isn’t it obvious? There have been lots of incidents across the country…the latest is that The Ministry’s had to change hours of work for employees, just to stagger Apparation. Apparently one morning half the staff couldn’t get to work because they were all trying to Apparate at the same time. The Floo Network’s beyond repair, of course.” She shakes her head.

“It’s a mess. The reconstruction work around the city is also coming along very slow. The Minister promised the Muggle government full support to rebuild London…but he’s having trouble keeping his word. Charms don’t hold, spells are going haywire…”

“Well, I wish he’d do something about his own bloody Ministry first.” Tonks says over her shoulder. “Doesn’t help matters when the departments are scattered all over London, does it? I’m sure that it adds to the fuss about Apparation, with us having to pop in and out all across London to get the simplest thing done.”

Having knocked off a crockery stand and a couple of books, she returns to the table with a bottle of Firewhiskey. Her palm lit up a pale blue, she tries to open the bottle without success. With an oath she passes the bottle to Harry. Fred throws a spoon in the air in an elaborate spin and catches it deftly, eyeing Sally.

“So…if magic is running out--waning, I suppose we’re just going to have to live like Muggles until it’s all sorted and magic’s back to normal?”

“No.” She sounds distracted, and Harry looks up to find her eyes on him.

“Why not?” Fred persists.

“Well…we can’t tell when it’ll be back to normal--”

“Oh, yes, I get that,” drawls Fred. “But it’ll be quite an adventure--living like Muggles for a while. We don’t give them half as much credit they deserve, they’re quite a clever bunch of people you know, given how limited they are. For instance, they have this thing called an anti-gravity suit--”

Harry interrupts. “Yes, but what if by the time you’re sick of being a Muggle, there’s no wizarding world to return to?” He turns to Sally, passing the open bottle of Firewhiskey to Tonks.

“Isn’t that right? Isn’t that what it’s all about?”

Suddenly, Sally looks even more nervous. “Exactly…exactly.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, watching Tonks dump a careless quantity of Ogden’s into her mug of tepid tea.

“I mean, there are lots of questions, not just how long it’s going to last. Will it come to a point when we can’t use any magic? Does it affect everyone? What about power? I mean, what if some can still keep using magic while other cannot?” Her words tumble thick and fast as if she’s trying to get them out before being interrupted.

Ginny frowns. “But if magic’s running out in general, why would it affect people differently?”

Sally takes a breath and clears her throat. Harry watches her, faintly exasperated, thinking that she might have had half a chance at convincing her audience had she been less jumpy.

“You see, humans aren’t naturally magical. Not in the way truly magical creatures are. Some of us are born with certain degrees of sensitivity, or responsiveness to magic, but we have to learn to use it. And we need various props--wands, words, etcetera. Wandless magic makes up a very small proportion of our total repertoire.” She picks up her teaspoon and sets it down.

“In fact, all the magic we ever use is a very tiny amount compared to the possibilities out there, to the strength of magic inherent in naturally magical species such as dragons or centaurs…or even a kneazle like this one.” Crookshanks blinks a wary eye, his ears twitching.

“But anyway, what I’m getting at is…well, at a time like this…” She throws a quick, hesitant look at Harry. “Just a second ago you opened that bottle without…without even blinking. The most banal of spells are failing to hold but you can still do wand--”

A sharp rattle rings out through the house. After a second of startled silence across the kitchen, Fred jumps to his feet. “The door--I’ll get it.”

Crookshanks scampers after Fred, toppling the candle over the table. Harry groans and re-lights it with a wave of his hand, looking up to find Sally’s eyes on him again. The fire hisses into the silence. Fred returns, clanging through the house, followed by someone tall and brown haired.

“Nick!”

Harry straightens up. His heart takes a dive. Nick grins and raises a hand.

“Hey, Harry. Sorry to barge in like this.” His eyes sweep across the kitchen, nodding vaguely at everyone. Harry and Ron have been in Nick’s company a few times before, around the time of Mr Granger’s funeral.

“Is everything all right? Where’s Hermione?”

“She’s fine, mate. She’s fine. Aunt Helen just telephoned--I work across the road from here, you see, in the St Pancras branch of the Library, I don’t know if Hermione’s told you--anyway, she just said to tell you guys that Hermione’s staying with her for a while, a couple of days, I assume. But, yeah, everything’s fine, I’m sure.”

He smiles and nods, shifting on his feet. Ron leans over the table and calls out.

“Thanks Nick, thanks for that. We, erm--” He elbows Harry discreetly. “We were getting a bit worried.”

Harry starts, suddenly aware of everyone’s eyes on him. “Yeah…yeah, thanks, Nick.” He runs a hand through his hair.

“Erm, why don’t you take a seat, we’ve got tea…and…and you’ve already met Fred, Ron’s brother, and this is Ginny, Ron’s sister, Luna, and Sally…and Tonks…”

Nick readily makes his way to the table and settles down next to Fred. Ginny collects more cups from the dresser and Tonks throws a log in the fire. The sharp, oddly sour smell of Firewhiskey mingled with tea fills the kitchen. Harry tries to look as if nothing’s amiss.

She’s not all right, he knows that. If she is, she’ll be home. Is she that angry at him? Or is disgusted a better word? Does she hate him? She hates him, without a doubt, and despises him. If she’s in a rage, she wouldn’t stay away, she’d confront him. Should he tell Ron the truth? When will she come back? How long can he bear it? A couple of days…that could mean anything from two days to a week. Is Nick telling the truth? What if she decides to stay longer, what’ll he do then? What if she…what if--”

“Harry? Harry!”

“What?”

He blinks and adjusts his glasses. Several pairs of eyes watch him. Ron hastens to the rescue again.

“Um, Sally was asking if you’d noticed any trouble with your magic at all?”

“What? Oh, yes, here and there…but mostly I’m okay.”

His eyes move to Sally, trying to clear his head, trying to remember why she’s there, who she is, why they are all there with their waiting eyes turned on him.

“So…erm…how do you want me to help you?”

Sally looks startled. “ Well, I--” Her eyes shift around the room and waver back towards Harry. Tonks clears her throat.

“Harry, Sally hasn’t yet finished telling us about her…her theory. I think we should--”

“It’s fine.” He shakes his head. “It’s fine. How do I help?”

The room is too bright, too open, he needs the dark to think, he needs to be alone. A sharp crackle and a whiff of smoke burst at the far end of the table; Fred hasn’t lost any time. The box of Weasley’s Wildfire Whiz-Bangs lies open on the table, and Nick chuckles appreciatively as a particularly noisy sample makes fiery dancing garlands along the grimy walls.

“I need your help to convince the Minister that this is something we need to pay attention to.”

Sally pauses as if certain of Harry’s refusal. Hearing nothing, she swallows and continues.

“According to the Minister, all these instances of magic failing can easily have other causes. Various things can disturb the magical ability in humans and in this case, the war. ”

Harry sets his jaw, willing himself patience. Several strands of noises tangle and twist around him, the fire, Sally’s voice, Fred and Nick in the corner, the thump thump of Ginny’s foot against the table. He rubs the back of his neck and tries to concentrate.

“There’s a certain pattern I’m following, you see…With other people, normal witches and wizards like us, yes, the Minister maybe right. But look at you. You were as emotionally affected as everyone else, probably even more--I know that your Muggle relations died, the ones who brought you up, and many others close to you….but you just performed wandless magic.”

“Right. So. You want me to come into the Ministry one day?”

“Harry! Are you sure? Half of this doesn’t even make sense--”

“Yeah, I’m sure, Ron.”

Ron whirls on Sally.

“What’re you going to be doing with him?”

“Just leave it,” Harry warns. He pushes his chair back and holds his hand out.

“Nice to meet you, Sally. It’s been great. And Luna, we’ll see you around, yes?”

A wave and a nod at the smoke-ridden, glittering far corner of the table where Nick seems right at home, a brief glance at Ginny and Tonks, lost amidst the sparks, then he’s out the door. The fish scuttle in agitation as he bounds past the landing, the creaking stairs shifting the tank’s balance. The rooftop glistens in the rain, the night foggy, London matted around lampposts and parked cars like dirty cotton. For a moment he thinks of Apparating; but then her walled eyes and silence comes to mind and his courage fails. He huddles against the chimney. There had been no explicit promises so he can’t really complain; there are a million reasons why he can’t complain.

But this would be the first night she’d spent away from Grimmauld Place since the end of the war, away from him.

--end chapter six--

## 8. Chapter Seven

Disclaimer: They belong to JKR, I’m only playing.

A/N: Sorry I’m a bit late, it’s been a crazy week for me. I’m behind on replying reviews too, I’m going to get to them soon. So, this chapter; some questions will hopefully be answered with quite a bit of melodrama. But hey, life’s like that sometimes, isn’t it? Enjoy and let me know if the wait’s been worth it. After this chapter it’s all about putting Humpty together again. *bites nails*

***

--Chapter Seven--

“Look, Harry, I’m sorry about…about the other day. That night, you know, when I said I’ll tell Hermione if you didn’t let me take the bike…I didn’t really mean it.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Right. I mean, I’d never do something like that. You know that.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Ron sighs and tries to match Harry’s pace. The road’s littered with twigs and leaves frantic in the wake of their footsteps. Ron keeps looking over his shoulder, thinking they’re being followed.

“Harry, I’m not sure we should be doing this. Let her have some time to herself. She’s probably just sick to death of the two of us.”

“Probably.”

Ron shakes his head at Harry’s back. It’s been four long days. They pass a small playground snug against a dip in the land, two rusty swings creaking in the wind. The sun is out, the day polished and shining, but there is no warmth. Round another corner, up a small hill, and they soon come out to a narrow, tree-lined street.

The house sits primly in the trimmed garden, a tall evergreen guarding the gate. The tree softens the harsh winter glare and sheds needles onto the driveway. The garage door is open, empty. A window upstairs is open too.

Harry runs a hand through his hair, suddenly looking uncertain. But before Ron can open his mouth again, he’s stepped up to the door.

Fine, Ron thinks, fine then, let’s do this. Two can play the game. No, three can.

*

There’s a heartbeat of silence and he’s almost certain she won’t open the door.

Then there are footsteps, muffled and thoughtful, and a chain snaps.

The first thing he notices, much to his relief, is that she is okay. None of the wild scenarios in his head are real; she hasn’t been kidnapped, cursed, maimed or murdered.

The second thing he notices is that she is not okay. She looks as miserable as he feels, her lips raw from worry, her eyes weighted with lack of sleep. He stares, trying to gather her in with his eyes.

“Hi,” she stammers.

“Hey, Hermione.” Ron pushes past them, into the house.

She stands aside to let Ron in, her eyes on Harry. Her glance flickers quickly over his hurt arm and face, a furtive, rough caress. Guilt flecks her eyes. He feels a pinprick of hope.

She clears her throat. “What’re you doing here?”

He shifts from foot to foot. The wind yanks at his cloak, hair flying in his eyes. “We just…just wanted to see how you--”

Ron interrupts from inside. “Bullshit. He’s going mental, can you please come home?”

Hermione stares at Harry round-eyed. He tries to duck her glance, making a note to hex Ron the first chance he gets. She twists a strand of hair around her finger and steps inside, Harry following.

He’s been inside the Granger residence a few times before, while Mr Granger was alive and much later, during the funeral. He looks around, distracted for a moment by how unchanged everything seems, how ordinary, unperturbed.

“Come into the kitchen. I’ll get you something to drink. Mum’s gone to drop something off at the surgery.”

Ron drags himself reluctantly from the chair he’s collapsed into. Harry follows him. While they settle in the airy, clean kitchen, Hermione rummages the cupboards.

“Tea or coffee? Or…I think I have beer.”

Ron pulls out a chair at the small table. “Yeah, that’s great, Hermione. Whatever’s easy. Look, can we get to the point here?”

Hermione lets the fridge door shut, eyes on Ron. Harry begins to sort through all the hexes he knows.

Ron glares back at both of them.

“Yeah, I’m sorry to pass up on the niceties, but I’ve had to put up with this miserable sod for four days, all on my own, and I’m running out of patience, all right? I don’t know what’s going on between the two of you but you’d better fix it very soon or I’m going to hex you both to the middle of next decade, for Merlin’s sake!”

He takes a long swig of the beer Hermione sets in front of him.

“Ah, I needed that!”

He leans back in his chair, stretching his legs beneath the table, crutch rattling against wood.

“All right. So. What’s the deal? You coming home?” He looks at Hermione.

Hermione opens and closes her mouth, eyes wide. Confusion, indignation and worry flit across her face, all entangled. She sighs and drops to a chair. A carelessly turned tap drills a dull ache in Harry’s head.

“What’s going on? Is everything all right?” Her voice is strained, flighty round the edges.

“Of course it’s not all right! Were you even listening to me?”

“Oh for the love of--” Pushing his chair back savagely, Harry gets to his feet. “Ron, what the fuck is the matter with you?”

He glowers at Ron. Drip drip goes the tap, unrelenting. Ron returns his look with equal vigour.

“What is the matter with me? With me? I just don’t know what to do with you, that’s what’s the matter. You’ve spent four fucking days up on that roof and haven’t had a scrap to eat and you’ve the nerve to ask me what’s the matter? And not to forget you’ve gone off and signed yourself up with the bloody Ministry as well.”

A beat of stillness, an indrawn breath.

“You what?”

Ron turns to Hermione, out of steam. Harry strides over to the window and leans his hands on the counter, dipping his head. They’ve been in the house barely for five minutes.

“Harry, did you really?” She seeks his eyes but he evades her.

He grits his teeth. “I didn’t sign myself up, I just said yes to…to helping them out with…with whatever it is.”

“Exactly, he hasn’t the foggiest idea what he’s getting himself into and he said ye--”

“Oh, shut up, Ron!”

Ron ignores him. “How could you skip that day, Hermione? Luna turned up with her archaeologist friend who says magic’s running out--hold on, let me finish. I don’t quite get what she’s on about, but she says the wizarding world might die out soon, and that we might not be able to use magic at all, do the things we do as witches and wizards.”

Silence descends suddenly, dark wings out. Harry feels its flexing claws, its breath down his neck. He tries to issue a warning, staring at Ron incredulously, but his breath’s caught in his throat. Unaware where he’s heading, Ron carries on.

“I mean, if we can no longer do the things we do, will we still be witches and wizards? What’s going to happen to the way we live, the things we rely on, and what about times of war, how will we protect ourselves?”

Hermione gets to her feet. A brittle laugh crackles through the kitchen.

“Yes, it’ll be an utter tragedy if we can’t use magic to darn our socks and boil our kettles.”

She snaps the switch on the electric kettle, wrenches a cupboard door open, pulls out two mugs and sets them on the counter louder than necessary.

“And as for protection…”

She turns around and slams a container of sugar down on the table.

“Magic protected us this time around, did it?” Her voice rises to a dangerous pitch. Ron’s eyes widen in horror, just realising what he’s said. Harry simply stares, unable to move. A part of him knows he ought to intervene, shush her, calm her down, but another part whispers--finally, finally.

“Please, continue. Refresh my memory. I might have missed certain details…”

“I’m sorry, Hermione, I didn’t mean that--”

“--the exact number of people that died, how they died, how much they knew about why they died, and of what they died. Magic might be the answer to just some of those questions.”

“Listen--”

“But no, don’t take my word for it, I might be completely wrong--”

“Hermione--”

“But when I checked there were hundreds, Ron, hundreds! They didn’t have a clue, they had done nothing to deserve it, and…and then the castle…have you forgotten how many the castle killed? It killed your brother, it killed George! Have you two EVER stopped to think about what magic’s done to us? You, for instance, Harry. You thought it was a dream come true when you got the letter from Hogwarts, didn’t you? Beyond your wildest dreams. And then you got to Hogwarts and it was even better than you thought, except there was this slight glitch about a Prophecy and you being the saviour of the whole bloody world and nobody even told you until after you’d been nearly murdered a couple of times, and don’t tell me, don’t you DARE tell me that there wasn’t a single time when you thought that you’d never left the Dursley’s--”

She breaks off to catch her breath, suddenly looking confused. Her shoulder makes an odd, flinching motion like a wounded bird trying to defend itself with a wing. Harry watches her wild eyes and strangled breath and feels something snap inside him. Reticence and patience perhaps, the thought he’d nursed for the past weeks that eventually she’ll be okay, that soon she’ll be back to herself. That if only he was patient enough, silent enough, soon she’ll stop trying to be someone else.

Enough, he thinks, enough. Let’s have it out.

He pins her with his glance, watching her struggle. He speaks quietly. “Have you ever thought about what magic has done for us?” He crosses his arms over his chest.

“If nothing else, just the fact that we’re here together? The fact that we would probably never have met if not for the letter from Hogwarts? Or does that not mean anything to you anymore?”

Her fists clenched, blood rushes up the smooth curve of her neck where her hair folds away.

“How long are you going to keep this up, Hermione? How long are you going to pretend that if only you could forget you’re a witch, you could forget everything else too?”

She turns away, walking off but he’s quicker. He grabs her upper arm.

“No, you’re not going anywhere. We’re fixing this today. ”

She hisses at him, trying to wrench her arm free. “Oh, you bastard--Just let me--”

He tightens his grip.

“Your Dad didn’t die because of magic.” He takes care to speak clearly.

“And he didn’t die because you were careless. It was an accident. You couldn’t have known he’d come looking for you.” She’s staring at him, eyes full of disbelief. A sense of unreality grabs him, his mind retreating far, far away, watching himself, her, and Ron gaping from the table. The polished surfaces glint like a hundred lights, the designs on the curtain, the tablecloth and the china all bright like motifs in a dream. I’m losing her completely now, he thinks, losing her completely. Nothing more to hold back for, nothing more to lose.

“And it’s not your fault that London burned. We were all in it. We were all stupid enough to think there was no catch in it when he came so easily. And I was the coward. I chose not to do Killing Curse, I chose the Incinerator.”

He lets go of her arm and she staggers back. His eyes flicker over the red marks he’s left, heart squeezing. He recovers quickly with a sharp breath.

“So there you have it.” He cocks his head, watching her eyes burn, the set of her jaw.

“We were all in it, Hermione. Not just you.” He smiles as blandly as he can manage and shrugs. “Sorry to crash your pity party.”

Something flies across the air at him. Still feeling as if he’s outside his own skin, he watches with detachment as the glass zooms towards him. In the periphery of his vision, Ron struggles to his feet. There’s a jangling of keys and the kitchen door swings open. Harry ducks his head and raises an elbow, realizing too late it’s the wrong one, the one already hurt. The glass hits him and shatters to the ground.

“HERMIONE!”

Mrs Granger stands at the doorway, incredulous.

“What on earth are you DOING?”

His arm shrieks with pain. He feels the dampness of blood spreading beneath the bandage. He looks at Hermione but she’s already rushing out, hands over her face. Ron gawps, half out of the chair.

“Goodness, Harry, Ron, what’s going on?”

Harry tucks his arm against his chest and moves across the kitchen.

“Nothing, Mrs Granger. I’m sorry to have barged in. We were just on our way out. Ron--”

“You can’t go like that, you’re arm’s bleeding. Let me look at it--”

“No, no, it’s all right. It’s an old wound, I’m fine. Come on, Ron.”

“I don’t know what’s come over Hermione--”

“And I’m sorry about the glass--”

“Oh, this is awful, what’s--”

“--please say bye to Hermione for us--”

“Harry!”

The air seems to tangle around his feet, slowing him down. He strides across the driveway, out through the gate, crunching pine needles underfoot. He doesn’t look back to see if Ron’s following, the rushing in his ears blocks out all sounds. It’s done it’s done it’s done, he thinks, you’ve done it.

Now you’ve done it, Harry, you’ve really broken it all, and there will be no mending.

*

“Darling, just tell me what happened.”

“You wouldn’t understand, Mum!”

“Try me.”

She wipes her nose with her sleeve and leans her head back against the sofa. She aches all over, her heart most of all.

“I did it all wrong, Mum.”

“Start at the beginning, love.”

She looks at her mother and wonders where the beginning is. A dim lamp lights the study, deep shadows silent in the room.

“Do you remember how I told you about Horcruxes, a long time ago, right after Dumbledore died and we had to leave school?”

Helen returns from rummaging in a shelf and hands her a box of tissues. “Pieces of a soul?”

“Yes. Ones that you’ve created by murder because that’s the only way.”

“Go on.” Helen settles on the other end of the sofa.

“Well, it’s very advanced Dark Magic, and almost no mention anywhere in any book, and almost no one knows about it. But we managed to track them down, all of them except for Voldemort himself.”

Hermione presses her fingers to her forehead, her voice thick. There isn’t a beginning, she thinks, only a string of mistakes and miscalculations, hopelessly snarled.

“But…we didn’t know--”

She halts, her heart cavernous. Suddenly she’s back in those months; blind with exhaustion, reeking of fear, the only light Harry, still alive. She takes a deep breath and wills courage.

“We didn’t know that you can’t split your soul cleanly. When you create a Horcrux, there are pieces that fly off everywhere, residue…you can’t control them. You can’t keep track of them, you can’t pin them down like the parts of soul you put into a Horcrux.”

“And the pieces go…wherever. Everywhere. Mostly they settle where the Horcruxes were created.”

“Because Voldemort created all his Horcruxes while in London, that’s where the residue settled. But some it seems to have trailed Harry too, all the way to Surrey…we still don’t understand why.”

She stares out the window darkly pearled with rain, imagining a different kind of rain, tiny particles of soul falling all over London like pollen from a venomous plant.

She pulls her knees up, settling her aching head on them.

“It seemed so easy right towards the end, we had almost no trouble with the fifth and sixth Horcruxes--we should’ve known something was wrong. But we were so tired, And Harry…” She turns her head away.

Helen waits for a long moment. “What do you mean you should have known?”

Hermione takes a deep, noisy breath to continue. “Where Voldemort was concerned, nothing was ever easy. So when things got easy, that meant he was planning something else. And it turned out that he was. Turned out that he knew he had no chance but he planned it so he’d…he’d have the last word.”

“You see, Mum, he knew about the lost particles. He and Snape. They knew more about Dark Magic than anyone. Voldemort knew what those particles were capable of. And of course, he knew Harry, too. He knew Harry very well.”

“The thing with Horcruxes is that once they are found, they’re easy to destroy. But only if they’re inanimate, and all of them were, except for Voldemort. If they’re alive, there’s only one way, the Killing Curse. And Harry was so tired of it. He was so tired.”

The rain rises in pitch momentarily, slamming against the shutters, then dying away.

“Of the…Killing Curse?”

Her eyes clearing for a moment, she looks at her mother. Helen’s eyes are dark, faintly edged with fear. Hermione smiles, brittle, bitter.

“I never kept count, but a third of Death Eaters died at Harry’s hands.”

When her mother speaks, her voice is pitched low.

“And you? Did you…?”

“Did I kill? No. I think it was obvious that I’d not be any good at it. I thought too much.” She lifts a shoulder.

“Ron was no good either. He’s always had trouble doing things under pressure. He let several go free when he was on security duty. He was better suited to planning, strategy, the kind of thing where you decide who does what and when. But Harry--he was so good at smoking them out, quick with his spell work and footwork, single-minded. Nobody went free once he found them. He’d had almost no proper Auror training and yet there he was, matching the best in the Order. He was so good at it.” She sighs and slumps against the couch. “And he hated it.”

A car splashes down the street, headlights runny yellow. Hermione winces, remembering a terrible joke about unintentional Horcruxes. They’d still been months away from the end, and Harry had held up five fingers. If I were making Horcruxes, I could make this many…

Barely aware that Helen has to lean forward to hear her, she carries on. “Now he pretends he doesn’t want to take up a place in the Auror ranks because he can’t stand the Ministry. Not true. So not true.” She falls silent, her eyes on the window, at the faint reflection etched there of a grey face and messy hair. Then she straightens up briskly, pulling a wad of tissues.

“So, anyway. When I found out about a curse called Incinerator that could destroy a live Horcrux, well, I didn’t even think about it.

“It was so naïve of me, so bloody blind. It’s pretty much the same thing whether you used an Incinerator or the Killing Curse, you’d still be destroying a living, breathing being. I didn’t see it then…so stupid. All that mattered was there was a way for Harry to not have to kill.”

“And what does it do? This…Incinerator?”

She blinks at her mother as if just remembering she’s there. She suddenly feels tired of talking, as if enough’s been said.

“It burns a Horcrux down. That’s all I knew then. Fred and George warned me, told me something was off about the curse. They were helping me, testing stuff. They knew a lot about all sorts of magic because of their joke shop. Fred said the curse seemed too…safe to be true. But of course I didn’t listen.” She blows her nose, lobs the tissues at the bin in the corner, misses.

“There was even less said about the Incinerator than about Horcruxes in the darkest books I could find, and with good reason too.

“I didn’t think about why that was. And now we know that the little I knew about the spell was information Voldemort--and Snape--planted under my nose, and….” She rubs her eyes and pushes back her hair.

“…What I didn’t know was that it didn’t just burn the Horcrux. It burns all parts of the soul, every tiny particle ever to escape. So, there. That’s the story of how London burnt, Mum. How I set fire to it.”

The little clock on her father’s desk whirrs and rings out the hour. Helen sighs.

“Hermione, that’s not true. From what you’ve just told me--”

“Oh, don’t start now, Mum.” She lays her head on her knees again. “Harry’s already told me.”

“Is that why you’re so angry with him?”

She blinks into the dark between her palms. Yes, Hermione, why are you so angry with him? It’s got nothing to do with any of this, does it?

Her eyes begin to burn again. Annoyed, she grinds her knuckles into them and decides to lie, because the truth sounds stupid, utterly stupid to say, no, I’m angry because he kissed me, and it was just so wrong, and I want him to, again, but we can’t, he won’t now.

“Yes.”

Helen heaves a sigh and leans back, hands on her lap. Hermione listens to the sound of the rain. How tired she is of its rasping breath, the constant, drowning rattle. By the time Helen speaks again, all the aches and pains in Hermione’s body have concentrated into a brutally pounding head.

“Is this how your father died? That night when the fire began--because of these soul pieces?” Helen looks at her hands. Hermione turns to her, eyes widening.

“I know. You explained to me, right after the funeral, but I suppose I wasn’t paying attention.”

Hermione stares at her mother’s profile, the smooth skin faintly traced with wrinkles, the neat features, neater hair.

“No, that was…different. That was because of a fault in the security measures we had at Grimmauld Place…we’d just replaced the old security charm with a new, stronger one, one that would kill anyone who hadn’t left a blood signature, anyone who tried to--oh Mum, I’m so sorry--”

It’s been so easy to stay away, to stand at a distance and rail at her Mum’s insistence on normality. But this close she can see the fissures; the sellotape of routine and glue of familiar chores holding a broken heart together, secured with the pin of a still glossy wedding band.

Helen turns and smiles reassuringly. “Oh, I’m all right, darling. I’m all right.” She touches Hermione’s cheek. “But you--you need to go home.”

Hermione raises an eyebrow with difficulty. “Go home? You’re always asking me to come home.”

Helen smiles again, her eyes unreadable. “Well, I’m telling you now to go home.” She squeezes Hermione’s hand. “You love Harry very much. You need to go home.”

--end chapter seven--

## 9. Chapter Eight

Disclaimer: They belong to JKR, I’m only playing.

A/N: Don’t hate me, I’ve an apology to make in advance. I may not be able to post next week. I’ve just started a new job which is eating into my writing time and headspace, so I’m running very low on ready-to-post chapters. I know, I know I promised I’ll post every week, and lord have I been trying. So, yeah. I won’t take too long though.

And thank you so much to beta miconic who I forgot to thank last week *shockhorrorgasp*. So thank you, with arrears.

Enjoy. As always concrit/questions very welcome. This is a bit of an odd chapter, almost off-key. I’d have liked to hang on to it for a bit longer to see if I can fix it, but yeah, I’m late as it is.

***

--Chapter Eight--

Harry twists the tap and props the small basin under it. Steam rises. He leans against the sink for support. His glasses keep sliding down. The bathroom door’s locked against Ron.

She looked like he hit her. Like he’d probed and pushed and found her hiding in the farthest, deepest corner and beaten her out. He knew that she blamed herself for a lot of what happened, but…has he forgotten what guilt feels like? Or has he gotten so used to it that he can’t recall how it feels when fresh?

A wild laugh struggles in his throat.

That’s what’s pissing you off, isn’t it, Harry?

That instead of talking you out of your own guilt the way she would have in another life, another time, she’s stuck in her own--

He turns off the tap and stretches his arm, pulling away the bandage. Close to his skin, it comes away with a small ripping sound. He lets out a breath and stares at the cut. Crusted with healing skin and dark around the edges, it isn’t as bad as the bandage made it seem. Besides reopening the wound near the crook of his elbow, the glass has done little damage. He tests the heat of the water and adds more cold water. Bracing himself, he lowers his arm in.

He reels till the pain passes. Ribbons of blood loosen into clouds which then dissolve into a coppery pool. He reaches for a fresh bandage, pulls the arm out of water, then begins to clean and wrap up the cut. The fabric slips and rolls in on itself, his left hand growing quickly tired of trying to do something it’s unused to. He wishes the birds would stop squabbling in the roof; their wingtips and high-pitched calls send tremors throughout the house. The babble of worry in the pit of his stomach he attributes to knowing that she’s not going to look after herself. Her mother would be gone for most of the day. There’ll be no one to hassle her to eat, to sleep, to pull the book out of her hand when light grew faint. Given half a chance, she would spend all day by herself, and who’s going to sit with her quietly when she finally came looking for company and--

Stop it!

Stop pretending it’s all about her when it’s really all about you--

He takes a deep breath, unravels a section of the bandage and starts again.

Harry chooses to be vague about the war during the day because at night he has no choice. But there is one memory he carries with him always, polished and smooth by his constant fingering, a single bead left in a broken rosary.

It was in the early days, right after the summer following Dumbledore’s death. They’d been in the castle for weeks, all of Dumbledore’s Army and half the Order, trying to determine a course of action against the escalating attacks. One night, word came from Hogsmeade about ruptured wards and he ventured out with Shacklebolt and Tonks. That night he used the killing curse for the first time. Twice. One Death Eater was about as old as himself and a new recruit, judging by the tactics and terror, the other a known face Harry couldn’t name. Tonks and Shacklebolt were already occupied elsewhere. There was no time to think; the curse shot from his tongue and unfurled along his wand, a smooth, precise move both times.

But on his way back to the castle, he was shaking badly and ill over hedgerows all across the village, as if trying to get rid of a part of himself that sickened him. The two Aurors had Apparated to London with a captive and he was on his own. He slipped past the crowded Great Hall and out through a hidden passageway, hoping to get to his room unnoticed.

Hermione was waiting at his door.

He had no idea if she knew when to expect him or how; he’d never thought to ask. Neither did he know where Ron was or what he would have done had he been there. Or what anyone else would’ve done had they seen him, seen in his eyes what he’d done, how easy it had been.

All he remembers is how Hermione was there, how she calmly took him by the arm, sat him down and pushed a glass of water into his hand. And there it was, the question he was terrified to ask his friends, and her answer, unhesitant.

Will you still…?

Of course. Always.

It was as if she took something ugly and black from him, closed her fist over it and hid it behind her back--safely out of sight for the moment, so he could get on with the rest of it.

You did what you had to.

You did you best not to have to do it--

You did what you had to.

And he had got on with it, so well. Too well, that eventually she felt it was too much and had to go find a way to save him, a way for him to not kill--

And now she’s left, she’s let go, opened her fist and--

What a mess, Harry. What a bloody mess.

The bandage done, he mutters a spell over it. It’s not as neat or tight, but it’ll have to do. He empties the dirty water into the sink and clears the countertop. The bathroom, like elsewhere in the house, is done in various textures of black; black tiles, black enamel, a black mirror set in a frame of ornate black wood. He raises his head and meets his eyes in the mirror. Not much light to see by. Where was he? Where was he, in the debris of those months, the things he did?

Countless times he’d tried his own logic; it’s a war, Harry. People kill. Get over it. But it hadn’t worked, it seemed different from her reasoning and faith, calm and so utterly irrefutable. Without that, who was he?

Simply a liar and a killer, Harry. And a coward.

*

Saturday she spends in her room, counting blue daisies on her bedclothes.

Sunday too she spends in her room putting finishing touches on her quilt of misery. She allows no loose threads; a breath of light at a window, on the edge of a curtain, gets snipped so fast it’s like it was never there in the first place.

By Monday, she’s so hungry for light, misses him so much, she perches on her windowsill waiting for dawn, freezing. Her mother finds her but doesn’t know how to bring her back.

On Tuesday she ventures out, desperate to get out of herself. She walks round the block, walks round the block again, then stops at the small children’s park down the road. It’s a school-day noon and no one’s about. Spring’s still a long while away but there’s a doggedness to sunlight that hasn’t been there before. The swings are slightly damp with the night’s rain, their chains rusty. She sits on one. Something falls out of her coat pocket and she picks up the small scroll case from the night the bike crashed. She sighs.

Serves you right.

She opened the scroll case that same night, after she left Harry sleeping in Buckbeak’s room. It wasn’t easy; while the case looked ancient, the charm held fast. To her disgust though, she had no trouble remembering any of the unlocking spells she’d ever learned. Inside she found the oldest parchment she had ever seen, made of a thick, fibrous material, clinging to the sides of the case. Rolled tightly to fit the case, they almost came apart in her hands despite the preservation magic she detected. At first, she thought the inscriptions were of a foreign language, but a closer look revealed barely familiar words and characters that made rudimentary sense. Pulling out an Old English dictionary stashed among her school things--and promising to punish herself later--she set out to read.

Then you got chicken and you ran.

All the while knowing that he’s going to be convinced it was his fault you ran.

She kicks her feet against the hard earth and the swing creaks to and fro. The sun falls full on her face, then slides away with the motion of the swing. She propels herself again, and again the sun slides in, slides out.

How long are you going to keep this up, Hermione?

She hooks her elbows around the chain, hands in her lap. Smudges of rust colour her palms. Vaguely, she wonders about trains to London. She thinks of her armchair in the kitchen at Grimmauld Place, hours spent staring into the fire, knowing he was nearby. She thinks of choosing and being chosen, of wars and their ending, of familiarity and something else, a clean, singing warmth in her belly, something to do with an incomplete kiss. The sun swings in and out, and with it her courage. She doesn’t feel time passing. She stays there so long that when hunger finally drives her home, faint fingerprints of sunlight linger behind her eyes, her heart.

*

“Harry, what are you doing?”

Ron stands at the top of the stairs, a robe wrapped over his pyjamas. Harry crosses the hallway, gesturing over his shoulder at the door.

“I thought I heard something--someone.”

“No, you didn’t.” Ron begins to climb down, muttering to himself. “Tramping up and down the bloody house like a troll in the middle of the bloody night, every night, and he says he heard something--”

“Ron, just go back to bed.”

“No, I can’t. Because you’ve freaking woken me up now, haven’t you? Hermione wasn’t kidding when she said you don’t sleep, and she sleeps with her bloody door open too. No wonder she had enough!” He reaches the last step with a grunt. Turning towards the kitchen, he catches Harry’s eye.

“Harry, it was a joke.” Shaking his head, he pushes the kitchen door open. Harry follows him.

Ron pulls out a half-empty bottle of Firewhiskey by wandlight and settles at the table. Harry stokes the cold grate, starts up a fire. Its spitting orange glow soon fills the kitchen with shadows holding hands, collapsing into each other.

“Ron, I’ve got something to tell you.”

Ron pops the cork on the bottle. “Great. Don’t change a thing. Your sense of timing is bloody perfect.”

Harry pulls out a chair opposite Ron.

“I’m serious.”

Ron glares at him, then sighs.

“All right, fine. Carry on.”

Harry traces a groove in the wood with a finger. Where to start? How to say it? All he knows is that it’s time, because it’s already too late. Ron pushes the Firewhiskey across the table. Harry touches the bottle lightly as if afraid it might blow up any second.

“You know when you got hit with the…the Crippler…”

Of course he’d know because he’s the one hit with it, you dolt.

He rubs a hand over his face, clears his throat and tries again.

“Ron, your leg…the reason you were hit with the Crippler--it was all because I--”

He swallows, watching Ron’s face slowly becoming still.

“It was all because I kissed Hermione.”

He winces inwardly at how stupid and awkward it sounds when put into words.

Ron’s eyes darken, closing in, unreadable. He rubs his hands briskly over his face and leans back in the chair.

“What are you talking about? Fancy starting at the beginning?”

Harry reaches for a glass and the bottle. The spitting fire seems to throttle the kitchen with warmth.

“There is no beginning. We--I--neither of us saw it coming…”

“I mean the curse.”

“That’s what--of course.” Harry rubs the back of his back, irritated at the warm flush spreading over his skin.

Didn’t expect this to be easy, did you?

He takes a gulp of whiskey and wipes his mouth with the back of a hand. He hasn’t recounted those hours since the tortuous hearing at the Ministry right after the defeat, when they were still trying to determine what exactly had happened. He keeps his eyes firmly on the glass.

“It was right after…the castle turned on us. People everywhere, some Death Eaters…total chaos. Bodies, bits of statues and portraits, wood from the broken doors, glass, stone, broken wands…and no light. No light at all. Remember how all the lamps went out at the same time? Yeah, well. We were in the Great Hall, you were right there but I couldn’t see Hermione. She was behind me when we came back from the dungeons after…Voldemort died…but suddenly I couldn’t see her. And hardly anybody realised that Voldemort was dead so when all those curses started firing from nowhere and those…weird noises started up everyone just began panicking and screaming again, and--”

Absently, he moves his glass and rubs at its damp imprint on the dark wood.

“Anyway. I looked around for Hermione, but I couldn’t see her, anywhere at all. The Hall was falling to pieces and she was suddenly…just gone. She was there all that time, all through that whole night and then suddenly she was gone. I heard you calling me but I was--anyway.”

He pushes the glass back towards him, fingers tight around it.

“So when she walked up right behind me…I just--”

He tries to find words for the way the world centred again, the way it tilted right side up inside like a fallen snow-globe, picked up and set back on a smooth surface. But eloquence has never been his forte so he settles for the barest words.

“I kissed her. I just pulled her up and kissed her.”

She smelled of grime and sweat and so did he. When he touched her, he found dried blood on her cheek. When his lips were almost over hers, her eyes widened and she stalled him with a hand at his chest, but that was only momentary. She seemed to reach for him before he even began. She reached deeper and farther into him than they had time for, as if time wasn’t in the equation. Nothing was in the equation, nothing but her, him.

He looks up, seized with a sudden realisation.

The reason he hadn’t wanted to tell Ron what happened was not because he thought it would hurt Ron.

But because it’s mine, that moment, the clearest moment in my life--only mine. Mine and hers.

He finds Ron’s gaze on him and doesn’t know how long he’s been silent. He lets out a breath and carries on.

“And then we heard you yell, and…saw Dolohov, right behind us. Ron, he was aiming for Hermione. The Crippler was meant for Hermione. But because I pulled her away, without knowing and you were running after me…” He gives a small shrug, exhausted. “So there.”

The gabble of the fire close to hand smothers other small sounds of the house. Bearded with long cobwebs and their longer shadows, the roof seems lower than usual. The whole kitchen seems shrunk, crowded with shadows and their endless quivering. Just when he begins to fear his best friend will never speak to him again, Ron clears his throat.

“So Dolohov wanted to finish what he couldn’t in our fifth year.” He leans back in his chair, hooking an arm over its back. “Blimey, some people just hold on to grudges, don’t they?”

Harry peers at Ron.

“Are you…aren’t you mad?”

A beat of silence later, Ron flashes a grin. Harry stares at him.

“Did you know? Did Hermione tell you?”

Ron leans forward again and shakes his head. “Hell, no.” His grin grows wider. “But I bet she’s been at your back forever, right?”

Harry lifts a shoulder. “Yeah, well. She was right.”

“And you’ve been trying to tell her that it’s better this way, that I’d not feel any better if I knew, right?”

Harry frowns, irritated. “What’s going on? What’re you looking so pleased about?”

Ron clears his throat and pulls his face straight. “Oh, don’t mind me. I just solved a mystery, is all.” As if unable to help himself, he grins again. Harry glares at him. Ron sighs and settles more comfortably in his chair with the air of a long-suffering primary school teacher.

“Harry, what am I supposed to say? Am I supposed to feel bad that Hermione wasn’t hurt? Do you think I’d feel any better if Dolohov did hit target? I mean--one of us would have got hurt, that curse would have hit someone. Given the…logistics of the scenario, you know, how erm, everyone was situated, it might’ve even hit you. Am I supposed to think, ‘oh blimey, I wish Harry or Hermione got crippled instead of me?’”

“That’s not the point--”

“That is exactly the point.”

Harry falls silent, watching all levity drain from Ron’s face.

“You’re both so stupid about this, Harry. I knew something was up, I just didn’t know what. But really…do you know why neither of you’ve ever beat me Wizards Chess?”

“I--what?”

“Because you never see the big picture, Harry. Both you and Hermione. You’re always too focused on the pieces right in front of you, you never even consider that the one in the far corner might do something to upset the whole bloody game. You always forget that they can move--that you’re not the only one in control of the game.”

He glowers at Harry, intent to make the point as clear as possible.

“You’re both so one-track minded, so bloody obsessive that it’s a fucking joke sometimes! I mean, just look at the whole--” he waves an arm wildly--“thing about the Incinerator. She wanted so badly to make things easy for you that she went and fell for it--and now she’s blaming herself for having found the curse, and you’re blaming yourself not only for using it, but for her blaming herself, and then you’re both blaming yourselves for burning London down!”

He stops to breathe. Swallowing, Harry pushes his glasses up.

“And you know what the funniest part is? The funniest part is that London didn’t burn because of you! It all went horribly wrong but not because of you, either of you.”

Ron rubs his hands over his face. A sudden dart over the dresser catches Harry’s eye. He looks up just in time to see a long tail flick from an enormous soup ladle, then disappear behind the dresser.

“It just went wrong, Harry. Things do, sometimes. And if anyone’s to blame it’s all those morons who didn’t stop to think that when they were covering up anything anyone could ever know about Horcruxes, they were actually making things worse. How the hell were we supposed to defeat a man who was using Horcruxes if we didn’t know what the fucking word meant? How bloody stupid is it to think that just because you don’t talk about something it’ll just go away?”

Harry pushes the bottle of Ogden’s across the table. Ron takes a long swig and sets the bottle down with a thud, his eyes bloodshot. When he speaks again, his voice is much lower, tinged with a strange sad note Harry has never heard from Ron before.

“Can’t you see, Harry? All this guilt, all this wallowing--you’re letting him win. All over again. That makes it--all those deaths, everyone who lost something, someone--it makes it all have been for nothing.”

Harry looks away, distracted by something slowly shuffling into place. An ivory glow hangs about the mildewed window, the first inkling of dawn. Something creaks above the ceiling and settles with a groan.

“You knew your Dad was dying, didn’t you?” He glances at Ron.

Ron’s eyes widen. He stays silent for a long moment, then shrugs. “Yeah. For months.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Ron twirls the cork from the empty bottle between his fingers, eyes speared on the end of a bitter laugh.

“That’s what everyone wants to know--Fred, Ginny, Mum.” He shakes his head. “Dad didn’t want me to, Harry. Made me promise. He said…he said he was dying for a reason and he didn’t want to distract everyone from that reason.”

Harry leans across the table.

“But couldn’t we--”

“No.” Ron’s voice is abrupt. “No. This is what I keep telling everyone but…never mind. The fire-scorpion was very old, Harry. They’re apparently not even supposed to live that long. So its venom was a lot stronger than normal. Dad was weak anyway, from the…Dementors.”

He lobs the cork at the fire where it immediately sparks a new flame.

“But mostly, it was him. He said he…just didn’t want me to waste my time.” His hand closes over the mouth of the empty bottle. “And I should never have listened to him.”

Harry sags back in his chair, staring at his hands. Right again, Hermione. When news came of Mr Weasley’s sudden death and the other Weasleys simply crumpled, Ron had nodded and turned away. Harry didn’t know what to think, to do, but Hermione had a theory.

And now I don’t know what to say either, and you’re not here.

Minutes disappear into the hiss of the fire. Harry scratches his wrist idly. His arm is healing slowly, a maddening itch beneath the bandage. He blinks, trying to clear the spots in front of his eyes, his glasses smudged with careless handling. Finally, Ron straightens up, his crutch scraping against the table.

“We should get to bed.” He gestures at the window. “You’ve got to go to the Ministry in a few hours.”

“Yeah.” Harry agrees. He watches Ron get to his feet ponderously, his chair wobbly as he leans on it. “Ron, are you really not mad--are you really okay with…with--”

“Am I okay with you going off and snogging Hermione again?” He tilts his head, a mock serious expression on his face. “What did I just say about one-track minded, Harry?”

“Oh yeah. Go on. Rub it in.” Harry rubs the back of his neck. “For the record, that’s not what I meant.”

A sudden chuckle rings out through the kitchen. “Seriously, if you could just see your face now. Ha! I mean, you move fast when you want to Harry. I really didn’t expect it to take this long--”

“Expect what?”

“Oh, come on. Butter wouldn’t melt--” Ron stops laughing and stares at Harry, his expression slowly turning incredulous.

“For the love of Merlin!” He shakes his head, looking supremely disgusted. “You know what? That thing I said about chess pieces? Well, I take it back. You don’t even see what’s fucking right--”

He doesn’t get to finish the sentence. A loud thud rattles the house. Startled, they stare at each other. A second crash fills the house. Harry jumps to his feet and rushes out the door, toppling chairs on the way. A small light shivers in the living room. Then it’s snuffed out in haste.

“Who is it? Who IS it?”

He reaches the front door just as it slams. The door swings and hits him on the arm. Swearing loudly, he runs out into the street, but it stands empty. A gaggle of startled starlings rush up into the sky, loud in the pale air.

“Harry! Look--”

Standing at the doorway, Ron holds out a mitten. Harry sprints up the stairs, and peers at the dark green embroidery on the fabric.

“That slimy bastard--I missed him again!” He kicks the doorpost.

“Yeah, but now we actually have something to show--”

“He can’t be far--”

“Harry, he fucking Apparated, you can’t follow him now!”

“I knew someone was here--”

“Just come inside. You can’t do much now. We’re going to have to get Tonks--blimey, Harry, Harry--”

“What? What?”

Mouth hanging open, Ron points at a spot halfway down the hallway.

“Mrs Black’s portrait. It’s gone.”

--end chapter eight--

## 10. Chapter Nine

Disclaimer: They belong to JKR, I’m only playing.

A/N: Sorry for the lateness; I really wouldn’t be if I could help it. About this chapter, the mind will boggle at the magic waning stuff—don’t worry too much. It’ll all fall into place, just let it be, let the confusion embrace you. All right, shutting up now. (Actually, if it does make sense so far, let me know, yes?) As per custom, many, many thanks to my dearest beta miconic. Enjoy, and leave me a word. And it doesn’t have to be nice; con-crit, as I keep saying, is welcome.

***

--Chapter Nine--

Harry follows Sally down the steep, narrow stairs to the Department of Mysteries. The lower five levels of the Ministry, deep underground, remained largely untouched by the fire. The caved-in remains of the top floors have been Concealed to show a large patch of burnt asphalt. Along the stairs, a small window set high in the wall is the only source of light, simulating the glum day above ground.

“I hear that you’ve been here before, Harry,” Sally says over her shoulder.

“Yeah. Once.” Harry watches his feet, wondering exactly how much she knows about him. “But we didn’t know there was a back entrance. We entered from the circular room.”

“These stairs lead only to the Room of Magic. From there you have to go back into the circular room if you want to enter the other rooms. Quite appropriate.”

They reach the top, and Sally performs a quick charm before pushing the heavy oak door open.

“Why is it appropriate?”

She steps aside to let him in and he looks around the large chamber, much of it in shadow. He blinks to adjust his eyes to the gloom which is broken only by a few small everlasting candles. A familiar smell greets him, and he breathes deeply, trying to determine what it is.

“Because this is where it all begins for us. Magic is the point of entry into everything else in our lives, isn’t it?”

Harry looks at her and she smiles absently. “Make yourself at home, Harry. I’m just going to get a few things ready.” She turns away and begins to move around the room, clearing a space on her desk, setting out parchment and ink.

Harry’s drawn immediately to the pool of light dancing against the wall. He drapes his cloak over a chair and walks over. “Is that a Pensieve?”

Sally looks over her shoulder. “Yes. It’s very old. See how it’s made of clay? The modern ones are much fancier.”

“How can you work in here? It’s so dark.”

“I’m used to it now. These--” she waves at the shelves in front of him “--don’t tolerate light much.”

His glance wavers over the other artefacts on the floor-to-ceiling shelves covering an entire wall. Several more shelves hold a collection of ancient thickly bound books and bundles of rolled up parchment. A large faded tapestry covers the left wall. On the far end of the room is another, larger door cast faintly with a bluish sheen he recognises.

“So, what are we doing?” he says, trying to make out the other objects on the shelves. He’s surprised to find the ancient Pensieve flanked not just by rare objects such as a bottled Hippocampus marked as belonging to an extinct breed, but banalities such as a small crystal ball and a lunascope. A sudden idea strikes him and he looks at Sally thoughtfully.

She leans against her desk. “Well, I thought you might still have questions. Seeing as we…we didn’t get to go over much the other day.”

Harry drags his eyes from a silver goblet and walks over. She seems more relaxed than the day they met her. Now that she’s in her own space, her nervous stillness is replaced by an understated grace, as if she’s among old friends. As if she’s spun of the same thread as the room and its contents, sharing their colours and textures, the muted light and silent, alert waiting. But Harry’s still bothered by the spark of recognition that he can’t name.

“Is Sally short for anything?” He notices her tiny start and raises an eyebrow. “Or is that the wrong kind of question?”

She meets his gaze. “No, of course not. Sally is…short for Seraphina.” She colours a little.

Harry grins. “Oh, I see. That explains itself. I mean, it’s not a bad name--”

She smiles faintly. “It’s all right. It’s a terrible name. My Dad’s choice.” She shrugs and moves away from the desk, and Harry senses the conversation’s over. She picks up a quill.

“So, anyway, if you don’t have any questions--”

“Actually, I do.” He gestures at the artefacts lining the wall. “Is it possible to…store magic?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, say someone knew that magic was…running out, waning, can they hoard magic for themselves? Can you somehow--” he searches for a word “--extract the magic from a magical artefact and use it?”

A strange look comes over Sally’s face, a sudden stiffness in her stance. Harry stifles a stab of exasperation. She’s like an animal in camouflage, he thinks; darting from shadow to shadow, blending into their stillness till it’s time to move again. Hunter or prey, he can’t tell.

Finally she clears her throat. “There are certain forms of magic that by definition involve preservation. For instance, Horcruxes. But if you mean whether you could somehow remove the magic from that Pensieve and store it within yourself and turn it into, say, a Levitation charm--” she tucks her hair behind her ear “--yes, you can.”

“It’s very difficult, it’ll take a good deal of physical and mental energy but you needn’t be particularly strong in magic.” She taps her quill against her palm briefly, sets it down and clears her throat. “You can do the same for magical creatures. Why do you ask?”

Harry slides his hands in his pockets. “Things have begun to go missing from our house. Old things, a clock, a vase, a few portraits. And who knows what else.”

“Couldn’t they just be in Diagon Alley? You know, Mundungus Fletcher, Borgin’s and all?”

He shrugs. “I’m looking into it, but somehow I don’t think so.”

Lack of sleep feels like bands of iron in his head, pulling tighter every second. Neither he nor Ron had any rest after their interrupted conversation. They spent most of the morning trying to determine what was missing from the house, which was difficult since Harry hasn’t the slightest idea what was in it in the first place. They owled Fred to make inquiries along his many and not always legal channels of information, and Tonks to check Foreign Customs records. Still, he wonders whether there was any point to any of it at all.

He looks up to find her gaze on him. He’s wanted to ask her more about the artefacts and how they could be used, but suddenly uncomfortable, he gestures vaguely around the room.

“So, what do you want me to do?”

As if returning from a reverie, she jumps and clears her throat. “Well. Okay--” She picks up her notes, then sets them down. She repeats the same for her quill and ink. “I’ve just got a series of questions here. Remember how I said there was a pattern to how magic wanes?”

Harry tries not to stare at her strange motions. “Er, maybe. Remind me again.”

She clears her throat again. “Well, if magic is waning, it may show first in the general spells and charms we use daily. But the important part is that quite paradoxically, your ability to do wandless magic lasts longer.”

Harry frowns. “That doesn’t make sense. Wandless magic is difficult.”

“Wandless magic is strong magic. When you use a prop, you put a barrier between yourself and the flow of magic. But when you summon magic without a wand or words, you’re tapping into a greater volume, and faster.”

Harry shakes his head and stifles a sudden yawn. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at. Isn’t Apparation a type of wandless magic as well? That’s becoming very difficult.”

“Yes. But it involves distance. That’s why it’s failing.” She inclines her head, looking at him pointedly. “For most people, at least. You haven’t Apparated recently, have you?”

He continues to gaze at her in bafflement. She flattens the dog-eared corner of a parchment with compulsive fingers. “Have you Apparated recently?”

“Yeah, a few weeks ago.”

“Did you have any trouble?”

“No. But I took care to Apparate within decent hours.”

“But you didn’t have any trouble?”

“No.”

“Just like you didn’t have any trouble opening that bottle of Firewhiskey the other day. Almost as if you didn’t have to even think about it.”

Harry looks away and paces past the shelves, towards the shimmering door, then back again. “Are you saying that depending on how--” he scratches his head “--good a wizard you are, that is, how good you are at wandless magic at least, you can still sort of keep using magic even if it’s running out?”

“Exactly.”

He looks at her, his brain trying to catch up. “But that’ll be a disaster. If some of us can do magic and others can’t…And also, wouldn’t we be sort of using up what’s left of magic faster?”

Sally looks on silently, neither assent nor argument in her expression. Harry sighs and throws his hands up.

“Okay. All right. But where do I come into all of this? I mean, surely I’m not the only person who can do wandless magic in the entire wizarding community?”

“No. But you’re…” she looks at him for a beat, then changes tack. “As you know, the Minister doesn’t think magic is waning. He thinks we’re just suffering the emotional aftermath of the war. But if that’s the case, as I was explaining the other day, you out of all the people shouldn’t be able to perform wandless magic. But from what you told me, you’re having trouble with some spells and charms, but not wandless magic.”

“I don’t do a lot of wandless magic, anyway. If my wand doesn’t work I just do things the Muggle way.” He gestures vaguely. “That day, that whiskey bottle was an exception.”

“No one does a lot of wandless, wordless magic, Harry. We’re trained to rely on props from a very young age. It’s unfortunate.”

“It’s difficult magic to learn.”

She looks away. “Yes. Yes, of course, it is.”

Something glints on her table and he catches sight of a wand behind a stack of books. He stares at it without really seeing it, thinking absently that it’s a very unusual colour, made of an ivory-hued wood.

“So, let me get this straight. You think that if Scrimgeour’s right, then I should be one of the first whose magic would fail.”

“Essentially, yes.”

“But if Scrimgeour’s wrong and magic is definitely running out, then I should be able to carry on doing wandless magic because it’s not my ability that’s failing, but magic itself.”

“Yes.”

“So, why me?” Harry prods, a little sharp.

She hesitates. “Well, you did go through some horrendous experiences, the people who brought you up died--”

“Everyone lost someone. Take my friend Ron. He lost nearly everybody.” And he actually loved them.

Sally picks up her quill again and begins to tap it rapidly against the edge of the table. Harry grates his teeth against the sound.

“None of this is really about the strength of my magic, or the degree of--what’s your word for it--emotional aftermath I’m suffering, is it? It’s just because I’m Harry Potter and you think I can do just about anything. Just like everybody else.”

“You are the most powerful wizard alive today.”

He gives a small, dry laugh, turning away. His eyes drift past the shelf of old books, some with their spines glinting with fading embossed lettering, others tightly bound to prevent disintegration. “So, magic did start waning after…the war?”

For a minute she looks thrown by the sudden change of direction. Then she composes herself. “Well, if there were earlier signs, we missed them. We just weren’t looking out for them, I suppose. Voldemort made his Horcruxes years and years ago.”

“You said his name.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing. So, Horcruxes cause magic to become weak?”

“Yes. Making one Horcrux is terrible enough, seven would definitely have put pressure on the flow of magic over the years. I believe this is one reason Horcruxes are taken to be such evil magic, you know, whoever did it first must have discovered that it affects magic badly. As for what’s happening now, I think it’s the blowing up of them--the hundreds of stray pieces--that sparked the sudden decline.”

Great, Harry. So you’re right. You’ve caused the decline of magic as well.

He turns his back to her and walks slowly across the room, towards its belly where frail candle-light doesn’t reach. Shadows mould square corners into an undefined softness, giving the chamber a cave-like shape. His own voice ripples back at him in a faint echo.

“All right. So, say I continue to do wandless magic while every other kind fails--how is that going to convince Scrimgeour? Harry Potter can do wandless magic so magic must be failing? Doesn’t sound very convincing, does it? And even if you do convince him, what’s that going to do? He can’t exactly stop it, can he? He’ll pretend he can, of course, in true Scrimgeour style, but there really is nothing he can do, is there?”

After a tiny pause Sally speaks quietly, a cautious note in her voice.

“No, but we could prepare ourselves. Even if we can’t stop it, we can do something about it. For starters, people could be taught proper wandless magic, at least to make use of in an emergency, or to preserve parts of our way of life.”

She gazes at him, her eyes wide but shuttered. “Harry, I can’t convince the Minister. You can. It doesn’t look that way now, I know, but the wizarding world is behind you. They’ll always listen to you.”

“Right. Of course.”

He stares at the tapestry hanging on the far wall, lit by the blue sheen from the door. In excruciating detail, in now-faded crimson and gold thread, it depicts a rising phoenix, its throat and wings arched, ready to take flight.

Did Fawkes ever get tired of it?

Of constantly bursting into flames and coming back again, just to repeat the whole thing, over and over?

He turns around and runs his hands through his hair. “I’m sorry, Sally. I’m sorry to have wasted your time, to have gotten your hopes up but this--I can’t do this.” I can’t even begin understand it. “I’m very sorry.”

He meets her eyes briefly, walks over, picks up his cloak and drapes it over his shoulders, crossing to the door.

“She didn’t come back, did she?”

He turns around distractedly, a hand on the carved door handle. “Who?”

“Your friend. Hermione.”

Harry stares at her. “No.”

Sally nods and walks over to hold the door for him. He senses no disappointment and that unsettles him.

“Thank you for coming, Harry. It’s been lovely meeting you.”

“Yeah…you too. Bye, Sally.”

The door shuts without a sound. He sprints up the stairs, wanting to get away as fast as he can.

Then he stops abruptly, realising the source of the familiar smell in the chamber, as if its sudden withdrawal with the shutting of the door let out a catch in his memory.

The room had smelled like old things, of parchment and old books, of ink and chewed quills, all gathered in one place, a fragrance deepened by the aged artefacts lining the walls. Sweet, busy and slightly dusty--the room smelled almost like Hermione.

*

The late afternoon grinds through him, slow, tortuous. A storm gathers outside, the wind determined to strip the January sky. If only. He stares out the window for a moment, then returns to the bike.

The house was empty when he returned, with a note from Ron tagged to the kitchen door. Lunch seemed too much trouble. He trudged upstairs thinking of sleep, but was distracted by a half open door. He doesn’t know how long he stood there, looking into her room. Then, sinking anew and abandoning the idea of sleep, he turned to the bike.

His wand lies aside. Using his hands feels good; the callusing skin, the straining of muscle feel real, solid. The tyre needs magic or better Muggle tools than what he’s got. So he lays that aside, trying to fix what he can, which involves mainly cleaning. Crookshanks watches from atop a crate, tail flicking, an air of calm anticipation about him. Harry throws an irritable rag at him. Who’re you waiting for? A faint thump echoes through the hollow house. Harry stiffens.

The kneazle hops down, stretches, puffs up his fur and begins to glide downstairs.

*

She pushes open the door, holding her breath so tightly her lungs feel weighted with stone. A burst of wind trails the door but is quickly marshalled out. Something brushes past her leg.

“Crookshanks!”

But before she can pick him up, he marches out through the cat-flap, a scathing look on his face.

Inside, everything is still. She takes off her cloak and hangs it on the troll-leg. Gloom encloses her. As she takes a few hesitant steps inside, she’s met with a vague sense of something missing but she tells herself it’s probably her own courage. The corner of her lip is already raw from the forty-minute train ride. She has half a mind to run back quietly out the door. Sudden darts of light draw her eye to the fish-tank and, not knowing what else to do, she walks slowly up the stairs.

A field of bubble covers half the surface of the tank. Angus and Josephine swim the length of the water serenely. Gogol blusters in a corner, industriously spinning his bubble nest. Hermione wiggles a finger in the water, making the two mollies dance up to the top.

The floorboards creak.

“Hermione.”

She whips around. Her throat almost closes up.

“Hi Harry.”

She wishes that she had run out the door. She tries to remember why she’s here and her mind draws a blank. He stands a few stairs above her and stares. At the sheer joy of just seeing him her rushing heart pushes everything else away, words, excuses, explanations, breath. Her mind scrabbles for purchase of some solid, sensible fact.

“Aren’t you cold? It’s--it’s freezing out there.”

He wears only jeans and an old checked shirt with the sleeves rolled up, both smeared with grease. The shirt’s haphazardly buttoned, its collar hanging off one shoulder. In one hand he clutches his wand, in the other a blackened rag. No prizes for guessing what’s occupying his time. The whiff of grease speeds up the guilty beat of her heart.

He gestures with the rag.

“I--I wasn’t expecting you.” He swallows. “Have you come to collect your things?”

“I--what?” She stares.

“Your…stuff. I could--”

“I didn’t come to collect my things.”

“Oh.”

“Do you want me to take my…things?” She can barely hear her own voice.

“What? No. I mean, I just thought…” A hand rakes through hair. “Well, you can hardly blame me for not knowing how it works anymore.” He tugs her eyes to his, voice flinty.

Her knees begin to wobble and she sits down on the dank stair.

Great start, Hermione.

He stays standing. She clutches her bag to her stomach. She senses him waiting for her to say something, but doesn’t know what to say. Finally, he drops to a stair above her, half facing her. She’s terrified to look at him because she might never be able to look away, and that would be bad because soon she’ll have to leave. Soon, he’ll want her to leave.

Well, what did you expect?

She shifts and clears her throat. “Where’s Ron?”

“At the Burrow.”

“Right.”

He leans stiffly against the banister. She winces at the careful distance he keeps. Angus swims through Gogol’s nest and Gogol lunges. Light and shadow shift over the walls and ceiling, a troupe of dancers with their steps all wrong, tripping across each other’s path.

She grabs her bag tighter and tries to keep her voice steady.

“Harry, I just…came to--”

He glances at her and she dips her head to rummage in her bag.

“--to give you this.” She holds out the scroll case. “I think it might help…when…when you see that Unspeakable.”

He pushes his glasses straight with the back of one hand, staring at the case. He takes it, turns it over on his palm, then puts it down on the stair. She pulls her eyes away from the healing yellow scar down his forearm.

He clears his throat. “I’ve already been to see her. And…it’s not going to work, what she wants me to do--Hermione, why are you really here?”

Flinching, she looks at him. His eyes look like they haven’t had a minute’s rest for weeks and stubble stands on his jaw. His knuckles are white around his wand. She wants to touch him so badly, just to hold his hand perhaps, pull his shirt straight over his shoulder, coax open his clenched fist. He’s trying so hard to stay locked and bolted against her, but is sabotaged by his bare shoulder and brutally boyish hair.

She gets ready to flee.

“All right, don’t worry. I’m going…not staying if you don’t want me to--”

“What? No!”

He scrambles down and suddenly, she finds herself wedged between the stair and the banister. His wand clatters down the stairs.

“Harry--”

“Why are you doing this?” A brittle note splits his voice.

His fingers grip her arms, a knee presses against her thigh. Her body strains backwards against the banister, her legs awkward over the stairs. Pain everywhere, worst of all his eyes, bright and broken. And where he’s touching her--hip, cheek, thigh--a screaming sweetness. His lips are so close, she only has to tip her head to reach them. She wrenches her eyes away, her breath coming in gasps.

“Harry, you’re hurting me--”

“You know I don’t want you to go. But you…you left once, and I mean it, I really don’t know how it works anymore. Hermione--”

His hand comes up to her cheek, gruff around her jaw-line. Her hair pulls, tangled around his fingers. His thumb sears the corner of her lip.

“--you have to look at me--”

She gasps and obeys, shocked at the coil of heat spiralling in her belly. His eyes are way too close, too deep. Suddenly, she’s maddened at how very complicated she’s made everything. How with her righteous tugging and pulling, she’s made an impossible snarl of the simplest thing ever to be spun out of their frenzied lives. She misses him so much, hates herself so much, and cannot bear the thought of another day away and all she wants to say is sorry, so, so sorry, and please can she come home--

She reaches for his lips.

*

The first thought in his head is that surely it can’t be winter because here she is, a bolt of heat rushing into all his desolate places. They’ve somehow ended up against the opposite banister with her half in his lap, half kneeling on the stair. She’s holding his face, her lips on his, almost tearing through him, skin and breath entangled. He wonders why she keeps saying sorry, why she’s crying. He ropes a hand around her waist to keep her as close as he can.

But winter comes naturally to him, so a second later he pulls back to look at her. It’s not that he doesn’t trust her, he just doesn’t trust hope. Tear-streaked and dishevelled, unbearably lovely, she looks suddenly uncertain.

“Don’t.” He can barely speak. He leans his forehead against hers to catch his breath.

“Don’t what?” Her voice too is hoarse, and he feels her small startled motion.

“Don’t keep saying sorry. Doesn’t make sense.” He watches her face, her eyes now darker, and senses her getting ready to explain. So he leans forward again, trying to reach all of her at once, all in a single, strangled breath.

“I said don’t.”

I don’t want to talk, to set things right, straight. I don’t want to think. I can’t.

When he has no breath left he leans back, her cheek pressed to his. He caresses whorls of damp hair over her neck, leaving greasy fingerprints, which he begins to erase with his lips. She makes a small sound and heat rears back up his belly. But there’s a stronger impulse rushing through him, louder, needier and in some ways simpler. He pulls her securely up to his lap, wraps his arms tightly around her and closes his eyes against her damp skin.

“But you can’t go now. You can never go--”

“No, not going anywhere. I promise.”

--end chapter nine--

## 11. Chapter Ten

Disclaimer: They belong to JKR, I’m only playing.

A/N: I’ll quit saying sorry for being late because it sounds rather lame now. Many, many thanks to beta miconic who, as always, is the best. She’s done a lot of hand-holding for me over these past weeks, but her axe is as sharp as always *hugs*

***

--Chapter Ten--

Soon, she takes charge.

You need food Harry, and sleep, and for heaven's sake, take that shirt off; it reeks of grease.

Obediently, he shuffles off to the shower while she clatters in the kitchen, wondering why she’s nagging him about sleep; he’s wide awake inside.

But very quickly, he finds he can barely keep his eyes open. It irritates him; he wants to keep looking, watch her move around him, every familiar gesture suddenly something extraordinary. Has she always had to stand on tiptoes to get something out of the top cupboard, calves arched, hair dipping past the small of her back? Did she always turn her nose up opening the jar of pickle? She makes him eat--he has no idea what--then stacks the dishes in the sink. She pulls the window down; night’s falling fast outside but a star’s found his night sky. If I can’t look, then can I touch you? As if she reads his mind, she slips her hand in his. Come on, off to bed.

In the passage leading to their rooms, he tugs her hand, aware of a merciless blush on his cheeks. Your quilt and pillow are already on my bed. They smell like you. She giggles and kisses him, both his hands in hers. He stares, trying to remember the last time she’d giggled. Well then, she says and ducks into her room to change into pyjamas, then returns to his.

Initially there are elbows, legs and long loops of hair to negotiate. They eventually settle as if stumbling on the reason for the way their bodies were measured and moulded, the true purpose of each other’s curves and folds. The hollow of his shoulder was just so she could nestle her head, the fold of her knee simply to keep him close. Within minutes of laying heads on pillows, both are asleep.

*

But she never holds off thinking for long, so just a few hours into the night, she props herself up next to him in a rumpled, wild-haired bundle, her legs tucked beneath her. Having woken up when her warmth moved, he regards her in the glow of candle light. Her hair catches flecks of light. Her cheeks have colour now; he’s insanely proud of himself. I’m not dreaming, I’m awake. He clasps her knee with a hungry hand as if to make sure.

“I’ve got something to tell you,” she says.

He raises himself on elbows. It’s the hour that night begins for real, the city pared down to back-alleys and night trade, evening traffic diminishing into suburbs. With a sigh, he counts everything he has to tell her--Malfoy, Sally, Ron. Well, now it’s most certainly real.

“Me too. Lots. Would take half the night, actually.”

“You go first, then.” She smiles and squeezes his hand.

He sits up and leans against the headboard, propping a pillow at his back.

“I told Ron about us. About the curse.”

She draws a slow breath.

“Oh.”

She looks down at her hands. “Harry, I’m sorry I badgered you about it, I was really awful--” her head shoots up “--is that why he went home?”

He smiles. “No. I mean, yes, but not because of what you think. He was strange about it, really. He seemed fine with it.” He shrugs at her wide-eyed look. “He said that it was all done, in the past, and that we should stop…wallowing.”

“And…” She presses a finger into the criss-cross weft of the quilt.

“Us?” He smiles.

She motions oddly, a shrug and a nod, and a lip bitten from inside.

“Seemed fine with that too. I don’t know if he was just saying that…but I don’t think so. I really think he’s all right.”

“Oh.” She returns his smile, her shoulders relaxing a little. He can sense her casting about for words, a prickle of shame spreading up her neck. He tugs her hand to pull her towards him, wanting to change the subject, to halt further apologies he doesn’t need.

“And you were right. He said he knew Mr Weasley was dying.”

She raises her head, a thoughtful look on her face. “So is that why he went home, finally? Something must have settled for him. Talking to you.”

He shrugs. “Something like that.”

She shifts closer, sighing and leaning into him, folded knees pressing past his side, cheek pressed to his shoulder. He wraps his arms around her, pushing his face in her hair. A sleety wind blows outside, the house shivering and creaking like a bare branch. The candle’s in its last hour, a small fat pillar of wax falling in on itself.

“Speaking of the Burrow, did you know that Nick’s been spending a lot of time there?” She murmurs against his neck. “Apparently he’s getting along famously with Fred.”

“Hmm. Interesting.”

“Yeah. He came over the other day to brag about it. He even stayed over once, it seems.”

“Well, Fred did seduce him with fireworks…”

She chuckles. “When was that?”

“That day, when…he came to pass on your mother’s message.”

“Oh.”

She sighs when his fingers sift through her hair. The candle flame sways, shadows keeping step. Idly he riffles through everything else he’s supposed to tell her and wonders whether they’re all that important.

“What did you want to tell me?” he kisses her forehead.

She stirs sleepily. “Mmm, it’s about that scroll case.”

She yawns, trying to burrow further into him. “That can wait too, I suppose. You’ve made me sleepy now.”

“Oh, fantastic. Just the thing to tell a bloke. I hear it works wonders on their self-confidence.”

She grins and kisses him as if that’s the natural way to end a conversation. Scooting back down the bed, he pulls the covers over them. She pushes the pillow back under his head. A flurry of sleet drums past the window. Raindrops blink on the window, starry-eyed. She lets out a deep breath. He cast a heating charm when they went to bed but he can’t tell if it’s still working; the warmth in him has nothing to do with magic. He reaches over to blow out the candle and closes his eyes.

*

Deep in the night, he dreams about the Mirror of Erised.

He dreams that he found the Mirror when he went looking for it that third night, the night he found the bike instead. It’s a strange dream; instead of staring into the Mirror, he’s staring out of it. Someone else stares in, a boy, open-mouthed, 11-years old.

It takes him a moment to realize that the boy standing in front of the Mirror is himself. He finds no real resemblance. Sure, he can see the scar, glasses and the green eyes behind them but to him they’re tokens, the insignia of Harry Potter; things other people recognise him by, rather than aspects of him, Harry. The younger Harry looks unguarded, way too innocent, eyes filled with wonder, holding his brand new wand awkwardly. Not at all like himself.

How can you look so trusting after ten years with the Dursleys? You really were born thick, Harry.

And do you know one day you’re going to learn to kill with that wand?

Someone stirs next to him and he shifts to make room. A folded arm opens, the inside of an elbow releasing the scent of a well-loved but newly found body. The dream recedes for a moment. When he looks out the Mirror again, the boy’s gone. The dusty room stands in silence, cobwebs fluttering in the breeze.

Suddenly, the Mirror shatters. He has an astonished glimpse of a million luminous pieces of glass, then nothing. The glass seems to have fallen in on itself, his view with it, the dream with it. The silence too is gone, shattered by a consistent, almost demented rapping. Someone whispers his name, once, then more urgently the second time. A sense of foreboding spreads through his half-dreaming mind, ink in water. He wakes up.

*

Hermione snaps open the window. The small owl shoots inside, tumbles across the room and plops on the bed. She shuts the window quickly against the wind. It’s still dark outside. Harry sits up, wide-eyed. She lights the candle and turns his wrist towards her to look at his watch.

“What’s going on? What time is it?”

“I don’t know. It’s five past five.” She hands him his glasses and pulls the scroll tagged to Pigwidgeon’s foot.

“What does it say?”

He leaves the bed to dig out some of Hedwig’s treats for Pig and returns to sit beside her.

Pushing her hair out of her face, she reads out the message in Ron’s scrawl.

Harry,

Strange stuff going on at Hogwarts. We’re heading out now. Come as soon as you can.

Ron.

Dropping the letter in her lap, Hermione glances at the owl, then at Harry. Pig had slowly become the family owl for the Weasleys rather than Ron’s pet. One of his wings was broken when he was intercepted sometime during the war, never fully healing. Since then, he’d hardly been used as a messenger--except in an emergency, when there was no other way.

Without a word, Harry lights another candle and hands it to Hermione. She steps across the corridor and into her room to look for clothes.

Just seconds later, she hears his footfall outside her door.

“We’re going to have to Apparate,” he says quietly.

She nods. “I know.”

*

She tries to move calmly, pulling on jeans, reaching for a warm jumper and boots but keeps getting distracted by the picture in her head. It’s such a clear picture too, her mind hasn’t learned the trick of forgetting. The last time she Apparated, in the wee hours of the morning after Harry destroyed Voldemort, the sky was tender at the edges, clouds puckering around the rising sun like blood congealing over a wound. Harry was right behind her, stunned and wild-eyed, holding up Ron. The streetlights had gone out and there wasn’t enough dawn to see by, but the burning city lent its orange glow. She raised her shaking wand-hand to release the charm on the door at Number Twelve and found a ragged heap at her feet--curly brown hair, a familiar shirt, and brown eyes open in surprise in a familiar face.

Her hair wrenched into a rough knot, she steps into the dark bathroom to splash cold water on her face. On her way out, she pauses at her desk, staring at her wand. Annoyed at herself, she shoves it in her pocket.

Harry leans against the railing near the landing, her cloak in his hand. He holds it out and she shrugs into it. Then he slides his warm hands in hers and squeezes gently, willing her to look at him. The night looks pitch black beyond the window, the way it is just before dawn.

“You’re going to be fine.”

She swallows and nods, trying to breathe evenly.

“Do you want to do Side-Along, just for this once?”

“No. I’ll be fine.”

He waits a few more minutes. She steps closer, her face almost touching his cloak. Her freezing fingers hang on to his for dear life.

“Ready?”

“Yeah.”

She closes her eyes. There’s a frantic moment when she thinks she’s failed, Harry’s gone on without her. Then abruptly, the air lifts her up and squeezes her. Seconds later, her feet touch the ground. She keeps her eyes savagely pinched shut.

“Hermione? Come on, open your eyes. Look, we’re here.”

It takes a minute for his presence to trickle through. She follows the trail of his palms on her face, his breath on her forehead, his voice. She opens her eyes.

It’s Harry. It’s not Dad, dead…it’s Harry, very much alive.

“Are you okay?”

He holds her hands again, and her fingers stop trembling. She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, nodding. He hugs her and kisses her forehead.

Suddenly, he stiffens.

“What on earth--?”

She pulls back to look at him. “What? What is it?”

He points over her shoulder. They’re standing on low ground to one side of the lake, where the road runs around to Hogsmeade. The castle rises beyond in a dark mass against the sky, the shingled beach at its base shimmering. It’s too dark to make out much more than the castle’s rough outline, but Hermione thinks that it’s an odd shape. Like it’s a lump of clay someone’s remoulded overnight. The air’s filled with smoke and the babble of voices, the ground swarming with lights and darting shadows of a great crowd. As Harry and Hermione stare wildly about, more people straggle past them in twos and threes, some towards the castle, some away, throwing up scraps of conversation.

“--No one from the Ministry’s turned up yet, what do they think they’re--”

“Probably still trying to wake up--”

“This Apparation business--”

“Shocking, shocking, never seen anything like that in my life--”

“The Quidditch Pitch is gone--not a trace of it!”

“--did you see that woman when we passed Hogsmeade? She Side-Alonged her son but splinched herself--”

“That was horrible! Rosemerta was trying to get the poor mite to come inside but he wouldn’t leave his Mummy’s hand--”

“There’s some crazy woman there telling everyone--”

“Gulping gargoyles! Is that--”

“--that this happened because of magic running out! Have you ever heard such--“

“Did you see those Muggles!”

“But I thought you couldn’t Apparate in here, that’s why I popped in at Hogsmeade--”

“That was before, love, after the castle fell during The Defeat you can just about do--”

“Oi! Watch where you’re going--”

Hermione tugs at Harry’s hand. Hearts racing, they begin to run up the lip of the Lake. More people pass them, their faces blinking in and out of light. Hermione does a double-take as a Muggle flashlight waves past her. Looking up, she notices that the castle grounds are criss-crossed with the broad beams of flashlights as well as the pinpricks of wands, and the shimmer of normal wizarding lights. The snaps and crackles of Apparation fill the air, sometimes followed by wails. Harry squeezes her hand and she looks around to see a group of uniformed men being led up the slope by two Muggles.

“It’s been there for ages, as long as I can remember…I don’t know what these people are doing--”

“Well, my grandmother used to say it was haunted, but I’ve never--”

“Haunted? Bullshit. It’s just some rotten old ruin--the sign’s probably just to keep the kids out--”

Finally, reaching the flat lawn leading up to the front doors, Harry summons up a handful of light. Hermione dodges two witches stumbling across her path and scrambles after Harry. He holds up his hand, trying to see the front doors.

There is no front door.

Nor are there windows, turrets or spires.

No sign of extensive lawns or halls and chambers built to house hundreds, towers or ornate arches. Not the faintest trace of an elaborately, ingeniously hewn home for generations, a castle sprawling across time.

In front of them is a pile of tumbled stone, its shape vaguely suggestive of having once been a building of some sort, little larger than a large manor house. Snow has claimed it, broken icicles hanging off edges. The only recognisable entrance, a square arch, seems to have fallen in on itself, choked by rough-hewn rocks, rafters upended. A beaten tree leans against the stone. Taped across the entrance with mouldy black rope is a large, crude sign.

DANGER, DO NOT ENTER, UNSAFE.

Harry steps closer, she wants to stop him, tell him to be careful. Instead, she reaches out herself to touch a blackened crease between stones, feeling beneath her fingers the springiness of lush black moss. As Harry’s light wavers, she spots long coarse grass pushing through the fallen stones. She’s trying so hard to think, but her mind refuses to cooperate. She lets go of Harry’s hand. He looks back, then resumes his stumbling around the stone heap. Hermione turns in the opposite direction. Just minutes later, they emerge back out the front.

Someone speaks in a quiet voice.

“It’s all the same from every side. It’s like the castle was never there. The gamekeeper’s hut, the Quidditch Pitch, the greenhouses…all gone.”

Hermione whips around. A pale creature steps into the light, short hair quivering around her face.

“Funny, isn’t it? The illusion’s won. We thought to fool the Muggles forever, but we’re the fools now.”

*

It takes Harry a moment to find his voice.

“Sally. When did you get here?”

She smiles. “Hi, Harry. News spreads fast, doesn’t it?” She crosses her arms over her chest, bending in the cold.

“Been around for a while now. Looks like everyone’s out tonight.” Her glance flutters over Hermione.

Harry tugs Hermione’s hand. “Oh…you didn’t get to meet Hermione. Hermione, this is Sally. Sally Page. She’s the Unspeakable who…I was helping.”

Sally holds out a hand and Hermione takes it. Harry’s mind scampers in crazed circles, thinking how ridiculous it sounds, making casual introductions at a time like this.

A time like what?

Abruptly, he curls his hand, the light snuffed out. He looks behind him, at the wavering outlines of people standing around, some scurrying around the stone heap as he and Hermione had done. He runs a hand through his hair and speaks to the dappled dark.

“How did this happen? I mean, what IS this?”

After a moment’s pause, Sally clears her throat.

“This is what Muggles see, Harry. Whenever they wander near the castle.”

He makes an impatient noise.

“Yes, but what--why are we seeing it? Where’s the castle?” A bird swoops down to the blackened tree, unleashing a shower of dew. He pulls Hermione away from under it, shaking his head. “I mean--” he casts about for words, then sighs. “What’s going on, really?”

“I’ve already told you, Harry. Magic’s running out. This is just one manifest--”

Hermione interrupts. “But this is magic.” Her hand stabs at the old ruin in front of them. “This is the bewitchment that keeps the castle from Muggle eyes. If magic was running out, shouldn’t it happen the other way round? Shouldn’t the charm fall off, revealing the castle, rather than it falling in on itself, hiding the castle altogether?”

Sally makes a small movement, a soundless laugh perhaps, or a loud shrug.

“That’s what we believe, isn’t it? That magic is perfectly rational, predictable, a very human element. We can bend it to our will, use it as we please, and it’ll last forever.

“The truth is, magic is much more temperamental than we will ever know.” She waves a hand at the ruin. “I can’t explain exactly why the bewitchment’s taken over, but I can tell you for certain that it’s because of deep disturbances in the flow of magic. Such things are known to have happened before, elsewhere in the world.”

Hermione opens her mouth to argue but doesn’t get far. Snow crunching underfoot, Fred walks up behind Sally.

“Which means, you were right all along.” He nods. “Hey, Harry.” His eyes narrowing, he tilts his head at Hermione. “I thought you went home.” Ignoring him, Hermione gapes at a spot behind him.

“Nick!”

Grinning, Nick throws an arm around her shoulder. “Hey, if it isn’t my lovely cousin. Where’ve you been all this time? We’ve just been to the Forest. Very creepy. Fred says there are centaurs in there, and a giant. Ah, I wish I got to see the place before all this. Say, you don’t have photos and stuff, do you? Of the castle, I mean? Hogwarts, what a name--”

There’s a small sound and Ginny steps across his path. “This may be some freak show to you, but this is where we grew up!”

In the sudden silence, Harry moves towards lower ground, away from the ruin. Climbing up on a plinth of tumbled stone, he runs his eyes in a full circle, past the dark wall of the forest, past the stone heap with its crooked, wooden blindfold, over the expanse of moor grass that used to be manicured lawns and down towards the lake. The eastern sky is beginning to lighten, a vivid streak of blinding white across the horizon. The lake takes up the theme, its surface obscure with mist. Clusters of heads clamber up the slope like ants, halting to speak to each other, then moving on. Uneven footsteps rustle at his shoulder and Harry turns.

“The lake and the forest are all that’s left.” Ron gestures vaguely, as Harry lends him a hand up the stone. On his other side, Hermione climbs up.

“How did you find out?” she asks Ron.

Ron glances over his shoulder briefly and shrugs. “Nick and Fred were in Diagon Alley. Some old bloke from Hogsmeade had seen it first.”

Silent once again, they watch odd shadows flicker and slide over trampled snow as flashlights and wizarding light are extinguished intermittently. The Forest elbows into Harry’s sight from the corner of his right eye, the Lake glistening down below on his left. Despite all the activity and the natural purposefulness of dawn, the valley looks emptied out, effaced. Finally, Ron sighs.

“So, does this mean that Sally Page is right? As far as Muggles are concerned we’re pretty much done for anyway. Look at them all…” Laboriously, he lowers himself to sit on the stone despite its dewy damp. A moment later, Harry follows, tugging Hermione’s hand.

Balancing his crutch against his knee, Ron carries on. “It sounds stupid now, but I always thought the castle would reopen again. You know, as Hogwarts, as school.”

He glances over his shoulder again and gestures hesitantly at the crumbling ruin.

“Do you think that the castle…attacking us that day…had anything to do with this? I mean, that was so bizarre, so out of character, maybe it put pressure on the castle’s magic or, or something like that.”

“Maybe,” says Harry, shrugging. “But it wasn’t out of character. Not really.” He stares over the mist-smeared lake.

“What wasn’t?”

“The castle. The way it attacked us. That was perfectly in character. Nothing bizarre about it at all.” He watches a green lizard perched on his shoe. Ron leans over, his pointed glance on Hermione.

“What’s he on about? When has Hogwarts ever attacked anyone?”

Hermione sighs, rubbing at a scratch on her arm. “When they built Hogwarts, the Founders imbued the castle with some really extreme magical protection.”

“Yeah, I know. So?”

“So, if any of its own were in trouble, in the worst trouble, within the walls of the castle, then each of these charms were to kick into place.”

“Yes, once again, I know. The Prophet ran a story about it. Something went wrong and all the charms went berserk. What’s normal about that?”

Harry turns to Ron. “The castle was supposed to protect its own, who’s everybody, all the houses, not just us and Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw. When they put the charms in place the Founders wouldn’t have thought there would ever be a day when the houses turned on each other.”

Wind circles them, heightening the cold. He watches a very young witch a few feet below, busily trying to get rid of bits of dew-drenched grass clinging to her boots. She’s in the company of several older witches and wizards but completely oblivious to their grave faces.

“Hogwarts is just as much Slytherin as it’s Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw. So it tried to help out. All of its own. Nothing bizarre, nothing out of character about that at all.”

He wonders why he’s still speaking in the present tense. The castle was, Harry. Not is. He sifts inside his mind idly, thinking how odd it is that he doesn’t seem to feel more. Ron squints at the lightening valley. The little witch stamps her feet, succeeding only in getting more grass stuck on her boots. Harry glances over his shoulder. A ragged circle of onlookers are still gathered around the crumbling building, hands to mouths, unblinking. As if only they looked hard enough, it’ll come back. He can’t see Fred or Ginny, but Nick’s deep in conversation with a wizened witch who’s gesticulating wildly. Harry doubts she’s aware that her audience is Muggle.

Further off, Sally seems to have gathered an audience of her own, but they seem less enthralled. He can’t hear clearly, but the wild cackles and incredulous shaking of heads give him a general sense of the topic in discussion. A small bird dives to perch on a stone. Far away, further even than Hogsmeade, smoke spirals into air, the first breath of the day. With a small sigh, Hermione wraps her arms around herself, her fingers burrowing into the folds of her coat. Thinking that she’s been too quiet, Harry shifts closer. Ron looks over at the sudden movement, straight-faced in a rather obvious manner, eyes narrow. Harry hastens to deflect attention; no matter how fine Ron seemed with them, some conversations are better had indoors.

“There’s Luna.” He waves at a bright yellow beanie bobbing through the crowd towards them.

“Mr Harry Potter, sir!”

All three of them jump, turning around. A short, stocky wizard hurries up to Harry, tripping over his long woollen scarf. A wizard and a witch follow him, pinched and windblown.

“Finally! Someone who can do something. Sure am glad to see you, sir! I’d like to know, what I’d like to know is, where is our sodding Ministry at a time like this? I haven’t seen a single one of them Aurors or any of them Ministry officials, and no one has a bleeding idea what’s going on. To top it all off, there are Muggles crawling all over the place. My word, never seen the likes of this, never! And some of them are flashing pictures!”

Harry stares at him, trying to find something to say. But the stranger seems happy to fill the silence. He smiles suddenly and holds out his hand, bowing. Green stripes of a pyjama bottom peeks through his coat.

“Of course, I beg your pardon, my name is Wilson Carrington Bligh and this is my brother William Simpson and his wife Margaret. Like I said, you bet we’re glad to see you sir, not just because of, er, of all of this--” he gestures over the valley-- “but because, well, it’s an honour to meet you, sir.”

Dazedly, Harry shakes each of their hands. Carrington Bligh rattles on. “Of course, folks have been saying, they been saying that you might have gone overseas, sir, seeing as so little of you’ve been seen since, well, you know. Soul-splitting--never in my life --and all those leftover pieces, shocking, shocking! My brother William here owns a pub you see, the Witches Tail in Stoke-on-Trent sir, well, yes, so, no one blames you of course for going away, not at all, after your terrible ordeal, but folks like us, we like to see our--my word, is that the Minister? Well about bleeding time too! Well, now, come along Madge, William, I want some answers! Like I said, Mr Harry Potter, sir, an honour, indeed, indeed.”

Harry whirls around to look at Ron and Hermione. For a few seconds, Ron tries to maintain a grave face, then bursts out laughing. A grin touches Hermione’s face too, her eyes twinkling. Hearing a rustle of fabric behind him, Harry whips around, alarmed that it’s Bligh again, but it’s Luna, a pen and notebook in one hand, the other hand trying to hold down her bright yellow beanie.

“Hi Harry, looks like your fan club is thriving,” she says, joining Ron and Hermione..

“That was just one person.”

“Three, actually.” Hermione bites the inside of her lip.

“And one of them owns a pub.” Ron chips in. “Where they all sit around tankards of ale and talk about you every evening, all evening, way into the wee hours of the morning.” He chuckles louder.

Luna nods gravely. “Well, if you’d asked me, I could’ve told you about the hundreds of letter we get every day at The Quibbler. From people who want to know how you are, what you’re up to.”

“What?”

She shrugs. “Well, I didn’t think you wanted to know about them,” she says, chewing her pen. “You should read them. People don’t care about London burning. Well, they do, but to them it’s a necessary sacrifice. And some of it can be fixed. But getting rid Voldemort after nearly thirty years--now that’s something else.”

Desperate to change the subject, Harry gestures at the ruin. “How long have you been here? We didn’t see you at all.”

“Oh, I’ve been trying to be everywhere at once. I got here hours and hours ago. Dad’s around too, somewhere.” She nods at the gaggle of people now surrounding Scrimgeour. “I think he’s over there. Quite a mess, isn’t it? I think I spotted several Muggle newspaper people too. Oh, what’s going on over there?”

As they watch, from the direction where the Quidditch pitch used to be, there’s a sudden shout and a flash of smoke, and Harry spots two Muggle policemen struggling with a tall witch brandishing her wand. The Minister barks an order and two of his men rush towards the commotion. Clutching her beanie, Luna hurries off, Harry, Ron and Hermione in tow.

Scrimgeour has arrived with a handful of his staff, either underestimating the situation or overestimating his own capabilities. Quite possibly the latter, thinks Harry. A few wear Auror badges, but others seem to be from different departments. Much of the crowd, following Wilson Carrington Bligh’s example, rush towards the Minister. Soon he’s surrounded by a dozen earnest witches and wizards, all very vocal. Reaching the edges of the crowd, Harry catches the end of a thunderous sentence, Rufus Scrimgeour’s face a seething purple.

“Who? Who says that? This is the work of vandals, nothing more--”

“She says that! Ask her!”

All eyes follow the direction of the stabbing finger. Sally stands near the stone ruin, her inadequate cloak flapping about her knees, her hands wrapped tightly around her. Staring from Sally at the Minister’s lined face inset with brown, almost amber eyes, the lift of his chin and the shape of his brow, Harry realises something. He draws a sharp breath, incredulous. He looks at Hermione; her mouth covered with a hand, her glance flits between the faces of Scrimgeour and Sally. Then her eyes dart to Harry’s, her fingers to his.

The crowd flares and re-shapes itself as the Minister bears down on his daughter.

“I do not believe this--Seraphina!”

He towers over her, one hand vice-like around her upper arm, hissing ferociously through his teeth. He seems completely unaware of his avid audience.

“How dare you spread your miserable waffle at a time like this! I should never have let you return to England--you simply don’t understand, do you? You refuse to see what a troublesome time this is, how hard I have to work--how can I do anything when my own family insists on sabotaging me at every--”

Sally wrenches her arm away, almost toppling backwards.

“Oh, stop your dramatics. If anyone’s sabotaging you, it’s yourself!”

She curls her fists and tries to stand tall, but her face is bloodless, and her lower lip trembles disastrously. The remainder of Scrimgeour’s entourage, a sallow-faced witch and two wizards, shuffle their feet, muttering among themselves.

Sally stabs a trembling hand towards the ruin. Her pupils have ballooned.

“This is your proof. If you don’t believe this, then you’re blind!”

Hermione’s nails dig into Harry’s palm. Scrimgeour takes a step closer to Sally again, his jaw grinding. A rustle runs through the crowd. Suddenly aware of the murmuring around him, the Minister stalls, clears his throat and turns around abruptly. His eyes fall on his staff members.

“Cruddens, take her home--careful when Apparating though…”

Cruddens moves towards Sally, and she takes a step back, hissing. “I’m not going anywhere--” Cruddens glances at Scrimgeour, then lunges at Sally again, grabbing her by a shoulder.

Harry steps forward, pushing through the crowd.

“Sally can come home with us.”

There’s a moment of screeching silence as Scrimgeour takes in Harry’s presence. Harry stares Cruddens down and the man moves away. He takes his time to meet Scrimgeour’s calculating eyes. The Minister laughs suddenly, a harsh, contrived bark.

He turns to Sally, his capacious cloak sweeping. “Well, I suppose I should be glad you’ve made at least one friend. A sizeable catch too. Tell me, have you managed to convert him?”

“I’m rather in the habit of making up my own mind.” Harry smiles. “You know that, Minister.”

Scrimgeour looks at Harry, a dribble of sunlight making him squint, undermining the effect of his steely silence. Harry holds his gaze. A second later, he turns away, beckoning his bodyguards. Near the now non-existent Quidditch Pitch, the tussle between the Muggle policemen and the disgruntled witch has become a fully fledged racket, few more witches and wizards joining in. Harry watches as Scrimgeour strides over, swarmed by his public like ants over a generous morsel. Then he turns to where Hermione and Luna crouch over Sally who’s plonked herself on the wet grass, doing her best to avoid all eyes.

--end chapter ten--

## 12. Chapter Eleven

Disclaimer: They belong to JKR, I’m only playing.

A/N: Here you go. The chapters are getting longer, have I mentioned? So they’re taking an awful lot of time to write and mess with. Thank you for your patience, although I dare say there’s plenty of excitement around forums to keep people busy. Thank you to miconic who’s just been the best, as always.

***

--Chapter Eleven--

They Apparate back to Grimmauld Place just as the city, which still suffers road closures, begins its morning clamour. Harry steps up to open the door, but Hermione tugs his hand.

“Let’s sit out here for a bit.” She nods at the sun-swathed stair. He looks at her for a moment, offering her own memories of the stairs, of a different morning back to her.

She lifts a shoulder. Bigger things on my mind.

He flops down on the highest step and leans his head against the doorframe. She watches him for a moment, then steps up to sit next to him. The day seems much warmer, perhaps only in contrast to the temperature at Hogwarts. There’s steely cast to the sky, light pushing through the cloud-cover. Her body eases against his side, her arm folding around his. Pressing her cheek to his shoulder, she stares unseeingly down the road.

They had to wait a long hour before Apparating back to London. Scrimgeour summoned more staff, Tonks among them. Hurrying past with an armload of objects that turned out to be hastily organised Portkeys, she muttered to Hermione and Harry that she’d drop by later. The Portkeys were used to transport much of the crowd, but their unreliability was apparent from the start; despite repeated calls of Portus, some simply remained soup ladles and umbrellas. Unimpressed, many resorted to Apparating. Scrimgeour managed to convince those who lingered to form queues and take turns. Hermione doubted their cooperation had anything to do with the Minister’s dubious attempts to look imposing. People looked tired and utterly bewildered, wanting to get away as quickly as they could after the first flush of astonishment wore off. Besides, more Muggles were straggling up the slope.

The Weaselys, Nick and Sally were behind Harry and Hermione in the Apparating queue. Harry had nodded at a Portkey, but Hermione shook her head; her queasy stomach had little to do with Apparating. The Weasleys and Nick opted to go to Diagon Alley, to ‘hear the word on the street.’ Sally too mumbled that she was going home, but Harry disagreed.

As they waited amid the cracks and snaps of people vanishing into thin air, a stream of witches and wizards, young and old, approached Harry. It hadn’t helped that he’d drawn attention to himself by stepping in to break up a few tantrums, one between some Muggle policemen and a witch determined to blast them, another between a little girl and her grass-covered boots. The child’s grandfather hadn’t wasted any time thanking Harry at the top of his voice. For everyone who’d stood aside with only the occasional avid glance at Harry, that had been an open invitation to approach. She watched as his initial, almost instinctual embarrassment transform into squared shoulders and an element of calm in his eyes. Most didn’t initiate conversations beyond introducing themselves, as though they merely wanted to make contact; a smile, a nod, the grave intimacy of a handshake. Some nodded in her direction too.

His shoulder nudges her gently. She looks up, blinking to clear her eyes of the morning glare. The faint sound of a radio burbles from a house down the street. He opens her loose fist, his fingers sliding through hers. She watches their hands.

“Do you think she slipped away?” He dips his head, nose in her hair.

“Sally? No. I don’t think so. She’s probably having trouble Apparating.” She sighs. “She had a wand made of bone,” she mutters to herself.

He lifts his head.

“Hmm?”

She’s on the verge of explaining when she decides that she should really check her facts first. “Nothing.” She smiles at him and burrows closer. Then she straightens up, squinting at him. He looks different, she thinks, he looks different because--

--because this is quite possibly the first time in a whole month I’ve seen him in bright daylight.

He is beautiful.

“What?” He looks at her quizzically.

She holds his chin, turning his face towards her. He’s still pale, but light sits easy on his face, his eyes drunk with it. Light suits him. She runs her fingers down his cheek. How good we’ve become at hiding. She pauses at the corner of his mouth, and watches his lips part. She arches closer, smiling when his arm winds around her.

“Are we playing tease?” he whispers.

“Have you ever been a patient man?” she counters. Her thumb dips inside, a small shiver unfurling elsewhere in tandem. She’s a breath away from kissing him when an extremely loud crack resounds in the square.

“Sorry, I sort of got lost.” Sally pushes her hair behind her ear, colouring a little as her eyes alight on Harry and Hermione. Hermione takes her time getting to her feet, her hand in Harry’s. A door slams down the street, a set of footsteps hurrying towards the main road. Hermione glances over the houses around them, but the street seems oblivious to the bustle of magic.

“It’s all right,” Harry says over his shoulder, as he tries several charms on the door. Swearing, he rattles the lock, rolling his eyes as the door finally groans open. Sally steps in. Turning to follow her, Hermione’s eyes fall on the broad arrow of daylight slanting inside the house. She starts, realising what it was she’d missed when she entered the house the previous afternoon.

“Harry!”

“Yeah? What is it?”

“Mrs Black’s portrait’s gone.”

“Oh. Yes.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Malfoy. I meant to tell you--let’s just go in first, shall we?”

They hold each other’s eyes. The morning fidgets out in the street, the birds adding to its edgy hustle. She steps in as he lets the door fall shut, its echo resounding deep in the belly of the house like a distant bell.

*

“You lied to me.”

Across the table, Sally squirms, a plate of bacon and toast cooling in front of her. Eyes hard, Harry leans forward, hands clasped on the table. In the periphery of his vision, beyond Sally’s shoulder, Hermione watches from her armchair.

“You should’ve told me you were his daughter.”

“Would you have listened to me then? Would you have even agreed to see me?” Sally summons a thin smile.

“Probably not.” He leans back. “Did you lie to Mr Lovegood as well?”

She shrugs. “He never asked.”

“How did you get to know him, anyway?”

“I helped him with a story he did a while back, on wizarding in Egypt.”

A breeze slips through the half-open window. It’s still chilly but Hermione was determined to have the window up. A dull fire sputters in the fireplace to counter the lingering cold. Harry drums his fingers on the table.

“So, what’s the story? You use Page as your last name.”

Sally pushes a drop of tea around her saucer. Then, with a sigh, she seems to come to a decision. “Page is my mother’s maiden name. I’ve lived with her since I was six. She’s from Wales, but after she and father…fell out, she took me to France. We settled there. I didn’t come back to England until a year ago. Does that answer your question?”

“You speak English without an accent.” He lifts a shoulder. “For someone who lived with the French from such a young age.”

“I lived among them. Doesn’t mean I…mingled. Mum and I kept to ourselves.”

“Where did you go to school?”

“I didn’t. Mum taught me what she knows.”

“Enough for you to be a qualified Unspeakable and Magical Archaeologist?”

She looks away, hands disappearing beneath the table. “Mum and I travelled a lot. We’re both…curious about the same things.”

He holds his glance. She sighs, her shoulders drooping a little. “Fine. I researched extraction, all right? I did a paper on it, based on evidence round the world on extraction of magic from magical artefacts and…creatures. No one’s ever done anything comprehensive on it before, and it was on that basis that I got an Honorary position at the Ministry.”

A small rustle issues from Hermione’s armchair, but when Harry looks over, her expression is inscrutable. He takes his glasses off and rubs at his eyes.

“Wow. That must have been…huge.”

Sally shrugs. “Yeah. I was quite happy about it.”

“Lucky I asked you about extraction the other day, then. You have all the answers.”

Sally looks at him quickly and looks away, as if making sure he’s not pulling her leg. She’s like one of those Russian Dolls Aunt Petunia had, he thinks. Except with this one, I’ll never get to the bottom.

Hermione leaves her armchair, picks up a mug from the dresser and draws out a chair next to Harry. He slides his glasses back on and pours tea into her mug. She props her chin on her hand, absently watching as he stirs sugar in. He’s filled her in on Malfoy’s visit, but he’s having trouble sifting through her responses. Or rather, the lack of them. She’d dismissed his theory regarding Malfoy; Harry, if he’s trying to extract magic, why’s he filching things with barely a drop of magic left in them? With Sally, she seems remote, as if the Unspeakable was a hasty sketch that needed to be considered from a distance in order for details to fall into place.

Harry slides the mug towards her. She curls her hands around it and looks at Sally.

“So, about magic depleting…” She takes a sip of her tea. Harry watches with some bemusement as Sally shifts in her chair, one hand back on the table, clumsy over her tea things. Is Hermione really scarier than I am?

“…Did you discover that in your travels with your mother too?”

Sally nods, hair twitching. “Mum was interested in that for a long time. I…inherited most of her notes. But it’s something really hard to prove--I mean, the only evidence I could come up with were from cultures long gone. And that didn’t really count, because it could be argued they died for any number of reasons.”

“So, what you needed was a living laboratory.” Hermione sets her mug down and leans sideways in her chair, cheek lowering to its carved top. “For magic running out. Which is what we are now. Seems like things worked out well for you.” She smiles mildly. Harry watches, puzzled, trying to pick up the thread of her thoughts.

Sally lifts her fork and tests a bit of bacon uncertainly. “Well, yes, I suppose you could say that.” After a moment’s pause, she sets the cutlery down and slumps back in her chair. “Not that it’s ever going to work.”

“Why?” Harry raises his eyebrows. “Isn’t the fact that Hogwarts castle vanished overnight enough proof?”

Sally shakes her head. “No. It could still count as an aftermath of the war, can’t it?” She brings her hands up to her face, her shoulders drooping. “You heard him. There’s always a different, more--more suitable reason, and people will believe him.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.”

Harry and Sally turn to look at Hermione.

She lifts her head, shrugging. “You saw him today. Did he look like a leader who could command his people?”

Sally stares at Hermione for a moment, then drops her gaze. She shakes her head wearily. “It doesn’t matter, does it? I need to be able to prove that what I’m saying is true. That magic is indeed running out, that we’re not experiencing some short-term glitch, some…temporary inconvenience, or, or some busybody’s idea of a joke. And I don’t have that proof. Even if I did, I would hardly sound convincing. People thought I was some crazy old hag today.”

Hermione slides out of her chair. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Harry listens to her footsteps winding through the house. Daylight floods through the window, ruthless over old furniture and sooty wallpaper. He looks around, wondering vaguely what it would be like to live in a friendlier, brighter place. He hates the gloom in the house, but sunlight doesn’t seem to do it any favours either, embracing tatty upholstery and worn, discoloured wood.

He sighs and leans back in his chair. “Why do you hate him so much? Your father?”

“I don’t hate him. He hates me.” Sally shakes her head. In silence, they wait for Hermione to return. When she does, she holds the scroll case Harry had found in the castle in her hand.

She sits down next to Harry again. “There. That should do it. That should be the proof you need.” She sets it on the table where it glints despite the worn silver and dull black wood. Harry glances at her curiously, then watches as Sally reaches for the small, heavy cylinder, her eyes picking up light. She releases the catch, and with some difficulty, pulls out a wad of the most ancient parchment he’s ever seen.

“What’s that?” He turns to Hermione. She smiles, cat-like, pleased with herself.

“Letters written by the Founders of Hogwarts.”

“What?” He straightens up in his chair. Hermione pushes her mug away with an elbow, tea sloshing over.

“I know, I couldn’t believe it myself at first. But I did some…hunting around.” Colour rises in her cheeks suddenly, as if caught out. “I opened it that night you gave it to me. The script is really difficult to read, but I got there in the end.”

Harry’s eyes fall on Sally whose gaze is transfixed on the parchment. The open cylinder rolls lightly on the uneven surface of the table. He turns back to Hermione, his mind struggling to keep up.

“But they must be… at least a thousand years old?”

“Yeah. I believe they are. There were some really thick preservation charms in the case.”

He reaches over and picks up the case, his fingers lingering over its carved skin, mind racing. “But--why? I mean, it was just lying there like it was a useless bit of wood--what does the parchment say?”

She leans forward, slightly breathless, her voice tinged with a note he hasn’t heard for ages. “They’re letters written to each other, just after they built the castle. It’s amazing, Harry, there are all these references to how they worked on it, what sort of magic they used and all…anyway. The letters are very frantic though, describing a great catastrophe. Apparently, soon after they built and concealed the castle--”

He breaks in, drawing a sharp breath, eyes widening. “Magic began to act very strangely?”

It’s Hermione’s turn to stare. “How do you--?”

Harry nods in Sally’s direction. “Sally mentioned it. She said it was one time in history when--when it sort of became clear that magic was something that could run out.”

Hermione’s eyes dart over to Sally, then back to Harry.

“Right. Well, the letters describe it to the last detail. They seem to be written over a period of many years, Harry. From what I can understand, the castle was abandoned for nearly fifty years. They couldn’t use magic in the castle at all, it seemed like any Muggle building. And in the villages around it, people complained of not being able to do stuff using magic. So the Founders were desperate to find out why they failed and they travelled all over the world. Looking for answers. Some of that parchment smells really odd--in Russia they used Pogrebin droppings in their parchment. I think Helga Hufflepuff was there for many years, and she and the others wrote to each other. Not just as correspondence, I don’t think. I think they wanted to record what they were seeing, discovering.”

He opens his mouth, but Sally interrupts, her voice barely a croak. “Where did you get it? How?”

She spreads a scroll out on the table delicately, a fine film of dust rising in the air.

“From the castle. Like I said, it was just lying there--” he gestures vaguely “--if it was so valuable, why would it just lie there?” He turns to Hermione again.

“Harry, I think it was concealed. Extremely well, for centuries perhaps.” She squeezes his arm for emphasis, her knee bumping against his. A bicycle bell jingles out in the street, followed by the maddened barking of a dog far down the street.

“Maybe it was brought to the castle from somewhere else, but…I think it makes more sense to think that once the castle became habitable, the Founders themselves hid the case there. Dumbledore might have known about it, but I don’t think anyone else would have.”

The loud beep of a reversing truck punctuates the air, followed by the rattling of garbage cans. He glances distractedly over his shoulder, at the street suddenly filled with activity. Turning back, his eyes drift past Sally on the opposite side of the table, barely registering her intent glance on Hermione.

“Harry, it was probably hidden in plain sight too, just like Sirius’ motorbike. You did find the bike where that old one-legged statue was, didn’t you? Near the stairs to the Astronomy tower? I think after Hagrid took you to Surrey, Dumbledore hid the bike in the castle for safekeeping. Hogwarts was the safest place. But with everything that happened, and then the impact on magic, the charm would have worn off. The same goes for the scroll case. I mean, I didn’t have much trouble opening the case, which is quite strange, don’t you think?”

He’s so caught up in her sparkling eyes that he almost makes no sense of her words. Then his brain whirrs into place and he frowns, several questions spilling out at once. “How did you know where I found the bike? And why would they hide it--the scroll case, I mean? It’s strange…if the Founders knew about magic waning, and if this is all they wrote down about it, why did they go to such…such extreme lengths to hide it? It’s just really…odd. The knowledge existed, but no one knew about it.”

Then he slumps back in his chair, realising the import of his own words. “Of course, same story as Horcruxes, isn’t it?”

She nods. “You saw them today. No one really wants to consider the possibility. It’s just beyond imagining. Perhaps they did try to tell the rest of the wizarding world, and …people were just not interested. I mean, the castle was built at a time when really big things were happening. Countless wars, factions, and Hogwarts itself marks the first real break between Muggles and us, you know. Think about why Hogwarts was built in the first place. Hogwarts: A History says that the Founders wanted a separate school, just for people who showed magical ability.

“Muggles were becoming very hostile towards us and the magical world was anxious to keep to themselves. The last thing they would have wanted to hear would’ve been that…well, that magic was running out.”

Hermione flops back in her chair, letting out a long breath as if she’s exhausted herself. Harry leaves the table to shut the window against the racket outside. In passing, he glances at Sally whose silent presence both he and Hermione had almost forgotten. Light changes in the kitchen, filtering now through the streaks and smudges of grime on the glass. Sally clears her throat, speaking in an oddly quiet voice.

“This is perfect.”

Harry slips back into his chair, reaching for the parchment. “You don’t seem very excited.”

Sally considers the carved cylinder in front of her and continues to speak as if she didn’t hear him.

“It’s perfect. It’s exactly what you need. I mean, my Old English is fairly rudimentary, and I will have to do some tests to determine date, authenticity, that kind of thing, but I think you’re right.” She nods at Hermione. “If the Founders of Hogwarts has recorded it, then no one can say that magic waning is mere fancy.” She smiles, a barely visible ripple on a stagnant pool.

“Like I said, you don’t seem very excited.” Harry tries to clamp down on his exasperation.

A long pause strains through the now muffled kitchen.

“Harry, I’m just the messenger. This scroll case will mean nothing in my hands.” With painstaking care, she rolls up the thick scrolls and inserts them back in the case. A soft snap, and the latch shuts. Harry looks on, confused by the odd sense of finality she exudes. “If you don’t mind, I’ll take this with me today, to complete the formalities. I’ll bring it back in a couple of days.” She lifts her head. “I had better be going then.”

Harry looks at Hermione, but her face is impassive. Harry shakes his head, gearing to confront Sally again, but then he sighs and gets up from his chair. “Yeah, of course. I’ll show you out.” Sally slides the scroll case in an inside pocket of her coat which lies over the back of her chair. Coat in hand, she gets to her feet.

“And I…” She fiddles with her cuff, eyes darting past Harry. “I meant no harm.”

Hermione’s head snaps up, meeting Sally’s. An odd current of something heavy and not entirely friendly passes between the two, then Sally turns away abruptly, making her way towards the door.

*

Later, perched on the windowsill in Buckbeak’s room, his back to the wind-bitten afternoon, Harry has a sudden urge to find something that’s whole. Something that’s not broken or discarded, or simply made ineffectual by disuse. His glance ticks off everything in the room one by one. The bike, its tyre still not mended; the school-standard cauldron, dusty and cobwebbed; boxes of clothing in Gryffindor colours. An old stiff-backed chair, a few lifeless portraits whose magic dissipated some time ago, two upended crates and numerous other odds and ends.

Is this my life, scribbled and scratched and overwritten by a hundred faded things?

How would it feel to start again?

Soft, irregular footsteps undulate faintly through the house, then become more certain. A minute later, Hermione appears at the doorway, a book in one hand, her wand in the other.

“You’ve packed the books away a bit too well, Harry. Took me a while to get to the bottom of the box.” She smiles, quick and casual, so ordinary. Then, she notes the expression on his face.

“What? What did I say?”

How would it feel to start again, whole?

“Nothing. Nothing at all.” He hops down from the windowsill. “So, what does the book say?”

He steps close and speaks against her mouth. “Anything useful?” She sways on her feet and his hand curls around one of her wrists, book and wand getting in the way. He brings his other hand up to her waist to hold her steady, accidental fingers skimming beneath her jumper, over bare skin. Totally accidental.

“I could tell you if you let me look at it.” She’s trying to sound bossy, and he grins at the resulting squeak. He pulls away, but can’t stop grinning. She slaps his thigh with the hefty tome, and moves to sit on a crate, cheeks alight.

He returns to the window, and pushes it up further. The wind hustles in, lifting curtain and parchment. He leans back, watching her riffle through the pages.

“This could end really badly, couldn’t it?”

She looks up, hair sweeping over her face. “I haven’t even started!”

He smiles. “I don’t mean that.”

“Oh. What then?”

He casts about for the right words, gesturing vaguely. “The castle. Magic. Magic running out.”

She folds the book, her little finger marking the page. She props her chin on her hand. He watches her eyes settle, then carries on.

“It won’t be easy, asking people to believe something like this. They’ve just been through one catastrophe, one long catastrophe that ended just as terribly. To tell them now that…the very core of their lives is failing--that’s just plain cruel. I mean, the Founders couldn’t pull it off, from what you say….” He looks away for a moment, eyes resting unseeingly at a distant point.

He finds his own calm quite strange. He thinks he ought to feel more, feel harder the vanishing of the castle. It was home, the dream that came true. But it’s only been barely hours since he laid eyes on the stone ruin, and all he feels is a sense of…relief? A sense of finality even, as if he’s laid to rest someone he loved, someone desperately, painfully ailing.

He turns back to Hermione. “But if Sally’s right, at the rate that magic seems to be failing, we might all be wiped out in a matter of a few years.”

She runs her fingers slowly over the gilded lettering on the cover of the book. “And if Sally’s wrong?”

He drops his gaze, watching the plaster crumble beneath his fingers on the edge of the windowsill.

“Wouldn’t that hurt us less than if she was right?” He brushes his chalky fingers on his jeans, leaving a white mark. “You saw all those Muggles trooping up that hill. They’re already curious about…us, after what happened to London. They already know some of what’s going on. And today none of us were very concerned about being seen, we were just so caught up in it all.”

“Harry, what’s on your mind?”

He meets her gaze. “Sally said that if we can master wandless magic, we can hang on a lot longer to magic. Things like wands, incantations, charms--they create distance between us and magic… I think that’s what she said, I wasn’t paying great attention, but the point is, we can retain what we are for a lot longer.”

“Yes…but increase the rate at which magic fails? Harry, even when well-taught, not everyone’s going to be good at wandless magic, and with so much demand on it, those who can--”

“--are going to be in demand. Possibly in danger.” He picks at more plaster. “And don’t forget about extraction. If you can extract magic not only from magical objects, but from magical creatures too…just imagine what that’s going to do.”

A hesitant expression passes over Hermione’s face. But she maintains her silence, and not knowing what to make of it, he carries on. “And as for hoarding, just by not using magic, by saving it, do you think we’ll be able to make it last long enough? How long is long enough? Who’s going to decide?”

She looks down at the book in her hand, absently opening it to the page she’s marked. She runs her index finger down the page. Across the floor, fingers of light gather dust motes like a child chasing dandelions.

“Here we go.” She carries the book over to the bike, setting it down on the seat. Harry walks up and peers over her shoulder.

“Try that one.” She points at a line of text. Harry looks around for his wand, then picks up hers. He levitates the tyre close, peers at the book and mutters the incantation. A whirring noise and a flash of light later, the tyre attaches itself to the bike as if it was never broken.

He grins at her. “Cool.” But as he lowers the wand, there’s a low crackle and a thump.

Harry groans.

“Hmm. Must be too heavy. Never mind.” Hermione turns the pages again and points. “Try this one.”

He mumbles the incantation a few times to get it right, then stands back and aims the wand at the bike again. There’s a low whoosh and a metallic clink. He waits a long minute before lowering the wand.

“Seems all right, doesn’t it?” She peers at the tyre.

He casts a thoughtful eye over the bike. “Would it be safe though?”

She closes the book. “It will be, if you ride the bike.”

He looks at her and she shrugs. “Harry, the bike’s made to respond to the magical ability of its rider.” At his bemused glance, she shakes her head and rattles on. “It’s called Sympathetic magic. You can tell, from the kind of magical sense you get from it. If you know what to look for.” She tips her head, a hand floating over the contours of the seat, a corner of her mouth curling. “And by the fact that while you flew it all the way from Hogwarts, Ron kept it on air for less than, what was it, half an hour? Stop looking at me like that!”

He leans over the bike, his hand on her cheek, fingers tangling in her hair. Just glad you’re back. She bends like a tree-limb in a teasing breeze. Her hands come up to grab his shirt to keep her balance.

“You really have to stop doing that!” she scolds as soon as she can speak.

“Why? Is it really that distracting?” he whispers, still against her lips. She pushes him away, but her smile betrays her. She makes her way to the window. He watches the wind in her hair, the way it shifts the light around her face.

He props himself sideways on the bike, facing the window. “What do you think of Sally? You were very quiet this morning.”

She stares out for a moment longer, then glances at him, a twinkle in her eye. “Apart from the fact that she fancies you?”

“What? She does not!”

“Oh, she does.”

“No, she doesn’t. I would know.”

She snorts. “No you wouldn’t.” She grins. “Tell me, has Ginny met her?”

“Yeah, that day when Sally first came over. Why?”

“What was she like towards Sally? Friendly? Nice?”

“Um, no, not really.”

“Did she seem irritated? A lot of scowling, glowering?”

“Yeah, a bit.”

“Well then, Sally fancies you.”

“How--”

“Even if you don’t trust my instincts there, you can tell by Ginny’s. Simple as that.”

She folds her arms and regards him smugly. He rubs at a spot of dirt on the handlebar, the tips of his ears burning.

“So maybe that’s why she was so nervous that day…when Luna first brought her along.”

“Quite possibly.”

“I was wondering why Ginny was so frosty”

“Oh, yes, Ginny can be frosty.”

He looks up. “Enjoying yourself, are you?”

Her face crinkles up in laughter. "Oh, Harry. Of course I am.” She steps close, a hand trailing past his thigh. He pulls her in between his legs, his feet firmly on the floor for balance. She tangles an arm around his neck, resting her forehead against his, her laughter fading into his skin. Content to sit still and silent, he watches the small pool of pale gold winter light, distilled out of the dust around them, gather in the cup of her lax palm.

“But you know, I think she’s right. Sally,” she says a long minute later.

“Hmm?”

“I think she’s right when she said that she’s only the messenger.” He listens to her voice grow softer, serious. She slides her hand down his arm, gentle over the yellowish scar, greedy over wrist and palm, fingers winding their way into his.

“I mean, I don’t trust her completely and neither do you, but this thing about magic--I think she’s right. And you’re right too. It could end really badly. The Muggles, extraction, wandless magic…so much in the mix. The wizarding world is going to need someone to keep it together as long as possible. Someone quite powerful, fearless. But most importantly, someone in who can inspire trust, faith.” She tightens her hold on his hand.

“And if that someone has a foot in both worlds, Muggle and magical, someone who knows how it works both ways, then the wizarding world will have the best leader they can hope for.” She leans back to look at him.

“And I also think, I know, that you can’t just stand by and watch. It’s just not in your nature.”

He meets her eye briefly, then looks aside. “Someone people can trust?” He shakes his head.

She turns his face towards her, touching her nose to his temple. “Harry, you saw them today. They adore you. And not in the way people used to fawn over you before, did you notice? They just--I don’t know. When you think about it, Voldemort is gone, thanks to you, and people are grateful just for that. Just for being alive.”

There’s a scuffle outside the window, a pattering of feet, and Crookshanks hops in, trailing a few dirty grey and white feathers. He shakes himself, preens his fur, yawns, then winds nonchalantly out the door.

Harry tightens his arm around Hermione, sighing. “So, you think we should try to get Scrimgeour see sense?”

She shifts against his thigh and settles more comfortably, all business-like and earnest. “I don’t think you should waste your time with Scrimgeour. We both know what he’s like. You need to get through to people directly. Luna will be very handy. I mean, she already said that there’s a lot of interest about you. Maybe she could help you take advantage of that, you know, perhaps like what we did in fifth year. And I really think you should get out more. Everything we’ve heard so far, we’ve heard secondhand. You need to get out there and see what’s really going on. Not just in Diagon Alley, but among the Muggles, you know. You do still have your Invisibility Cloak, don’t you? You’re going to need it.…”

Listening to her rattle on, something chafes against his mind like a rough seam on a shirt. He thinks that there’s something’s odd about the way she’s speaking. Then, a small quake runs up his spine.

“Hermione?”

“--go very carefully, just in case this is a short term thing, you--yeah?”

“You’re saying ‘you’ a lot.”

He holds her gaze, watching her eyes grow wide, then silent, opaque. She moves away from his knee. He tightens his hold around her.

“Hermione.” His voice grates. “What exactly are you telling me?”

She sighs. Her eyes flicker, then settle like a fish diving out of sight. The feathers dance on the floor, scooting beneath the bike.

“Harry, I applied for a course in Medicine. In--in a Muggle University. It’s a diploma, a very basic certificate, I sort of improvised, I mean, I don’t have anything to show for having gone to Muggle school but--Harry, please--”

She moves at the same time that he gets to his feet, but they both stumble, Hermione putting out a hand to steady herself.

“But--I thought, before when you--Hermione I thought you were--”

Back to being Hermione?

She backs against the window, her hair pushing forward in the wind, obscuring half her face. He makes an effort to speak evenly, but fails.

“This is not something I can do on my own.” He shakes his head, curling his fists.

She pushes her hair back, but it flies forward again, ends dancing towards him. “Harry, listen to me. I stuffed up once, badly. Really, really badly. There’s no excuse for it. I’m just not the person for this.” She tries to wrestle her hair away with both hands.

“When I read that scroll case that night--Harry, it scared me. That’s why I left. To think things over. When I figured out the pieces, you know, what was in the scroll case and what Luna said about magic running out and all that--” She makes an impatient, strangled noise, her voice rising. “--I don’t want to make another mistake, we can’t afford that.”

He stares. “Then why were you saying all those things about--about how we need someone who can hold it together, someone who’s powerful and all that rubbish?”

She looks stricken. “It’s not rubbish, Harry. It’s the truth. If anyone can pull people through this, it’s you.”

He turns away with a dry, brusque laugh. “No. That’s not true. Not true, because--” he turns in a tight circle, a hand through his hair “Hermione, you’re the best among us. The rest of us, we just flash our wands and…and manage to get things done occasionally, but you, you make it work.”

He flops back on the bike, looking up at her. His voice struggles to make sound. “So if you’re not good enough, then neither am I.” His laugh scrapes across the room again. “As for mistakes, I told you; we were both in it together. If I weren’t such a wimp--”

“Harry--”

He shrugs and falls silent.

She looks on, face webbed with hair. He squashes a starling feather beneath his shoe. I’m tired, he thinks, I’m tired now. I wasn’t before, but now I am. It’s been a long night. A long life.

He lifts his gaze with some effort. “Hermione, I want to choose, while I can. The other day, you said that…that I just fell into it. The Prophecy, Voldemort, the war--I know people say that there’s always a choice, but it didn’t feel that way. It never felt that way. I was always doing something I’d rather not, things I couldn’t stand. But now, I want to choose to do this. I don’t want to wait around to be dragged into it. Perhaps it’ll turn out, I don’t know, ten years down the lane, that I didn’t have a choice after all--but right now, when the…wheel’s just beginning to move, I want to feel that I chose to turn it.”

His hand drops down, fingers sliding inside the tyre-spokes. “But I can’t do it without you.”

“But I’ll be here, I’ll support you, I promise--”

“How?” He shrugs. “Either you’re with me, or you’re not. There’s no half way. I can’t do this without you, all of you.” His voice drops to a whisper as if sound’s exhausted him. “And you know it’s not just about magic.”

He can feel her eyes on him, but refuses to look up. The wind picks up, whistling through the street. She snaps the window shut as if just realising that that’s an option. Then, she moves close, but still he keeps his eyes down.

“Can’t or won’t?” she whispers.

“It’s the same thing.” He sighs and gets to his feet. Her eyes glisten, but he doesn’t want to pay attention. She stands so close and habit sings beneath his skin, wanting to reach, but he walks past, crosses the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

--end chapter eleven--

## 13. Chapter Twelve

Disclaimer: They belong to JKR, I’m only playing. And thanks for letting me.

A/N: Been a long time, eh? Needless to say, all of this is now AU past HBP. Only about 3 chapters to go now. Thanks for sticking around, I know the story’s been slow to get to the point. It probably still is.

***

--Chapter Twelve--

So now she’s gone and destroyed them, before they even began. Although that’s not technically correct because they had begun so long ago, if she were to talk about beginnings, she’d be struggling to find a precise moment. Oh, of course, there’s the train and Neville’s toad, then the mountain troll, but really, she can’t claim she knew then that everything she’d do for the next ten years were to end up centred around Harry bloody Potter.

Like a story that began off page, when she wasn’t looking, then wound in and out of the writing because often there were no words, and much of the tale in parentheses, footnotes, mere addenda to having the world to save. Then it turned out that they had it all wrong; the real story, the one that mattered, was in the footnotes, parentheses, addenda, and that’s why things happened the way they did, why she found a different curse, why he trusted her, why their city went up in flames.

What’s going to happen now?

A bleary eye scans her surrounds, but she can’t see the bottle. The armchair sucks her in with its musty stink and broken springs. She puts a blind hand out and after a long moment, locates the bottle by the back leg of the chair. Whoever thought of Firewhiskey in tea were out of their minds, but it’s certainly working. Already a thick fog’s drifting over the sharp peaks and trenches of her own stupidity. She tosses down the contents of her mug, grimacing as if she’s just walked into a cobweb. Her eyes drift shut.

Time passes. She doesn’t hear the creak of the door, but knows when he’s in the kitchen. She feels him standing near, his eyes on her. She feels a sudden urge to laugh out loud, a memory surfacing through her stupor. The last time she got drunk, she sang all the way from Hogsmeade to the castle, and Ron still claims to shudder at the thought of it. Reaching the castle, she had sat down on the steps at the front door and refused to budge. Finally, Harry carried her up to her room near the library; she drooled on his shirt, observing loudly from her vantage point that he had nice ears. The next morning, he’d taken advantage of her hangover to prise a solemn promise which she hadn’t broken till now, hadn’t felt the need to--Never again. You’ll always stick to Butterbeer.

She wonders briefly what he’ll do now. He hasn’t budged, his eyes haven’t moved, burning over her. She doesn’t have to try very hard to feign sleep. He doesn’t try hard to hide the fact that he knows. A moment later, his arms reach over, digging her out of the chair. In the ensuing movements--being lifted out and held close, the tucking of limbs and bracing of weight--she manages to conceal a long sigh in a warm fold of shoulder and neck.

Night swings inside her eyelids as he makes his way across the living room, up the stairs. His breath brushes her forehead with each slow step. If she opens her eyes, his mouth would just be a small motion away, one of her hands free to hold his face. She could so easily fix this, give the words back to the story with nothing said at all. She’s drunk, she has courage. She’s just about lift her head when there’s a thump; another door groans open. She breathes in, suddenly recoiling; her room.

Well, what did you expect?

He sets her down on the bed. The sheets are cold. He leaves the room and returns minutes later. She feels herself being shifted again, a pillow slid under her head, a heavy quilt over her.

Her pillow and her quilt, that smell of him.

A heating charm takes only a second to cast, after that there’s no reason to linger. The hollow house ensures that she hears his footsteps all the way down to the kitchen, and then the faintest clink of glass.

*

Tonks arrives early next morning, and Harry stumbles out of his chair at the sound of voices and a door being opened. Peering out of the window on his way out of the kitchen, he grimaces at the morning interrupted by a thin, tedious film of rain. His back and shoulders are stiff from sleeping with his head on his arms on the table, the beginnings of a headache at his temples. By the time he gets to the hallway, Tonks is well on her way to a full-blown tirade, but it’s at Hermione he stares.

She’s showered and dressed, her damp hair gathered over one shoulder. From the way she holds her head and the slight crinkle of her eyebrows, he can tell that she too has woken up with a headache, much worse than his. Her eyes are faintly red-rimmed, her nose peeling, but other than that, she looks awake and alert, dressed warmly to go out, her bag on the floor beside her. In fact, it looks as if she was on her way out when Tonks came in.

Trying to ignore the sudden bristle of panic in his mind, he turns to Tonks. She’s in the middle of pulling off her cloak with a loud rustle of irritation, her soaked shoes already kicked under the umbrella stand.

“--not a single fucking Portkey worked within two hours of being activated. Two fucking hours. If Hogwarts was just some dingbat’s idea of a joke, why the hell can’t we make a flipping Portkey work? And when did they decide to put cameras in Muggle phones--that idiot Scrimgeour--just because my father’s Muggle-born he thought I should’ve known and told him!

“And nobody knows what to do if a fucking spell doesn’t work. They just stand there, flapping their hands--for god’s sakes, find some other way to do what you want to do! Muggles do it all the time! If you can’t, don’t stand there looking useless, at least make an effort to look like a thinking, capable human being! I swear, some of my so-called colleagues, they can’t think on their feet--it’s a fucking joke!

“And nobody has the slightest idea what to do with Muggles, they don’t even know how to talk to one without patronizing. Do you know what a disaster this is going to be? We think we’re so high and mighty with our bloody magic, if that Sally woman is right, we’re going to end up with nothing!”

Finally extricating herself from her cloak, she dumps it on the troll leg which wobbles with the impact. Then she turns to glare at Harry and Hermione, her breath puffing out in irate clouds.

“You know, if you were ever serious about it, now’s the time to make up your mind about becoming an Auror. Really, it’s about time you got off your arses and decide what you’re going to do. Both of you! You’ve spent enough time cooped up in this godforsaken house and it’s helping no one.”

She takes a deep breath and lets it out, rubbing her hands briskly over her face. Harry glances at Hermione, but she moves over to the dressing table with the discoloured mirror, fingering a small brass gargoyle. Tonks makes her way across the hallway and drops to a stair. Her short hair’s plastered to her scalp, the dripping water seems to stain her skin with the bleak blue of her hair. Her eyes are weighted with lilac shadows, her bony arms sticking out of her black work-clothes. Collapsed into an exhausted lump and backlit by the landing window and fishtank, the only immediate mark of life on her is her clouding breath. She looks up, her voice suddenly devoid of steam.

“I’m sorry. I’m wet and hungry and feel like I haven’t slept for months.” She yawns. “I would’ve gone straight home, but--” she rakes a hand through her hair “--I had to tell you, I was hoping I’ll get a moment to tell you last night…Harry, we found Snape.”

Hermione sets the gargoyle down with a clatter. Harry blinks. “What?”

Tonks heaves a sigh.

“When I got called to Hogwarts, I was in this little town near Exmouth. Shacklebolt has people posted all over and someone reported a wizard who was--behaving very strangely.” She scratches her head. “It didn’t sound like Snape at all, but I went anyway.”

“You should’ve owled me.” Harry doesn’t even try to keep the peevish note out of his voice. Tonks shakes her head.

“There was no time. And like I said, I didn’t think it was him.”

She hesitates as if she herself couldn’t fully believe her next words.

“The report was about a wizard who was last seen performing tricks to a Muggle audience. Like…like a juggler or conjurer, a Muggle magician. Shacklebolt’s man realised that they weren’t just Muggle tricks, but he didn’t recognise Snape. But something made him call Kingsley rather than the Obliviator office.”

She laughs dryly before continuing.

“Snape is the most…secretive man I’ve ever known. Can you imagine him parading some cheap Levitation charm or a transfiguration to raise a laugh? And from Muggles?”

Hermione sits on the stair next to Tonks. “But it was him? It was Snape?”

“Yes, it was him all right.”

“Then…where is he now?”

“He’s dead.”

Harry turns away, running both hands through his hair. Tonks carries on, her voice still laced with incredulity.

“He’d been in that inn for weeks. Always drunk to the hilt, stank something terrible, but the innkeeper let him stay because of the…tricks. Basic charms, by the sound of it, some involving probably the last of his stash of potions. There was always a crowd, the owner said--a Muggle called Dawkins. But then just a few days ago, the tricks changed. Instead of harmless transfigurations, twice he’d thrown what sounded like a stunner at the audience. Didn’t hurt anyone, thankfully, his aim was so bad.”

After a moment’s rummaging, she pulls out a handkerchief from her pocket and blows her nose.

“But then yesterday, he’d done a…a Levicorpus. On a woman. She was hysterical, so was the crowd. Her boyfriend punched him. Not particularly viciously, as these things go, but when he got off, Snape was dead.”

Harry moves through the hallway, absently fingering the filthy frames of the remaining portraits. Something brushes his forehead and he looks up to see a thick, ineffectual cobweb dangling from the serpent-shaped candelabra overhead. He barely hears Hermione’s hushed voice.

“But how?”

There’s a small pause and a creak, and turning around, Harry sees Tonks lean her head against the railing.

“I think…he was out of his mind. Literally. And very ill. He’d been putrid--when alive, I mean. Hadn’t washed or shaved for weeks. And Dawkins said that he chattered all the time, sometimes just muttering to himself, but sometimes to whoever dared to get close. Dawkins said it was nonsense, but I think if any of us listened, someone magical, we would have known what he was going on about.”

Hermione leans forward, her chin propped on her hand, arm balanced on knee. Tonks sits up and looks at each of them in turn. “It’s just so bizarre. None of it sounds like Snape, does it? To be so…unguarded, careless. He was so completely out of it.”

“Perhaps it wasn’t him, then. Perhaps it was someone else.”

Aware of the sudden brusqueness in his voice, he slides his hands in his pockets, turning away. His gaze drifts past the baroque gas lamps that have remained cold for months, their metallic hold on the walls weakening due to the crumbling plaster beneath the old wallpaper.

“It was him, Harry. He had the Dark Mark still on him. And…there was a scar down the back of his neck, running up a little way into his scalp. A foul, festering thing. I saw him get that scar. So did you.”

A small pause clings to the chill in the hallway. The hex the castle had unleashed on Severus Snape on the day Voldemort died looked like a curl of smoke wafting down from the enchanted ceiling; Snape’s scream had filled the Great Hall. Recovering from that moment of distraction, Harry had caught sight of the tail end of a killing curse arrowing towards Lupin, Bellatrix Lestrange on the other end. Across the Hall, Tonks was watching, frozen.

Walking over to the tarnished mirror, Harry picks up the brass gargoyle Hermione had set down. Tonks blows her nose again, almost talking to herself.

“I don’t think Snape had anything to do with anything after that night in the castle. And he most certainly wasn’t after you, Harry. Hell, I don’t think he’d have known you if you poked him in the eye.”

In the silence, Harry resumes his aimless pacing. Hermione climbs up the stairs, feeds the fish, then returns to her perch next to Tonks. The light gets busy in the tank, odd liquid shapes darting down the stairs. Wandering back to the mirror, Harry picks up the gargoyle again without really seeing it. Tonks stirs. “Kingsley’s man sent word a few days ago, when the stunners started, but Kingsley was too busy. When news came the second time, it was too late.”

Too late for what, he wants to ask, but raising his head, he catches sight of Hermione’s eyes on him in the mirror. He turns around.

“So, I guess you’re right.” He flashes a thin smile.

“About what?”

“About Malfoy. Extraction.”

She doesn’t answer, but refuses to look away.

Harry shrugs. “Malfoy doesn’t have the brains to work out something like extraction. Snape does. Did. I figured they’d have been working together. But it doesn’t look that way, does it?” He switches his gaze to Tonks.

“So if it’s not extraction, if it’s not Snape, then who’s dangling the carrot for Malfoy? I’ve never known him to put himself in danger unless someone bigger and more rotten than himself told him he had something to gain.”

A furtive expression flits across Tonks’s face. “What’s extraction?” she says quickly, looking from one to the other. Harry looks at her more closely. Once before too, a couple of weeks ago, he’d been about to ask what she was hiding, why she worked such long, odd hours if there were no more than two high-profile Death Eaters to round up. Later when he thought about it, he assumed she was busy because of the state the Ministry was in. Now he’s not so sure, but before he can frame his question, Hermione interrupts.

“So where’s the…body now?”

“At the coroner’s office.” Tonks stretches wearily. “It would have been too much trouble, too many people to Obliviate. So we let the Muggles keep him and do…whatever they do. Not like there was anyone to claim his body, anyway.”

The house seems so quiet, Harry can hear every sullen drip of the waning rain outside, every wingtip scraping in the roof overhead. Then suddenly, like cracking ice, his foot meets the carved leg of the dresser. Fleetingly, he sees Hermione straighten up, eyes wide, and Tonks’ confused stare. The dresser wobbles and the brass gargoyle rattles to the floor. Its hollow jangle loud in his ears, he strides to the door, wrenches it open and bursts out into the grey, washed out street.

*

During the final five or six months of the war, the Order spotted a distinct change in tactics in Death Eater activity. Direct attacks on major sites were replaced by small skirmishes and seemingly minor break-ins. Weeks went by without any reported deaths. The Dark Mark distorted the sky less and less.

Opinion was divided, just as the ranks fighting the war against Voldemort. The Ministry lost no time congratulating itself though Scrimgeour had done no more than stay in the sidelines and wait for the Order to make a wrong turn. Within the Order itself, some congratulated themselves for having systematically diminished Voldemort’s ranks; surely the weakening nature of the attacks was a sign of a retreating enemy. Voldemort himself was reported to be in not very good shape; each Horcrux destroyed sapped his strength.

But others, especially those who’d taken potions class at Hogwarts during the sixteen years before Dumbledore’s death, knew better. Despite their seeming randomness, the Death Eater attacks had very definite effects on the magical world. People found themselves waiting for a full-scale attack anytime, and the waiting made it worse. The minor incidents turned out to be just as, or even more, crippling than a full-scale attack. They put pressure on an already stretched Order for better vigilance over various far-flung spots in the country, with no immediate results. The Ministry rushed to slacken the state of emergency, taking away some of the powers the Order had been granted early in the war. Overall, the deep, stultifying uneasiness and confusion was more oppressing than the grand displays of violence people were used to from Voldemort after his return.

In short, Tom Riddle’s grandiose, dramatic methods were being replaced by the trademark insidiousness of Severus Snape.

Harry never thought that Voldemort conceded fully the command of his army to Snape. Control was crucial to Tom Riddle, even in appearance, but he has no doubt that the final turn of the war was of Snape’s engineering. Voldemort knew Harry well, but Snape knew him better. What’s more, Snape also knew Hermione. It was Snape who set them up with the Incinerator, to burn London down, to execute unknowingly Voldemort’s final flourish of power.

So, yes, I’d have liked to kill him. Just for that, if for nothing else.

He’s circled Grimmauld Square twice before heading out into the city. Some small streets are still full of crumbled asphalt, creating mazes of shallow puddles that take some concentration to navigate. He’s soaked to the skin. An Impervius was briefly considered, then forgotten. He hasn’t the slightest idea where he’s going, drifting down streets transformed into rivers and runnels through his blurred glasses.

It hadn’t taken long for things to fall into place after the final night at Hogwarts, missed signs and obvious clues collated and filtered through the expertise of hindsight. At the inquiry at the Ministry that had gone on for days, he watched in helpless fury as Hermione tried to hold her head up under the scrutiny of a fleet of questioning eyes, drilling her about the Incinerator. She’d been in charge of research, no one wanted his or Ron’s input, much less their belligerent attempts to defend her.

Among those present were Fred, who with George had helped with spells and potions during the war, Scrimgeour and various Heads of Departments, and a dozen members of the Wizengamot. Yes, it was strange for books and scrolls to appear in the Hogwarts library that she couldn’t remember being there before. No, not everyone could access the restricted section, specially after it was secured further for use in the war; only a powerful witch or wizard could get through the complex security measures. Yes, the curse was tested, and found to be fool-proof. Yes, that in itself was strange. And yes, someone had spotted an intruder once, a familiar gait and a profile, but the man had got away.

Yes, she should have known.

Sighing, Harry pauses and looks around him. He has no idea how long he’s been out, but notices that the rain seems to be easing. The waning drops steal filaments of brightness from shop and street lights. Finally casting an Impervius over his glasses, he turns into a busy square, dodging umbrellas. The bright colours of a fruit stall catch his eye, and walking past, he almost misses what’s right next to it.

He stops dead and stares. The fruit stall shares its makeshift plastic awning with a newspaper stand, and through the bodies crowding around, Nick’s face stares out from the front of a broadsheet.

Pushing through to the front of the stall, Harry picks up the paper. The Wonderful World of Magic screams the headline, bolstered with an equally prominent subtitle, Exclusive: Eyewitness account of a Hidden World. The story takes up three-quarters of the page. Next to Nick’s mug-shot in one corner are several shots of Hogwarts from the night before, with some spectacular views of the forest, lake and valley. Rummaging in his damp pocket for coins, Harry scans the other papers along the stand. All contain variations of the headline from the first one without the advantage of the exclusive. Cult, Hoax or Conspiracy? reads one, England’s Best Kept Secret reads another. Both contain pictures from the night before and Harry winces at a circle zooming in on a wand in the hand of a witch in a long, black robe. He picks up a copy of each paper, pays, then crosses the street at a run. Settling on the shaded steps of a shop with a bright pink door, he spreads the papers out on his knees.

All three seem unable to make up their minds. The words ‘cult’ and ‘conspiracy’ crop up often, and even Nick’s eyewitness account contains a heavy dollop of caution from the reporter writing it up. Thankfully, thinks Harry, for Nick seems to have had no reservations. There are detailed mentions of spells and charms, and merry accounts of an outing in Diagon Alley, Quidditch and the ghoul in the Weasley’s attic. Thinking that Nick would do well to stay out of Hermione way for the rest of his life, he looks anxiously for any reference to the burning of London. Finding none, he folds the papers and leans back against shop door.

Across the street, the newsstand carries a roaring trade. With many of its customers crossing the road to the bus stop next to the shop where he huddles, Harry eavesdrops freely. Incredulity seems to be the order of the day, though not the kind of incredulity he would have expected. Smiling despite himself, he listens as one man in a bowler hat stabs ferociously at the paper in his hand, bemoaning in colourful language the demise of honest, incisive, serious journalism.

He sits there for about ten minutes, watching the bustle around him. Despite the damage, the city seems never to have paused. On the far side of the square, some buildings are still painted with long, black brushstrokes of smoke from the fire. Rain’s put a damper on some construction sites, but he can see work in progress inside a shop on his left, buckets of paint gathered around two ladders, and two men and a woman in overalls. The rain’s stopped.

His stomach growls, his previous anger turning sour in his gut. He turns one of the papers idly on his knee, pausing at the property listings. He wonders if Hermione’s still home, whether she waited for him before leaving for wherever she was dressed to go. His gaze drifts past a long-suffering line of traffic. Something white catches his eye and he finds himself peering at a sprig of tiny green-white flowers blossoming along the strip of earth against the pavement. There’s a small flutter of movement from inside the shop. He cranes his neck, realising that he’s sitting on the steps of a bridal shop. A woman turns in front of a mirror, draped in voluminous white, head inclined, an appraising eye on her reflection. Another woman, a tape measure between her teeth, squats at the trailing hem. Harry stares, startled by the idea that for some, beginnings are possible.

But then, he too thought a beginning was possible only one night ago.

He hunches against the cold, now making him shiver, and glares at the hem of pale blossoms decorating the pavement.

Why does it always have to be so complicated?

*

Hermione pauses at the lip of the narrow stairwell stoppered with the old oak door. It didn’t take her long to confirm her ‘facts.’ First, she visited the library at St Mungo’s, which now housed much of the collection salvaged from the Ministry. She leafed through scores of archival records and research reports, locating what she sought quite quickly. Creating a distraction was easy enough and in no time her bag was stuffed with a bulky research report.

Then she visited the office of The Quibbler. Luna and her father were both there, feverishly working on a special edition of the paper. Trying to feel her way around without inciting too much curiosity, and almost shouting to be heard above the sound of the two ancient printing presses, Hermione found that Mr Lovegood did not know about Sally’s bone wand. She was relieved; she trusted Mr Lovegood, so did Harry, and Luna has always been a good friend.

All that was left now was to confront Sally.

I shall not go overboard, she promises herself. I shall not act like Harry’s keeper, I shall not reach automatically for the vilest jinx I can remember. I shall give her a chance to explain.

Unless of course there was a good reason.

She takes a deep breath and walks down the stairs, leaving muddy boot-prints. There’s no handle or knocker on the door, no keyhole. It’s too dark to see but she thinks the door’s set at an odd angle. She raps on the wood sharply, waking only a faint echo up the stairwell. She tries twice more but there’s no response.

Standing back, she reaches for her wand. Looking up again at the door, she realises that the odd angle of the door is due it being open. Only a crack; the wood is so heavy that her knocking failed to move it.

Holding her breath, she steps in. A dismal sequence of everlasting candles hiss into life. Pausing for a minute to be sure she’s alone, she stares around curiously.

Something’s not right.

A desk stands to her right, clear except for a few bits of parchment and string. Next to the desk is haphazard chair, as if it was moved aside in haste. Pencil shavings litter the floor in a circle; a waste-paper basket too has been removed. An empty cardboard box stands on the floor in the middle of the room.

Further inside, various objects glitter on a series of a floor-to-ceiling shelves. Stepping close, she notices that there are gaps on the shelves and faint shapes etched on dust of objects held there previously. Further along, two shelves of books host the same gaps, some books lying sideways over the extra space. Absently, she drifts over and straightens two heavy, tattered volumes, fingers dancing over their spines. Bending to pick another off the floor with a small cluck of disgust, she spots a small shoebox wedged behind the desk, half-hidden by a cluster of rolled up charts.

She drags it out, sets on the desk and tips the lid off, her breath already cold in her lungs. The photographs are on top, marked at the back with the Daily Prophet logo: three glimpses of Harry at the Triwizard Tournament, one in the arena with the Hungarian Horntail, two from the official shoot presided by Rita Skeeter. A wad of yellowing newspaper cuttings come next. Right at the bottom is a Gryffindor tie, a couple of Chocolate Frogs cards, and a small plastic replica of a Gryffindor’s sword.

A shadow fills the doorway and she whips around.

“Miss Granger.”

Her wand held at an angle, she glares. Rufus Scrimgeour raises his eyebrows. “Hardly the person I expected to see.”

“Where is she?”

Scrimgeour steps inside, his arms crossed behind his back. Hermione throws a quick look over his shoulder to make sure he hasn’t brought an entourage with him. He seems to be dressed less carefully than normal, his robes pinned sloppily over one shoulder. His limp seems more pronounced, as if he was carrying a heavier burden than usual.

He smiles suddenly, taking Hermione by surprise. “If you mean my daughter, in light of what happened, she didn’t think it was safe for her to stay in England.”

Hermione sets her jaw. “You didn’t think it would be safe for you if she stayed.”

The smile drops out of sight. A moment passes. You’re not going to stare me down. A candle flickers and dies, not making much of a dent in the dimness. Scrimgeour makes an abrupt gesture.

“Miss Granger. I love my daughter, she loves me. Despite…the occasional disagreements we have, we’re family and I’m responsible for her safety. The kind of…ideas she was propagating last night, very publicly--now, they’re not the type of sentiment the wizarding public would take to very kindly in times such as these”

Hermione laughs. “Surely that’s a flimsy excuse even for you? To say that people will be hounding her just because she dared to speak what no one wants to admit.” She pauses and lowers her wand. “That magic’s running out.”

Scrimgeour drops his arms at his sides. A small twitch of disgust or decision passes across his face. “So. You believe that too.”

“Yes, I do.”

“And does Mr Potter think so too?”

“I don’t speak for Harry.”

She holds his stare for a moment longer, then turns towards the open box. She piles the photographs and other oddments back inside and sets the lid down. Taking her time, she returns the box to where it was hidden. She turns around to face Scrimgeour again.

He strides further inside the room. His boots are stuck with mud and bits of grass. Hermione watches as he paces to the far end where another door, one she remembers, shimmers with blue light. Turning back, he speaks briskly, as if he is keen to finish his business with her and get on to other things.

“In light of what’s happening, the Wizengamot is considering mandatory recruitment of all able witches and wizards. We need as many hands on deck as we can get. The Auror department will be expanded, and several other departments in the Ministry will be restructured to respond to…growing needs. The Department of Magical Catastrophes and Muggle Relations, for instance, will be given similar training as Aurors. And--” he pauses to look at her “--we will bring in legislation to recruit officers for these.”

Hermione’s unable to contain the note of disbelief in her voice. “You mean conscription.”

With a dry laugh, he makes a dismissive gesture. “Well, now, that’s too--what’s the word--militaristic, no need to be so dramatic.” His gaze hardens again and he speaks carefully. “Miss Granger, what I’m trying to say is, you might want to inform Mr Potter that it would be in his interests to take up the…offer I forwarded him many times of a place in the Ministry. Because soon, it will not be an offer. It will be the law.”

Hermione laughs. “You’re unbelievable. You’re threatening Harry now?”

Scrimgeour smiles; a flat, condescending smile. A plume of rage runs up her spine. But before she can summon proper words, Scrimgeour turns, the flourish back in his gait. He waves a hand at the candles in sconces overhead.

“Do turn the lights off on your way out, Miss Granger. Thank you.”

Pushing the chair back into place in passing, he almost swirls past her, undeterred by the miserable attempts of his heavy, wet cloak to billow decently.

*

“Harry? Harry, where are you?”

He steps out of his room just as she rushes in. Colliding, he grabs her arm to steady her and finds her pressed up close, droplets from his damp hair over her face. Suddenly, it seems as if there’s nowhere else to go, but then she shifts, he turns and the distance is back.

“Sorry…” Mumbling, she steps back. He picks up the towel he’s dropped and strides into his room.

“What’s going on?”

He drops the towel in the hamper and begins to pick up his rain-drenched clothes off the floor. His hair drips on his t-shirt. With a hiss of irritation, he reaches for a fresh towel. She stands at the doorway and slips her bag down her arm.

“Harry, Sally’s gone.”

He straightens. “What?”

Hermione takes a few steps inside the room. Her boot encounters a shirt on the floor and she picks it up, dropping it in the laundry hamper.

“I’ve just been to the Ministry, to see her.”

“To see Sally? Why?”

She drops her bag on the floor and sits down on his bed. “Harry, sit down. I know you’re angry with me, but--”

“I’m not angry with you.” He shoves the lid down on the brimming hamper and pushes it with his foot to a corner of the room. Reaching for the bundle of Muggle newspapers lying on top of Hedwig’s cage, he drops them on the bed next to her. “In fact, I’ve got something to show you.”

She picks up the papers, then hisses through her teeth. “The bastard!” She riffles through all three, then returns to the one featuring Nick. Towelling his hair vigorously, Harry moves across the room and leans against the window, facing her.

“It’s actually not that bad. I was listening to some of the talk around, and many don’t really buy it. You know, the idea of a hidden magical community. I mean, even the papers don’t seem too sure despite the running the darn stories.”

Having finished scanning the stories, Hermione shakes her head. “Well, it won’t stay that way for long.” She folds the newspapers briskly and tosses them aside. “There are lots of people out there who are genuinely suspicious. And lots of magic leaking. Don’t you remember how The Quibbler reported that many Muggles had spoken out about the fire? About how it hadn’t seemed normal, how none of the Muggle fire engines couldn’t put it out and they had to wait for it to just die in its own time? We’re exposed, Harry. Too late to stop it now and soon, we won’t even have the means. It’s just--” She makes a vague gesture, searching for words. “The building of Hogwarts marked the beginning of our separation from Muggles. And the Ministry, well the whole purpose of the Ministry is to keep things secret from Muggles. But now they’re both useless, aren’t they?”

He watches her as she stares at a vague point across the room. Her hair’s frizzed up in the rain, spread out in tendrils and ringlets over her shoulders. There’s a frown on her forehead and her eyes are still faintly red-rimmed.

“Why’d you go to see Sally?” he says, trying to distract himself.

She glances at him and pulls off her gloves, tossing them in the same direction as the newspapers. “Harry, she’s not who she seems.”

He laughs. “You don’t say?”

She makes a small sound of exasperation. “Look, when she was talking about extraction the other day, she didn’t tell us everything. She conveniently forgot to mention that it wasn’t just magical objects and creatures she was studying in relation to extraction, but--” She looks at him, then quickly looks away.

“But what?”

“Humans. It’s possible to extract magic from humans. From witches and wizards.”

He lowers the towel and slides his glasses back into place. It’s so fucking obvious, he thinks, now that it’s been pointed out. Why hadn’t he thought to ask?

He shakes his head and blows air through his teeth. “Well, that’s great. That gives us a whole new problem to deal with.” He throws the towel across the room at the hamper; it lands neatly on top. “How do you know?”

She unbuttons her cloak and pulls it off. Kicking her boots aside, she settles on the bed, one leg tucked beneath her. “All those months ago, when we were trying to find stuff on Horcruxes, I came across her research report. The one that got her the position at the Ministry. I don’t know if she told you, but both Horcruxes and extraction fall under preservation magic. That’s how they’re categorised.” Thoughtful for a moment, she runs her fingers over the wrought iron bedpost.

“Except I didn’t know the report was hers. I mean, the name meant nothing to me. Until yesterday when you introduced her…then later, when she started talking about extraction, it sort of fell into place.” Reaching inside her bag, she pulls out a thick roll of parchment encased in a protective leather sleeve. “I went to St Mungo’s today just to make sure.”

He sits down beside her. Written in clear hand and watermarked with the Ministry crest, the report runs into several long pages. Sally’s name is set in block letters on top.

“So…she actually extracted magic from someone?”

Hermione leans over, riffles through the parchment and points at a line of text at the bottom of a page. Harry takes a sharp breath.

“Anne Louise Page--that’s--”

“Her mother. I checked.” She pauses. “There’s a consent form. So at least in theory, she agreed to it.”

“Is she…is her mother--”

“Still alive? Yes, she is. I checked that too.”

Harry runs a hand through his hair. He rolls up the scroll and sets it on the bed as if he wanted nothing more to do with it, as if he was handling something that disgusted him beyond words.

“Is extraction illegal?”

“No. But it’s highly controlled, with an international decree. Magical research is the only reason you might be allowed to do it. And even then, there’s a long preliminary test to make sure you’re not up to something. With magical creatures, you have to prove you’re not harming the creature in any way. Of course, with ones such as centaurs you’d have to get consent, just the same as humans, so I don’t think there’s ever been any extraction done there.”

He leans back on his hands, staring through the window.

“If that was so…if it was all within the law and...she didn’t force anyone, why would she be so cagey about it? If it was just research, why not tell us the full story?”

“That’s the thing. I don’t think it’s just research.”

She looks at her hands, fiddles with a button on her abandoned cloak, then curls her hand abruptly.

“Harry, her wand…it’s made of human bone.”

He continues to stare.

“They’re banned in England. It’s the same principle as wandless magic. A wand made of human bone is a stronger conductor of magic than one made of wood or any other material. There was a time, centuries ago when bone wands were used regularly by people who weren’t that strong in magic.”

Frowning, he sits up.

“Squibs?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“Hermione, she’s an Unspeakable!”

She flashes him a look.

“Being an Unspeakable doesn’t always require you to be powerful in magic. It requires you to be intelligent and driven. Which she is.”

He rubs a hand over his face and pulls the wet spots at the neck of his t-shirt. “So she’s a squib, an Unspeakable, and she’s pretty much obsessed with magic.”

Hermione nods and her fingers reach once more for the loose button on her cloak. “Well, it is her job. Although…there’s one more thing. In her room, I found a box. A shoebox full of pictures, paper clippings and…some other odd bits of…you.”

He looks on, puzzled. She bites her lip. “As if she was keeping a record of what you’ve been doing over the years. She had some archive pictures from the The Prophet, you know, from the Triwizard Tournament. But mostly from recent times. A bit of a running commentary of the last couple of years.”

“Hermione, what are you saying?”

She returns his gaze silently.

He shakes his head, incredulous. “You can’t be serious--she’s just not the type--I mean, sure, she’s very dodgy and all but to go that far? Like you say, it’s her job and she said she wanted my help with this--this magic running out thing. I’d say it’s fair to do a bit of research about me before she actually met me, wouldn’t you? I mean, it’s not like she grew up here knowing all about Harry freaking Potter.”

She throws her hands up. “I don’t know. I really don’t know. If she was planning to use you for extraction, I’d say she’s pretty ambitious. But we already know that…I mean, for someone with no magical ability to even think of becoming an Unspeakable--I mean, not that you can’t or shouldn’t, but just the thought of it…” She trails off, catching the look on his face. He clears his throat quickly to hide his expression at the note of grudging admiration in her voice.

Tucking her hair behind her ear, she carries on. “Also, if extraction was what she was after, I don’t think Mr Lovegood would have let her anywhere near you. He has a good nose for that kind of thing.” She sighs and slumps her shoulders.

“I don’t know, Harry…that’s what I wanted to find out today.”

“So what? She’s just left?”

She shakes her head and reaches for the glass of water on his bedside table. He drags his eyes away from the line of her throat as she gulps the water down. Then, his blood speeding up for a different reason, he listens to her account of her meeting with Scrimgeour. By the time she finishes he feels the dull anger from the morning acidic in his belly again. He gets up from the bed and paces around the room, her eyes following.

“What the fuck does he want from me?”

Hermione leans against the bedpost, her legs crossed, hands slack in her lap. “Same as he always wanted, Harry. He wants you on his side. He thinks it might give him a boost. Give people something solid, something proven, rather than the promises he keeps making which he knows he can’t keep. It’s a been longer than a month, and everything’s still in pieces--I mean, with magic, it shouldn’t take this long to rebuild the city, should it?” She glances at him. “He knows he’s in trouble and he thinks you can fix it. So if he can’t get you on board by asking nicely…” she breaks off, shrugging.

Harry moves around his room, fussily setting things right. She watches in silence, her eyes patient. Half-open wardrobe doors snap shut, Hedwig’s cage gets a fast-tracked cleaning. A window bursts open. Inhaling the sharp air, he returns and drops to the bed beside her.

“We have to find her. I don’t know what she’s up to, I don’t care if she was planning to use me as some sort of lab rat, she knows more about this magic thing than anyone and we--I’m going to need her.”

Feeling a small movement at his sleeve, a minuscule flinching or a hasty breath, he glances sideways at Hermione. Her profile is hidden by her hair, but he can sense a bitten lip, her hands curled. He looks aside, suddenly aware of how close they’re sitting. After a long moment, she speaks softly.

“Harry, Are you really not mad at me?”

“No.”

“Are you disappointed in me, then?”

“No.”

She takes a deep breath and lets it out.

He reaches for a jumper bunched up against the headboard and pulls it on. “I love you.”

There’s that half-strangled breath again, and she lifts her head. His eyes linger on her worried lip.

“I’m sorry, was I not supposed to say that yet? Well, it’s true. You can’t have not known that. I love you and I don’t know how to…”

Suddenly, he wants to get up, the stillness is too much. But he stays seated.

“Look, Hermione, I’ve missed you. I’ve missed us. Ever since the…end, it’s just been one thing after another, one more useless excuse to just…just pretend that there was some other way to do things, other than…together. And you know, sometimes I wish we were--”

He pauses, frustrated with himself. He touches her bare forearm tentatively, slowly stroking her skin, desperate to guide his half-sentences and half-thoughts into a whole that makes sense. But it’s she who leans over, her own hand in his. He kisses her gently, breathing the faint traces of muddy rain on her, the freshness of a turning month. His thumb presses on her trembling chin, an answering thickness in his throat. “Sometimes it seems as if before, those worst months were really the best, because then we were together--”

With a defiant noise deep in her throat, she pushes closer. “Harry--” Leaning back to brace her weight, he finds himself stretched out on the bed. “--but we are now--” She leans in, her knees straddling him, her arms bracketed above his head. Her hair falls out around them, completing the cocoon. Her nose nudges his open mouth, lips and tongue following. He tries to keep his eyes open just to see how hers darken, but fails. His fingers loiter on her skin--warm beneath her shirt, grooved along her spine. She presses down on him and he groans. His knuckles brush lace, then skin, then lace again and a nub beneath. She gasps. He smiles into her mouth suddenly and returns his hand to where it was, craving her response again. Just as she reaches to pull his glasses off, there’s a sudden, sharp crack from the floor above, the sound of someone dropping something.

Fingers gripping her waist, he stares as the noise turns into a rattle, something not too heavy bumping down the stairs. There’s a moment of sheer stillness, then they scramble off each other and off the bed. Hermione rushes out first and Harry follows her, hastily grabbing his wand off the table, taking the stairs at a run. Turning at the landing before the next flight of steps, Hermione stops, Harry almost crashing into her. She scoops a wand off the floor, her gaze lifting. Harry follows her eyes. At the top of the stairs stands Draco Malfoy, eyes wide, face as white as his hair, the door flung wide open in Buckbeak’s room.

Harry pushes Hermione aside and bounds up the stairs. “Harry!” she yells, making a grab for his shirt, but he’s quicker. Malfoy turns and darts inside Buckbeak’s room. Harry reaches the top of the stairs just in time to hold the slamming door. Malfoy lets go of the door and Harry almost crashes to the floor. Praying that the window and trapdoor are shut, Harry lunges inside just as Malfoy scurries to the opposite side of the room, the bike between them.

“You slimy, thieving bastard!” He holds out his wand, the beginnings of a stunner at the tip of tongue. But at the last moment, he notices Malfoy’s eyes go unfocused as if he was concentrating on something Harry couldn’t see.

“No! You fucking--”

He lunges again grabs a handful of black robe. Malfoy’s mouth opens in horror, and Harry feels an echo of it in himself. Behind them, he can hear Hermione’s yell, and the house rattles with footsteps. He grits his teeth as black air squeezes him. His ears block up within seconds, but not before he feels the resounding crack of their own Apparating. He wrings his eyes shut, hoping for the first time in his life that Malfoy does have half decent magical powers.

--end chapter twelve--

## 14. Chapter Thirteen

Disclaimer: They belong to JKR, I’m only playing.

A/N: Thank you, thank you miconic, I forgot to do that last time. Also, thank you so much for the reviews, everyone; I haven’t got around to answering all, but I really am grateful. Enjoy.

***

--Chapter Thirteen--

It’s the feeling Harry recognizes, rather than the place. He’s only been here once before but it’s one of those places, like the cupboard under the stairs, that he’ll never leave. The air’s caustic and clammy, the surrounding sea hoarse as if it’s been wailing for years. He can’t see much, so it could just be his imagination, but the walls still seem to glisten faintly green from the glowing potion Dumbledore had drunk. From terrified children to animated corpses, a shard of a soul and a potion of slow death, malice had been perfected here lovingly like a master vintner his signature vintage. It’s as though someone’s dug a handful of earth from a putrefying grave and pressed it to his nose.

Almost like being inside Voldemort’s head.

Knees raw from pinning Malfoy to the hard, uneven floor, he stares about wildly. For a second, he’s simply thankful to be in one piece, then his mind begins to race. A light hobbles into view, followed by footsteps.

“Good boy, good boy. You’ve got it…bring it up closer.”

It’s a frail, croaking voice, but that too, he recognizes instantly. His hold loosens, and Malfoy makes a feeble attempt to pull free. Harry struggles to his feet, hauling Malfoy along.

“Draco? Answer me, boy. Do you have the--YOU!”

Bellatrix Lestrange drops the lamp. Malfoy makes another bid for freedom. Swearing, Harry pushes him away, then spits out a binding charm. There’s a sharp thud and a yell, and Malfoy slides to a sitting position against the hard wall, thick ropes around him. The lamp trundles over the uneven floor, light rolling over the glistening cave walls. Harry turns to Bellatrix, wand aloft.

“Yes. It’s me,” he growls.

She snaps to life. She backs up, tries to run, trips on her robe and falls. Her mouth moves soundlessly, jaw sunk from a few missing teeth. Her eyes, darting madly, are yellow and sunk deep in her waxy face. Claw-like hands fumbling inside the folds of her ripped, filthy robe, she stares up at Harry.

Harry lowers his wand. “A bit slow now, are you?”

He turns to pick up the lamp. From the corner of his eye he sees Bellatrix finally pull out her wand. He sets the lamp upright on the floor and straightens, ready for her. But Bella seem to have other things in mind. With a deranged shriek, she throws herself at Malfoy, hands grabbing him around the neck, her emaciated weight slamming him against the cave wall.

“What have you done? What have you DONE?”

“Get OFF me you filthy hag--”

“Why did you bring him here? Idiot, IDIOT--”

“I didn’t bring him--”

“I was SO close--now you’ve RUINED it!”

“It’s your own FUCKING fault, if you weren’t so greedy--you don’t need that damned bike--”

“It belongs to the Black family!”

“I told you that filthy house was a bad idea but you didn’t listen!”

“It’s RUINED now, all I’ve--”

“SHUT UP, BOTH OF YOU!”

Heart pounding, Harry grips his wand. Bright red sparks erupt off its end. Coughing and spluttering, Bellatrix stumbles off Malfoy. Blood stands on her chin and she swipes at it and misses. Malfoy hisses and kicks out at his ropes, a trickle of blood running down his neck. Harry stares at them for a moment, both of them wheezing and white, all bone, sallow flesh and matted, filthy hair. Then he raises the lamp at what he’s just glimpsed over their heads.

They’re in a small chamber that Harry can’t remember from the last time he was here; the cave taking on a rough L shape, its longer leg veering to the right past the wall where Malfoy slumps. Harry walks over, feeling winded with disbelief. To one side, a grubby pallet is set against the cave wall, piled with robes. On the other side, heaped haphazardly all along the walls and floor are what seems to be the entire contents of Borgins and Burke’s, or the Malfoy Manor, or Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.

He picks his way among the hoard, recognizing a few things, staring at others. Mrs Black’s portrait is there, half covered with a dirty curtain. There are several crates of jars and bottles that look as if they belonged in Snape’s office, some full of preserved animals, others of potions that glint eerily in lamplight. Harry peers into a carved wooden chest with an open, broken lid and recoils at the sight of a dozen or so swords, some blades still crusted dark. Kicking the corner of a plastic wrap aside, he glimpses several crates of books. He picks up a bell jar lying on its side on the floor, its contents seeping, but Bellatrix begins to shriek again. Teeth gritted, he rushes back around the corner.

“I’m dying boy, I’m dying--”

“Oh no you don’t bitch--you can’t die yet, you promised me!”

“It’s your duty too, to the Dark Lord, to the Dark Arts--”

“Stop snivelling you idiot woman!”

“..the Dark Lord…one day…another…you MUST remember this place, Draco, you must--”

“I said STOP SNIVELLING! You can’t die yet! Get me out of these!”

Standing back, his wand hand slack, Harry watches them incredulously. It’s as if they’ve completely forgotten his presence now that it’s been established it’s him. As if he was not really himself, but an idea, like good or evil or fear, that spelled the end to whatever they were planning. Vaguely, he wonders if he ought to be flattered; isn’t that what people hope power will bring them--the ability strike fear into the heart of enemies with a mere whisper, the barest hint of presence?

But he was never after power, and all he feels is a strange tinge of disappointment. What was he expecting? Some sort of perilous struggle in which he saved the world again? Where he was useful, his existence justified?

Certainly not this, he thinks, staring, unable to reconcile the two shrivelled beings clawing and screeching at each other in front of him with the Bellatrix and Malfoy he once knew. True, the war wore them down as it did everyone. The last time Harry saw her, in the castle on that final day, Bellatrix was a mere shell that seemed alive only on account of the final vestiges of her fanatic flair and energy. Malfoy was no better; the sheen missing from his blond hair, his bravado threadbare from the years spent as Voldemort’s errand boy, accomplishing small tasks on which no respectable Death Eater’s time could be wasted.

Yet that was barely over a month ago and they were both still Death Eaters then, still capable, still to be feared. But this is something else. Snarling and hissing at each other, splattered with flecks of blood from Bella’s coughing fits, their cruelty seems withered to the feeble, squabbling vehemence of a pair of emaciated dogs over a pile of offal.

But as he watches, something happens to set wheels turning elsewhere, in parts of his mind under lock and key. Still screaming at Malfoy, Bellatrix suddenly hoists up her wand. Some part of Harry realises what she’s about to do; he’s seen, felt her do this many times before. Her wand suddenly steady and aimed at Malfoy, eyes bulging, a dribble of blood and spit down her chin, Bellatrix screams.

“Crucio!”

Harry doesn’t know what makes him do it. Perhaps it’s the presence of death in so many guises, sheer malevolence in all its forms; the shrunken Death Eaters in front of him, the Dark objects behind him, and all the horrifying things the cave had witnessed, beginning from the children Tom Riddle had lured to the cave so many years ago. Or perhaps it’s the Cruciatus Curse, the way it arrows through his nerves from all the times he’s been on its receiving end. In Bellatrix’s face twisted with effort, and Malfoy’s howl of pain and convulsing body, Harry glimpses everyone who’d died, friends and family, way back from the beginning; his parents, Sirius, Cedric, Dumbledore, Neville, Lupin, the Weasleys and all those faceless, nameless hundreds who’d been maimed, tortured, killed for this, and those who could have died, Ron, Hermione--

It’s not like being inside Voldemort’s head, it’s like being inside my own head--I would have liked to kill, rip from limb to limb every one of them for what they did to ME, to the people I loved--

His wand rises in his hand, his hair stands on end, his back straightens. The curse rises roaring from deep in his belly, from the most hurtful depths and the first syllable is almost out of his mouth when Bellatrix turns. Her eyes widen and with a yelp, she drops her wand, scuttling back against the cave wall as Malfoy’s screams fade into a whimper. “Avada--” Harry yells, then finds he has trouble getting the rest of it out. His ears seem blocked out, his wand shakes in his hand, his whole body is shaking, and he wonders why; every time he’d done this before, he hadn’t wanted to--but now he does, doesn’t he? Now! He clutches his wand in both his hands, opens his mouth again, there’s a wild sound in his ears, his blood’s searing through his veins and he doesn’t hear the crack of Apparition--

“AVADA--”

“Harry, NO!”

Several things happen at once. Something--someone slams into his back and he falls over, winded, his wand flying out of his hand. Hermione--

Someone else bounds past him, a wild scream tearing through stone.

“YOU! I will KILL you today! I WILL KILL YOU!”

Harry barely catches Bellatrix’s look of sheer astonishment as Tonks launches herself at the Death Eater.

His cheek to the ground, his own breath louder in his ears than the sound of the sea, he watches as Hermione gets to her feet and lunges after Tonks, Bellatrix almost crushed beneath the weight of two bodies.

“NOOO, Tonks, no--Harry, help me--”

He raises his head from the floor, blood trickling into his eyes.

“Stop it, STOP IT, Tonks, please--no, DON’T! Harry, come ON--help me!”

He struggles to his feet and stumbles over. He doesn’t feel much, he thinks, he knows there’s blood, and pain somewhere, but he doesn’t feel any of it. He pushes Hermione away, then grabs Tonks by the upper arms, this Tonks who he almost doesn’t recognise, her face misshapen as if her bones themselves felt the pain, her hands around Bellatrix’s throat, who’s now blue in the face--

Then Malfoy begins to scream.

“NOO, you can’t die yet--you promised--my mother--you have to tell me, you PROMISED ME--you hag, YOU HAG! WHERE DID YOU BURY MY MOTHER?”

Harry claws at Tonks’ hands, Hermione points her wand, and in a flash Tonks’ hands come away, she and Harry toppling backwards on the ground. Coughing, spluttering, her eyes rolling back in her head, Bellatrix croaks, her hands twitching convulsively.

“You useless, stupid boy, she burned. She burned with the city, boy…she burned…”

Something close to a cackle bubble on her lips, but dissolves in the blood on her chin, splattering down her throat and she lays her head back down. Malfoy’s howl fills the cave again. Tonks sprawls on the ground, her body heaving, Hermione’s arms around her.

*

Night again. He shuffles around his room for some time, thinking of a shower, of scrubbing himself clean of the stench of the sea. Of the cave, you mean. Of death. He gets as far as taking his shoes, socks and shirt off. Then it seems like too much trouble, and it wouldn’t work anyway; he couldn’t be scrubbed clean of himself, could he?

So he lies down in bed on top of the sheets. It’s cold but he can’t really feel it. His forehead’s cut, he smells blood, sees it on his fingertips but can’t really feel that either.

The window’s open a fraction, the street hushed. The floorboards and rafters mutter to themselves. The ragged sphere of a streetlight looks into the room, a pale, unwelcome scrutiny. A breeze drifts in; the night smells fresh, drained of the fumes and noise of the day.

The door creaks open. He averts his eyes.

She stands still at the doorway for a minute, then pads over to the bed. A candle comes to life. The room used to have an oil lamp, but it snuffed out as soon as Harry moved in. She sets down a small bowl of water and the first aid box on the bedside table, then sits on the bed beside him.

“Harry.”

He shifts further.

She sighs and brings her hand up to his cheek, turning his face towards her.

“I’m just going to clean this cut. Lie still.”

Pushing the sleeves of her jumper up to her elbows, she settles closer, hair dangling over her shoulder in sweaty loops and ringlets. She holds up the candle, and her fingers drift over his forehead, stroking back his hair, gauging the fresh cut, thumb gentle over the lightning scar. His throat thickens and in horror, he thinks he might start crying. Drawing a breath, he casts about for something to distract himself.

“We need to find a place to live.”

In the paltry light, her face seems too still. He wonders whether it’s because he said ‘we’, but doesn’t care.

“I mean it, Hermione. We need to find a place.”

Setting the candle down, she reaches for water and swabs. “All right. Let’s talk about that, then. We need to find a place to live. Where? We could always move to the Burrow but Fred hates both of us and Ginny hates me.”

“Ginny hates you?”

She bites her lip; it’s not something she’d planned to say. “This is not very deep. Should heal really quickly.”

“Why does Ginny hate you?”

She sighs. “She thinks that if it were you and not Ron that got hit with the Crippler, I’d have said yes in a flash to the St Mungo’s apprenticeship.”

He closes his eyes as she cleans out the caked blood.

“She thinks that? How do you know?”

Laying aside the first aid things, she reaches for her wand. “She said so. The day when I asked her to go after…Snape. Now, keep your eyes closed.”

She whispers an incantation and he feels the skin close up, the stinging stop. With a small satisfied sigh, she sits back, her wand in her lap. Her eyes hold his, determined and bright despite the darkness, waiting. Once again his throat thickens but this time it’s bile. He swallows, trying to get words out, his voice hoarse.

“I almost killed again today, Hermione.”

She takes a deep breath and shakes her head. “You didn’t.”

“If you and Tonks hadn’t turned up--”

“No, Harry, no. You wouldn’t have. I heard you the first time…when you tried the curse the first time. You couldn’t do it, could you?”

“The second time I would’ve. She was sick, defenceless, out of her mind, and I would’ve killed her.”

“Harry, she’s Bellatrix Lestrange.”

He shakes his head briefly, sinking into silence. He can feel the cold now, but also how warm she is, sitting so close. How does she do this? Be near him without flinching, with a constancy he couldn’t fathom, doesn’t deserve? Something crackles under his elbow and he pulls out the Muggle newspapers from that afternoon and drops them on the floor.

“How did you get there? How did you know to Apparate there?”

“Tonks has access to an Apparation tracker. She was sleeping downstairs. Only Aurors can use them under the Privacy Act.”

Harry swallows again. “How is she?”

Hermione shrugs. “She won’t talk much and…she didn’t want to go to St Mungo’s.”

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, her voice soft.

“She’s been looking for Bellatrix all this time, Harry. Shacklebolt said that when they found Snape dead, Tonks was livid. He thinks that maybe she was hoping to find out Bellatrix’s whereabouts from him.”

She takes a deep breath, a nail scratching at the faded embroidery on her skirt. “I just can’t imagine how she must be feeling. It’s like she’s suddenly not there, as if, the only thing that kept her going all these weeks was the thought of getting her hands on Bellatrix…” She trails away with a small shudder.

He closes his eyes again. A spell for numbness, that’s what he needs. She waits till he looks at her again.

“Bellatrix and Malfoy have been taken to St Mungo’s under full security. They’ll be charged when they can actually speak. She was building some sort of a funeral chamber, Harry. She was still gabbling when they took her. She wanted to collect as many Dark objects as she could find, a Dark legacy, for whoever came next…all the knowledge, all the magic inherent in those things she had there, in Voldemort’s memory. Malfoy helped her because he...he--”

“Wanted to know where his mother was buried. Yeah, I heard that part. He didn’t seem very interested in avenging his father, so I’m guessing that he wasn’t after me either.”

He grits his teeth and stares at the canopy of the four-poster. A breeze riffles the paper on the floor.

“Why was it so easy before?”

“What was?”

“The killing curse. All those times…”

He looks at her to find her staring at him. When she speaks, her voice is a vehement whisper.

“It was never easy for you!”

“It was. I almost didn’t have to think--”

“That’s because if you thought about it you couldn’t do it! Don’t argue, Harry, I was there. It wasn’t easy.”

“Is that why you wanted to stop me going after them? Snape and Malfoy?”

“What?”

“Did you stop me from going after Snape and Malfoy because you thought I might murder them?”

“Harry! How could you say that?”

“Or maybe you didn’t, not outright, but did the thought cross you mind?”

“Harry--”

“Because if you did, you’d have been right. How can anyone think I’m some kind of hero when a sick, wretched woman isn’t safe with me?”

“It wasn’t any wretched woman, it was Bell--”

“That the moment I think of revenge, it’s all over? All that work you did, Hermione, trying to save my…soul--” he spits the word out with a harsh laugh; he despises what he’s saying, what he sounds like, but it’s only with her that these words are safe, only to her can he say them “--that’s all quite useless, isn’t it?”

“Oh, stop it!”

She stands up, her wand clattering to the floor. Something, a stray cat perhaps, passes under the window, the eye of the streetlight blinking. He watches her throat work, her breathing rushed. She turns away, a hand over her mouth, then turns back towards him.

“I’ve had enough of this, d’you hear me? Enough! You don’t know what it is you do, Harry! Everything that you had to do during the war, you did knowing that afterwards you’re not going to be able to live with yourself. But you did it anyway because it was not about YOU. It was about a whole bloody world waiting to be saved and you did what you had to. How many more times do you want me to tell you that?”

He turns away. She drops down on the bed again and pulls his face back towards her, nails scraping his skin. Her lip trembles but her voice is steady.

“You did what was right by them, never what was right by yourself. That’s what you do, Harry, that’s why you’re their fucking hero, because you always put yourself aside! And you know what? People took advantage of that! This is why--because you always bring it upon yourself! You HAVE to get past this! All this blame, you have to let it go!”

He stares into her eyes for a second, then gives a short laugh. “Let it go? Funny you should say that.”

Her shoulders droop abruptly, and immediately he hates himself. She swipes at a tear with the back of her hand. He tries to summon an apology but finds them all trite. For a second, he thinks she’s about to get up and go, but she remains seated. Funny how it all comes down to this, back to the drawing board, down to this impasse between them. They were right here when Malfoy interrupted, and they’re here now.

What was it that he was trying to tell her with his bumbling words before? Something about knowing that he’s selfish, pigheaded, asking for all or nothing, that he’s terrified of being half a person, less of a person even, and that she’d be brilliant no matter what she did, magic or Muggle. But also about how he was scared for her, for like him, she was of both worlds, wasn’t she, and you couldn’t cancel parts of yourself just like that.

But does he care about it anymore? Does he care about being the saviour again, about magic waning, about Muggle exposure, about the world they supposedly saved becoming undone again?

Laughter bubbles out in the street, two women, footsteps staccato on the cobbles. A tear trickles down Hermione’s cheek and onto his skin just below his bellybutton. With a finger, she wipes it out. Her palm settles on his skin, hesitant, faintly searching, almost absent minded, as if she’s trying to clear a way.

“What do you want to me do, Harry?” she whispers.

He sighs and rubs his eyes. If she can’t see a way through, how can he? “I don’t know.”

Maybe he could follow her, instead of the other way around as it always seems to happen, and they could go live in some nondescript village, suburb, and she’ll study Muggle medicine and continue to be brilliant and do good, and it would be a normal life, together. Someone else can worry about everything else. And once she had the hang of it, she’ll teach him how to stop being magical. Or maybe they wouldn’t have to worry about it anyway, there might not be any magic left.

Her fingers run lightly over his skin. Silence settles in the room. Another tear falls. Once again she touches it, but this time it’s as if she’s trying to press it right through his skin, leave an imprint, a watermark. Then suddenly, he senses a change. Like a quick breath, a swift, binding decision; he glances at her, but her eyes are on her hand. Her palm slides lower, pauses at his jeans. A thumb slips in. She meets his eye.

Harry stares.

She bends to kiss him, her hand still at the perilous point past his belly. “Harry--” she whispers into his mouth, but he still doesn’t understand. Is this how people come together? When words couldn’t fix things and promises couldn’t be sealed? And it’s important that he understands, because this is Hermione, and there are no words for this. Sitting up, he pulls her in again for a soft, querying kiss.

“Hermione, we can’t--should we--”

Her hands come up to his face and fingers curl in his hair, pulling painfully.

“We can. I love you and if this is the only way I can reach you--” She slides his glasses off. “I will.”

There’s nothing to wait for after that, nothing to think about. Slow down, he tells himself, but it’s difficult; she’s whispering into his mouth, her fingers relentless, on his skin, in his hair. The room contracts around them, space thickening into scent and tremulous touch. His feverish hands run up her back, beneath her shirt, under the swell of her breast, then with a hiss of impatience he reverses their positions, laying her on the bed. Pausing only a moment to find assent in her eyes, he begins to peel off her clothes.

Skin slips, hands and fingers falter, artless, graceless; neither has been here before. She and Ron fell by the wayside long ago, he and Ginny were set down, never picked up again, and there hasn’t been anyone else. His hand slides trembling down past her belly, and the discovery of a warm wet cleft draws a whimper from her. There’s a moment of panic; looking, fumbling down, it’s as if they’ve truly hit the limit to their symmetry. Surely their bodies couldn’t fit this way, the way their hearts do. But she raises her knees, hips, he holds her tight through her pained clench, whispering, his mouth faithful on hers. Later, her knees still tight around him, he blinks into the sticky hollow of her neck and thinks of a house again. One with uncountable rooms, floors--where if one room was dark, hindered, impassable, there’s always another in which to find each other.

*

When he drifts awake a few hours later, arms firm around her, nose in her hair, the house is still on his mind, half drenched in a dream. The morning looks on heavy-lidded, the window misted over. Beneath the covers, her bare body is heavy, dewy against him, his heartbeat effortlessly meandering along with hers. He kisses the back of her neck, nuzzling her shoulder. He was dreaming of a place that obliged the sun and hope, uncluttered with reminders of what he’d lost but filled with what he had. There were two listings that caught his eye in the Muggle paper; a bit more research wouldn’t hurt.

He slides out of bed and she stirs sleepily, mumbling, a hand reaching out. He steps around the bed, runs his fingers down her bare back and, kneeling, kisses her. “Be back soon.” The sheets pulled up over her and the heating charm restored, he ducks into the shower.

It’s just past the rush hour out in the city, the streets knee-deep in the mid-morning lull. Idlers gaze from almost empty coffee shops, smokers linger in patches of sun. He stops at a newsstand and scans the papers for more news on Hogwarts or magic, and finds nothing more alarming than different versions of the stories from the day before. Still, he picks up one of each, thinking that she might see something he doesn’t, then pauses at a pastry shop to pick up breakfast. Seeing the sign of a real estate agent across the street, he decides to go in briefly. Heading back to Grimmauld Place about half an hour later, deep in thought, faintly smiling to himself, it’s not until the first fire engine begins its shrill call that he looks around and notices the smoke gambolling in great strides up into the cloudless sky.

*

A little raw between her legs, cheeks faintly flushed, she sits on a stair, contemplating her feet. Harry’s right of course, they need somewhere else to live. Ron’s fish continue to steadfastly snare the scanty light from the window, bestowing it in liquid parcels all over the gloomy hallway, but that simply isn’t enough. They’re into February now, though she’s vague about the dates; the single calendar in the house lay in a dusty corner in her room where she’d sent it flying. She’s not so sentimental to think that everything is going to be all right, but sometimes everything had to be given a chance to be all right.

A sharp rap sounds at the door. Frowning, she gets to her feet. The knock sounds again, this time louder, urgent.

Suddenly anxious, she bounds down the stairs and wrenches open the door.

“You!”

She pushes wet hair off her face and stares. Sally stands at the doorway, the cowl of her cloak pulled well over her face.

“I’m sorry to disturb. I haven’t got much time. Can I come in?”

Hermione considers her for a moment, then stands aside. Shutting the door, she leads Sally into the kitchen. Not standing on ceremony, she throws a few logs in the fire, then turns to glare at Sally.

“Have you been in London all this time?” she demands. “I thought you left the country!”

Sally throws her hood back and sinks into a chair with a sigh.

“Yes, I’ve been in London all this time. Upstairs, in my father’s house.”

“He told me you’d left the country.”

Sally looks up, then laughs harshly. “Do you think I’m in league with my father? That he and I are both running some elaborate charade to make you think we hate each other, to lure your precious Harry into some trap? Come on, you have better brains than that.” She reaches for the jug on the table and a glass, and pours herself some water. Hermione stares at this newly reckless Sally; she still seems jumpy, but more out of a sense of brittle determination than nervousness.

“Trust me, it’s not an act. He hates me, and I hate him.” Sally tips her head back and downs the water in a gulp, setting the glass down heavily.

“He’s got me locked up and watched twenty-four hours a day. He didn’t think I’d leave London just because he wanted me to. He knows me well. I slipped some catnip and camomile under my good friend Cruddens’ pillow last night,” she smirks.

Hermione decides to get to the point. “You left a box behind. When you moved out of the Chamber of Magic.”

Sally drops her gaze, fingers drumming on the table. “Of course.” Looking up, she gives Hermione a dry smile. “So, I suppose you figured it all out?”

“Extraction? Your Honorary position at the Ministry?” Hermione nods at the tip of the wand sticking out of the voluminous sleeve of Sally’s cloak. “And the wand made of bone? Yes, I did. Come to think of it, how come your father hasn’t confiscated that, if he’s so keen to have you locked up?”

Sally laughs. “Because he knows it’s useless. I can barely heat my soup with magic, even with a bone wand.”

Hermione leans forward.

“Why? Why Harry? What were you planning to do?”

“Look, I haven’t got the time,” she begins, then, at the look on Hermione’s face, sighs. “Fine, let’s start from the beginning. If you ever thought that I was going to extract Harry’s magic--” she laughs “--well, then I overestimated you.”

Hermione refuses to rise to the bait, still against Sally’s blustery motions. Combing her hair back severely with her fingers, Sally sighs.

“So, no. I wasn’t planning to extract magic. I just…” She sits up straight. “You don’t understand what something’s worth, unless you’ve had to endure not having it.” She looks up, a touch of hysteria in her eye. Hermione quails a little inside, wondering if Sally knows about her application to Muggle university.

“I’m the daughter of one of the most powerful men in England. My mother’s a powerful witch, in her own way. But I have hardly a drop of magic in me.”

Sally shifts and looks around the room aimlessly.

“This is why my father can’t stand me. Mother was really angry with him. My father was a junior officer at the Ministry then, but mother knew his ambitions. When Father realised that my magic wasn’t what he hoped it would be, he…began to isolate me from the magical world. I was just six but once I heard them arguing. He didn’t want me to go to Hogwarts when the time came. Mum was furious. That’s why she took me to France.”

Hermione clasps her hands on the table and tips her head. “Maybe he was trying to protect you, in his own way.” She’s known many who made do with less, and who often did so gracefully. Harry for example, and Neville, Hagrid, Luna. Besides, she is partial to fathers these days.

“I’m not saying he would’ve been right, but still.” She shrugs stubbornly. “One of my good friends is--was…a bit like you. He got much better, but in the early days I thought it would have been kinder to let him grow up away from a bunch of people who could do magic.”

Sally stares for a minute, and suddenly Hermione feels sorry at the gleam of hurt in her pale eyes.

“Yeah, well,” says Sally briskly, straightening in her chair. “About Harry. The main thing you need to know is I meant no harm. I’d been following Harry’s…life, for some time. There was a flurry of excitement in France when he won the Triwizard Tournament, against that girl from Bauxbatons. And then the last couple of years, after Father became the Minister, with Voldemort on the rise again and all that, suddenly everyone everywhere was talking about Harry.”

She drums her fingers on the wood again and shakes her head.

“Look. I didn’t wake up one day and think, I’m going to go to England to see Harry. It just sort of…happened, things converged. I finished my studies in extraction and I got the position here. I’ve been with the Ministry for about a year. It was just within the last few months that I started becoming interested in magic running out here, started seeing what Mother and I had been studying all these years. Of course, I was also closer to Harry than I’d ever been, so…”

Her voice taking on an apologetic, almost embarrassed timbre, she looks at Hermione. “I just, wanted to see him. Meet him. It sounds ridiculous, I know. I guess I just wanted to see how he worked. Inside. What made him so powerful a wizard.”

“See how he worked inside?” Hermione bats away an insect hovering over the water jug. “Like some sort of winding toy?”

“No, of course not. You’re just being dramatic now. Look, I don’t know how to explain it anymore. Harry has what I don’t. He’s the epitome of what I don’t have. You wouldn’t understand what an obsession it can become with what you don’t, can’t really have. What you think you should.”

“Why do you keep doing it, then?”

“Doing what?”

“You keep defining yourself by something you can’t help. You can’t help it that you were born without magical ability, it’s not your fault. It’s just so arbitrary, anyway. You are the expert in magic, you should know that better then anyone. There’s no explanation why some people are born with it, and some are not.”

“Yeah, well.” Shrinking into her seat, Sally glances at her watch. “Look, I’m running out of time. The soporific I used on Cruddens wasn’t all that strong, but it was all I could find. The reason I came here was because I thought…there’s something Harry should know. Is he here?”

Hermione shakes her head.

“Okay, well. Does your cousin, Nick, know exactly how London blew up?”

Eyes narrowing, a small flutter of anxiety in her stomach, Hermione looks up sharply.

“Yes--I mean, not the details. Just that it was because of magical activity--”

Sally interrupts with an impatient noise. “But not that it was your magical activity? That it was because you and Harry chose to use the Incinerator, rather than the killing curse?”

Hermione draws a breath. “How do you--no, he doesn’t know that.”

“Well, he does now.”

“W--What do you mean?”

“And the wizarding world in general, they don’t know either, do they? Oh, they think it was because the Horcrux pieces blew up, but they don’t know why the Horcruxes pieces blew up?”

“No. It was agreed that it should be left at that--your father agreed, along with the Wizengamot, not to reveal. What’re you getting at?”

A blob of orange bounds against the window from the outside and begins a frenzied scratching at the glass. Hermione flips the window up and returns to the table with the comfortable weight of Crookshanks pressed to her stomach.

“I’ve been listening to the comings and goings in the house. They all think their charms and spells are watertight, so I’ve been making use of my father’s pigheadedness. He’s trying to very hard to bring back The Daily Prophet. Very close to it. One of the first things he plans to do is make it public knowledge that it was Harry’s choice of curse that burned London.”

“What?” Crookshanks squalls at the arms clamping around him, but Hermione’s oblivious. “That’s going too far for vengeance!”

“Oh, it’s not about vengeance, nor just about that Auror position. My father’s smart, don’t forget. His rebuilding of London’s not getting anywhere, and the pressure’s on him from both sides, Muggle and magic. Actually, Harry should be honoured.” She laughs. “That’s how much my father believes in Harry, in his own warped way. He thinks that if Harry puts his weight behind it, things can actually be fixed.”

Finally, Crookshanks paws at a loop of Hermione’s hair in a bid for freedom, and she lets go with a hiss.

“But why now? He could have blackmailed Harry a long time ago--Scrimgeour knew all along exactly how London burnt. Besides, wasn’t he going to bring some sort of conscription law in? If that came in then he wouldn’t need…this!”

Unable to sit still anymore, she pushes back her chair and grabs to kettle to fill it up at the sink.

“Yes, but he thought he could get Harry on his side without much trouble, you see. In which case it would’ve been detrimental to my father’s own cause to have the world know that Harry had a big part in burning London down. But now, if he handles it right, people could be made to put pressure on Harry to step up and take responsibility for what happened.”

Hermione sets the kettle on the stove, the gas rings sparking at the impact. Sally’s voice winds round and round at her back, beating up a tightening spiral with no way out.

“You see, this is Father’s last and best card. The conscription thing is taking too long, and the Wizengamot’s not convinced we need it. Much quicker this way, easier. He’s got people who’ll just drop a few hints here and there over a pint of ale, in both worlds. In fact, this is how your cousin found out about it. He was browsing in this second-hand shop in Diagon Alley when a stranger struck up a conversation.”

Hermione turns around and runs her hands over her face, the kettle forgotten.

“But The Prophet’s lost all credibility, the way it was tooting your father’s horn all this time. Harry and the Order--we fought the war all by ourselves but The Prophet tried hard to make sure Scrimgeour got the credit. If it wasn’t for The Quibbler--” she returns to the table and sits down angrily “--if they bring something like this up, when people adore Harry, they’re going to light their fires with that rag!”

“Exactly.” Sally leans forward. “So The Prophet isn’t going to go against public sentiment, you see. At first, they’re going to go with Harry being the hero.”

“You can’t build credibility in just a few issues!”

Sally shrugs. “Well, if the rumours come from all sides, then when they see it in The Prophet, it just confirms what they already know. Don’t forget, The Quibbler’s still a monthly. By the time they get on the case, it might be too late.”

“Harry’s not going to be a sitting duck to all of this!”

A jeering smile comes over Sally’s face, her father’s features suddenly prominent.

“Well, what is he now, Hermione? Stuck in this house, doing nothing? That’s what people will remember when the cat gets out of the bag! That he hid himself, he stayed away--they’re not going to be very sympathetic. Sure, he gets a lot of fan mail now, I hear, which is exactly why you have to do something now. While people still believe in Harry. Before it’s too late. Public sentiment’s a very easy thing to mould, in the right hands, with the right words. And my father’s quite clever in his own way.”

Hermione glares at Sally, trying to summon some dignity, a vestige of calm, a look of steely scepticism. She must have succeeded despite the wild scrambling in her heart for Sally throws up her hands.

“Look, I’m not the enemy! Nor is my father for that matter, nor are a couple of batty Death Eaters of some Dark order which has no legs to stand on anymore! Yes, I heard about them--but never mind that--can’t you see? This, this dithering is your problem! You’re just waiting for someone else to come along and set things right, pretending that you can’t do anything about it! Oh, I know about your Muggle application. You used quite a clever and unusual bit of magic on those qualification sheets and that sort of thing gets registered in the Ministry.”

“Why are you so keen on this anyway?” Hermione manages to spit out.

Sally’s jaw works. She pushes her chair back and gets to her feet. “I’ve done some sickening things in the name of magic. My mother--never mind. I’d like to do at least one thing of which I’m not going be ashamed of before I go back to France to see her.” She fumbles in her cloak pocket. “And I’ve got to go now. Here,” she pulls out the black and silver scroll case and sets on the table. “This is exactly what you knew it to be. Authentic and dated. I kept it out of the registration books at the Ministry though, so you can hang on to it as long as you need.”

Hermione looks up at Sally. Every word is true, all of it. Dithering is a good way of putting it. Pretending is another. But the question is, what’s she going to do about it? Hermione makes a sudden decision, and earmarks it as one made for Harry, something he would have done.

“Don’t leave England. Stay.”

Sally, already at the door, turns.

“What?”

“Look, you know more about magic than anyone. And we’re going to need your knowledge, help. I mean, even if we wanted to, there’s hardly much we can find out about magic running out ourselves, is there? Stay, we’ll keep you safe.”

One hand on the door handle, the other clutching the clasp of her cloak, Sally looks on silently. She opens her mouth to speak, then pauses, listening. Hermione gets to her feet too, reaching for her wand. Within minutes the faint thud of footsteps down the street bursts in through the front door, as Sally and Hermione rush out into the hallway.

The front door slams back and Harry bends, hands on his knees, trying to breathe. Hermione smells the smoke before he speaks, and her nerves begin to clamour.

“There’s….there’s--a fire, out there!”

He straightens, then bounds up the stairs.

“Where are you going?”

Racing round the landing, he gasps for breath again. “I couldn’t see from the ground--you can’t get close--too thick--people…hurt, everywhere--”

Through the fog in her mind--memory and fear, but mostly, frighteningly, memory--she realises where he’s headed. She rushes after him and into Buckbeak’s room just as he’s halfway levitating the bike through the trapdoor.

“Stay,” he begins over his shoulder, but she climbs the ladder and onto the roof after him.

“Hermione, stay here, please--”

“Oh, don’t be daft!”

She climbs behind him, hands clamped around his waist, teeth gritted against the bile and urges him on, let’s go, Harry, just GO, for now she can see the smoke up ahead, the billowing edges of the fire, the sky obscenely blue above it, flesh below.

--end chapter thirteen--

## 15. Chapter Fourteen

Disclaimer: They belong to JKR, I’m only playing.

A/N: I really do owe an apology this time, it’s been so long. But the good news (I hope) is that the final two ‘proper’ chapters are at beta’s mercy right now, and I’m scribbling away at the epilogue. So, the end really is nigh.

Many, many, many thanks to miconic as always; without her this story would’ve been quite different. In a bad way.

And many thanks for all of you for R&R.

***

--Chapter Fourteen--

There’s no mistaking the direction from which the fire billows. Hermione’s arms are clamped around his waist but that’s not what’s making his breathing so shallow, sharp. There’s more smoke than fire, a hideous black sail snapping in the wind. Its guttering song stokes memories so close to the surface that it feels as though his own skin’s stinging. But at the same time, it pulls at his eyes; it was dark the last time, he saw mostly the ashes, but now he’s been given a second chance to look, to remember, to torture himself properly. And silent and rigid at his back, her heartbeat hurtles along with his.

Right above Diagon Alley, he swoops in a half-circle, looking for a place to land. The heat rushes into his eyes. One part of the street close to the Leaky Cauldron is fully engulfed in flames, with sporadic blazes further along, spreading towards Gringotts. No enchantments in place now, no sorting the Muggles from the wizards; the cries and wails from below are lifted up and guzzled by the flames. Coughing, Harry swerves higher, away from the smoke. From far above the city looks strangely disconnected, measured like a dollhouse, a doll’s city, cooped in by blocks of buildings and the commanding lines of roads. For a minute he’s distracted by the slow, oblivious midday that seems to be in progress in parts of town as close as Barnsbury.

Can’t they see, smell the smoke?

Finally landing behind the Muggle block next to Diagon Alley, they wedge the bike behind a row of garbage cans with an invisibility charm over it. Then they run round the block, trying to hang on to each other against the throng rushing in the opposite direction; people, police, paramedics, stretchers. The front section of the Leaky Cauldron has collapsed and is exposed to the street. Harry turns aside, the stink of petrol strong in his nostrils. A hex flies out of nowhere and blasts a table still laden with someone’s lunch and two pints of beer. Through the shower of glass and wood, two people in Muggle clothes run out, slamming Harry into the wall.

Hermione pulls him up. Turning into the cobbled street, Harry stops, heart and feet baulking. Uniformed men haul people away but fire engines can’t get into the street closed off for centuries, a whole city grown around it, blocking it in. He watches the fire glide further and further along, finding footholds in collapsing shop fronts, merchandise, clothes, bodies.

I can’t do this, I can’t.

Someone pushes past him, slamming him against a wall again. Harry grabs the man by a shirtsleeve.

“Nick!”

“Harry--shit, Harry, sorry, I didn’t--”

A whistle and a whoosh, then a small fire erupts right next to them. A barrel of eels eyes spill out over the cobbles. Ducking, Harry looks around for Hermione and spots her behind him, helping manoeuvre a stretcher through the rubble. He turns to Nick again.

“What the hell is going on? Do you know what’s going on?”

Nick coughs wildly, bent double. His hair and clothes are singed badly, and there’s a hysterical gleam in his eyes.

“Harry, I’m so sorry! I never meant any of this, I swear--I never--”

“What’re you talking about? How long have you been here? Is Fred here as well? Ron? Nick--tell me what you know--”

“You should go--Hermione will skin me alive--is she here too? Harry, don’t tell me--is she--”

Another blast cuts him off. Harry raises an arm against something that flies straight at him. Nick wrenches himself off Harry’s grasp and stumbles over the rubble towards the entrance.

“Harry, just GO! Find Hermione and go! These people are fucking mad, ALL of them, your kind and mine!”

The Catherine wheel misses Harry by inches. It careens over the cobbles and bursts into flames prematurely. Eels eyes blast off in all directions. Harry stares, his blood hammering in his veins. It can’t be…no! It’s more potent somehow, more a weapon than a firework, yet there’s no mistaking the smiling red dragon rising into air. Another jinx flies through the air. A Muggle falls to the ground, hit squarely in the back. Enraged, Harry turns to find a witch in a brown robe turn her wand on another Muggle trying to get past the fallen rafters of a shop.

“Take that, you filthy rotten scum!”

“Hey, hey, STOP THAT!” He reaches for his wand but he can barely wield it in the scuffle of bodies.

“Get out of my way--no!” Her aim goes awry and she falls back into a smashed glass door.

Trying to run to her, he’s elbowed in the ribs. He bends, spluttering, and a splayed hand lands at his back. Straightening up, he realises that someone’s just used his back as a lever to throw another firework.

Harry looks up the street rapidly blocking up with debris, a livid, bitter rage beating up his blood. His smarting eyes take in the rushing, shouting crowd; those trying to escape, those trying feebly to put out the fires, as well as those sparking more flames--with hexes, jinxes, doctored fireworks, spilled petrol. Not really aware of what he’s doing, he makes to run up the street, his wand clutched in his hand. But someone pulls him back by his shirt.

“Harry! Where are you going? Don’t--are you mad?”

He turns around.

“Hermione, they’re KILLING each other!”

He breathes deeply, stupidly, inhaling lungfuls of burning air. Eyes runny and gritty with debris, lungs twisted with more than just smoke, he fights to stand straight.

“Did you SEE them? They’ve got Fred’s fireworks! They’re not stopping--they’re--is this--Hermione, is this what we--I can’t just stand here and watch, can I?”

Without waiting for a reply, ignoring the terror in her eyes, he jerks his shirt off her grasp, turns and strides into the midst of the smoke-throttled street.

*

She tries follow him, but people keep getting in the way. Two steps forward, three back, the falling end of a rafter almost in her eye.

“Just--get out--”

“Move, just move--”

“Daddy--over there--I want Daddy!”

“Yes love, we’ll get Daddy--Excuse me, miss--”

She dodges the corner of a stretcher, looks up, and can’t see him anymore.

“Miss, miss, please, can you give me a hand?”

She turns blindly nodding, clamps a hand over her mouth and turns to the wailing child, and the officer trying to help the boy into the stretcher, whose leg’s at an odd angle. She smells burning fabric, and something much more pungent--skin perhaps, and turns to see a man slumped under an upturned table. She grabs the arm of a woman running past.

“Get that man out, and follow us--”

“I--no--my brother’s out there somewhere--”

“We’ll find him, now get him--”

“I can’t--”

“JUST DO IT!”

The child wails incessantly, but they finally strap him down. Then out through the Leaky Cauldron, now unrecognisable, her wand, hands, feet working of their own accord, her mind smothered against everything else, the one other thing. The child safely inside an ambulance, she turns her wand on the burns on the man behind her, then hustles him into the arms of a medical officer. Ash in her eyes, throat closing up, she runs back inside, then out again, once, twice, a dozen times, doesn’t keep count of the people she coaxes, cradles, yells at, to herd them out of the burning street. After what seems like years, she glimpses green robes outside among the other uniforms and is grateful, so grateful, but doesn’t stop, runs back up Diagon Alley, fire and smoke and burning flesh, witches and wizards and Muggles, but no Harry.

No Harry.

*

The noise alone is enough to drive him mad; the deranged sirens, the loudspeakers, the falling, crashing timber and brick and roof tiles, the hiss and snarl of the flames. A human hand started it, yet human cries are now too frail to be heard above it all. The smoke is another animal altogether, ramming its bloated, bloating body against the boundaries of the street, giving Diagon Alley dimensions it didn’t have before. Was the street ever this long, this deep? A foul-smelling plume rises right through an Apothecary. Tendrils of flame leap across the roof of the neighbouring second-hand robe shop. The roof caves, the robes go up in flames. Harry shouts; Aguamenti!

Soon, he looses count. Aguamenti Aguamenti Aguamenti. Sometimes it works, sometimes the fire works better. So many ways to start the fire, yet only one charm for extinguishing. Hermione might know more, but he left her behind. Words become painful, the air a splinter in his throat. His wand gets in the way of bodies. He pockets it and begins to use his hands and mind. Vaguely, he’s aware of someone helping him, one person, two, a few, but he can’t really see much anymore. They lift doors and parts of walls aside so he can get in to put out the flames. Water flows from his palms, fingertips. Soaked cinder smells worse than dry ash. Soot stamps tattoos on his arms and face. Soon, his clothes are drenched.

Then inexplicably his hands fail.

He’s trying to levitate the body of a child through a collapsed window, all his mind clenched around the incantation, yet nothing happens. He tries again and again, but nothing.

No no no , not now, NOT NOW--

Sliding his useless hands under her arms he drags her out--gash downs her neck, hair burnt, one shoe missing--and someone carries her off. He returns to the burned building and tries to mend the glass, just to see, to know--

Reparo, reparo, REPARO!

Nothing.

The sudden hollowing out of his heart he feels right down to his toes. He keeps trying, out of defiance, fury, disbelief--

REPARO, please, reparo!

Suddenly, like a lost memory fished up, the magic comes back. His mind balances as if on a tightrope, his hands shake; the glass whips back together. On his knees, he retches dryly. Then he wipes his mouth and returns to the street.

*

The smoke soon becomes a thick fog, the fire still ravenous up the street where most of the larger, older buildings are. She catches glimpses of the now ashen exterior of Gringotts and tries to keep that in sight. How many shops were there in the street, how many has she visited? She passes Eeylops, helps the owner set free the remaining birds, then past an erstwhile confectionary shop she’d never been to, squeezes through the scramble of furniture of an open-air restaurant, and before she knows it, through the merciless smoke she sees him.

The world sways a little. She shouts but no words come out. He’s only a couple of hundred paces away, but on the other side of a bank of smoking rubble blocking the street. Standing precariously on top of an upturned barrel, without a wand, he’s directing a stream of clear water at a burning building. With his other hand he’s trying to shield his eyes--why didn’t she think to cast an Impervious for him?

Crumbling plaster adds to the smog. As she rushes up, he swims in and out of sight like a conjurer’s best trick, something so magnificent that it cannot possibly be real. He’s attracted a small bevy of helpers who are wrestling fallen awnings and walls to clear a small opening in the pile of debris across the road. Through the gap, a steady stream of people stumble through. A man hobbles over and falls to his feet, a silent scream twisting his face. In the next second, he’s blocked from view by more panicked bodies hurrying through. Her eyes are rapidly becoming useless, swollen and teary. People rush past her in the opposite direction and somewhere far away, her body’s aching just from being jostled, elbowed, pushed. She pauses, bends from the waist, trying to breathe out the smoke.

Then she straightens, something explodes, and Harry goes up in flames.

“HARRY!”

Her feet move, her mind shuts down. A wave of screaming rises around him, bodies scatter, timber falls. Some begin to run back towards Harry. Dancing obscenely, the flames leap up to his shoulders and arms. For a second, among the people running towards him, she thinks she glimpses someone familiar, but there’s no room in her mind for anything now. Harry’s too far away, blocked by smoke for her to see his expression, but he raises his head, eyes on something above. She follows his gaze. A green and gold garland of fire hangs above his head. Around him the black sail of smoke rises higher, dragging their world further into a future no one dares to see. He looks down at his feet. As the barrel beneath him gives way, his hands are thrown up in air; a pair of fire-hewn wings, their arc bright against the black sky. Then, silently in all the noise around him, unbearably slow in the span of a few seconds, he sinks out of her sight into a well of flames.

--end chapter fourteen--

## 16. Chapter Fifteen

Disclaimer: They belong to JKR, I’m only playing.

A/N: So here we go, the final chapters. When you get to the end, some of it will make sense, some of it will just make you go, ‘is that it’. I haven’t answered every question nor tied every loose end, but I feel like I wrote what I set out to write. Enjoy. And a million thanks as always for a million reasons to beta miconic. All mistakes are mine, feel free to pick at them.

***

--Chapter Fifteen--

Everyone remembers the quiet afterwards. Apart from the rare siren and church bell, there’s nothing. Not even the urgent flicker and crackle of TV screens and radios in the background, since after about three hours there’s nothing new to watch or listen to. Not when you are the news. A few helicopters circle far above. One part of the city is shut down and its sentinels carry guns. Ash crumbles off the earthbound cloud and the sky flushes with a strangely vibrant sundown. Only a few blocks are affected this time but borne by the wind, soot settles on roofs, monuments, trees, gardens, drifting as far as the river. Those who venture out speak in hushed voices as if the fire’s not all gone; it’s only sleeping. After all, this is not the first time.

*

Years later, when trying to remember, this is what he comes up with, this waking up.

Not the flames, the heat or the pain, just this, the hand that’s in his hair, the bare knee at his cheek. He twists his neck. She’s slouched against the headboard, asleep, legs curled beneath her, a miserably flat pillow at her back. Light from a single candle presses down on her cheeks. She looks so uncomfortable, molded into the hard headboard and deflated pillow. As if she’s just given up and taken permanent residence on his hospital bed.

He is in hospital, isn’t he? The fierce smell of antiseptic is strong in his nostrils but the bed feels like his own. The edge of light at his door seems too sharp for No 12, Grimmauld Place. Fabric from her skirt’s caught under his cheek. He considers waking her up. Despite her posture, her breath falls deep and measured, the slow, even drift of settling ash, clearing smoke. Besides, he doesn’t seem to be in a position to move; on his stomach like a beached crab, his back feels damp, his upper body numb. Cheek against her thigh, her skirt clutched in one hand, he closes his eyes again. And like the burning and the smoke, other details are missed--such as the faint click of the door, red hair snapping out with the light.

*

When he wakes properly, Hermione’s gone. His back feels flayed, his head no better. Sitting up in bed, he gropes around for glasses and wand, then finds some clothes folded on a chair. In jeans, bare feet protesting the cold floor, he stumbles into the bathroom, feeling cranky.

There’s something wrong with the house.

It stinks.

He crosses the room and pulls the door open. His jaw drops.

Despite the dark in his room, the whole house is flooded with light. The light along the corridor seems extra bright, and it takes him a moment to realize that it’s partly because the floor’s been scrubbed to an inch within its wooden life, the timber still glistening. Taking a few steps forward, he hears raised voices--a familiar one among them--from the far end of the passage that curves into a cluster of unused rooms.

“What? No, no, no--are you mad? You have to bring him back!”

“But the Minister said it’s safe now--”

“Oh yes, I know! He’ll say it’s safe because he’s got nowhere else to put them!”

“But Mr Weasley--”

“Gentlemen, please, keep it down, there are patients here!”

“Just bloody bring him back, all right? You know how to do a standard Obliviate, don’t you?”

“Well, yes, of course--”

“Well, go on then. Don’t stand there gaping. Are there any more? Has anyone else been stupid enough to take people to Muggle hospitals?”

“Mr Weasley, please, lower your voice--”

“Hang on, Martha, this is important. Listen to me, everyone, don’t take any witches or wizards into Muggle hospitals, all right? I don’t care if Scrimgeour tells me it’s fine till he’s blue in the face, we’re not risking anyone, all right? It’s fine if you bring Muggles here, but none of our folk are to be left in Muggle hospitals, all right?”

Yes, Mr Weasley goes the chorus. A second later, it dawns on Harry that they’re all headed in his direction. Before he can shuffle back into the shadows, not that there are many now, someone emits a high-pitched squeal at his back.

“Oooh, Mr Potter! You should be in bed! Oh dear, oh dear--let me help you!”

A small witch in St Mungo’s robes bustle up to him; he manoeuvres his elbow out of her grasp, surprised by his own deftness.

“I’m fine, really, I’m just going to--”

“Oh no, you mustn’t move too much yet, really, Mr Potter--”

“I’m fine, really, I can walk--”

“Oh, of course, of course, but you must--”

“Harry!”

He looks up as Ron hurries over, flanked by half a dozen Ministry-robed witches and wizards.

“Ron, tell her I’m fine!”

“Oh dear, oh dear!”

“Janice, it’s fine. Harry, how’re you feeling?”

“Fine, I’m fine. What the hell is going on?”

Watching Ron’s entourage advance on him with indecently avid eyes, Harry wishes he’d pulled on a t-shirt. But how the fuck was I to know the house would’ve been taken over by them? Ron frowns at Harry, then turns around and waves a peremptory hand.

“All right, enough gawking. Off you go. Jobs to do, remember? Yeah, yeah, try not to look so keen, you break my heart.”

Despite his discomfort, Harry has to stifle a sudden grin. Through the years, through the war, Ron stuck to the style of leadership he’d discovered while chivvying first years as a prefect. As the last of his wards drift down the stairs with suppressed mutiny, and Janice disappears clucking, Ron turns to Harry.

“Ministry interns. Hopeless lot! Anyway, Harry, how are you feeling?”

Without waiting for an answer, he takes Harry’s elbow and peers at his back, making a face.

“You still look like a fresh lobster. But not as bad as before. Does it still sting? Healer Smith--he’s the head of the burns unit--swore by his ointment. Said it’ll put you right in four days, right on the clock. So you have one more day to sleep through. All right, come on, into bed.”

He glares. Unconcerned, Ron clamps a hand around a numb elbow again. Harry tries to extricate himself, sways, and puts a hand out to steady himself. Ron nods meaningfully.

“Exactly. Come on.”

He marches Harry back to his room. Harry breathes in noisily, wishing his head would clear.

“Where’s Hermione?”

“At St Mungo’s.”

He sways again. “What?”

Ron looks at him, then shakes his head.

“Oh no, she’s fine, mate. A few bruises, and she’s snorted smoke like a chimney, but otherwise she’s fine. She and Fred are out there helping.”

Harry lowers himself to the bed and leans gingerly against the pillow Ron puts at his back. Then he looks up.

Ron leans on his crutch and meets Harry’s gaze, looking uncertain. A pair of footsteps passes by the door, urgent. A door opens somewhere then shuts. From somewhere else in the house, someone wails in pain.

When Ron looks at Harry again, there’s no hesitation in his eyes.

“They say the count of injured stands at about two hundred now, us and Muggles. Muggle hospitals are flooded, and with magic unreliable they’re having all sorts of problems at St Mungo’s. Not just spells and charms, some of their lights failed. They’ve rigged up a Muggle thing--a generator, that’s it, a generator. That’s how two floors are carrying on. Hermione and Fred have been run off their feet. She’s one of about a dozen in there who can do wandless magic, and Fred can mix potions something mad.”

He reaches for a candle and holds it like a sword.

“Already, about sixty dead.”

Harry scratches his arm, fingers itching to reach his back.

Ron lights the candle with his wand and sets it on the bedside table. There seems to be a heating charm in place but its diffusion around the room has made it useless. Ron frowns at the compilation of glass bottles on the bedside table and picks the biggest one. Harry looks around for a shirt, then forgets all about it.

“Where’s Hedwig? Her cage is gone.”

“Oh, she’s in Buckbeak’s room. The St Mungo’s crowd wanted to give your room the full treatment too but Hermione wouldn’t hear of it. Said it’ll make you feel out of place. So they made her get rid of the cage and Hedwig. Here, drink this.” He proffers a glass with a milky grey liquid in it.

“I think it’s sleeping potion plus something to heal the burned bits. The Healer said to give it to you if you woke up. And Hermione only reminded me about twenty times before she left.”

Harry takes the glass without question, and without looking, feeling, gulps it down.

“Is everyone all right?”

“Yeah, they’re all fine. Mum and Ginny are downstairs somewhere. And Sally’s here too, somewhere. I was at home when Mr Lovegood came to get us. He was home for lunch when Luna owled from the office.” Ron opens the window and pokes his head out to scan the street.

“And Nick? Is Nick all right? I saw him.”

For the first time since seeing Harry in the passage, Ron pauses. Neither speaks for a moment. Harry runs his tongue over his teeth, trying to rid his mouth of the aftertaste of the potion.

“He helped me. Probably saved my life. He said--Ron, he said something about not meaning any of it. Where’s he now?”

Ron drags a chair and lowers himself laboriously, reduced suddenly to his three limbs. He stretches his bad leg out and stares at it for a moment.

“Yes, he’s fine now. He got burnt, but not as bad as you. And you’re right. He helped get you out of there. He’s in Sirius’s old room. But--he couldn’t talk much, still quite weak, almost lost his voice…Harry, one of his friends works in newspapers. Nick told him about us.”

Harry shrugs. “Yes, I know. I saw the Muggle paper a couple of days ago, after Hogwarts. Nick’s picture was in it. He even told them about the ghoul in your attic.”

“Yeah, well. Except he says he didn’t know that this friend also runs some sort of underground group. They’ve been on our trail since the last time London burned. Some had been there, they remember some of what happened, how the fire couldn’t be put out and all of that.” He runs absent fingers over his crutch and lowers it to the ground before meeting Harry’s glance. “Most of the group members--their families burnt in that fire.”

To his surprise, Harry finds that he doesn’t feel like looking away. For the first time, he doesn’t feel like running.

“They took their story to the Muggle police and all, but nobody really did anything about it. Orders from above I guess, Scrimgeour’s been keeping tabs on what the Muggle Prime Minister did and said about that first time. The newspapers reported on it, but that was all.”

A homecoming starling stirs an orchestra of wing-beats up in the eaves.

“Nick let them into Diagon Alley this morning. He says he had no idea--he’s in pretty bad shape about it actually. They had…some kind of home-made bombs.”

“Petrol bombs,” Harry adds. The smell’s lodged somewhere under his skin, firmly pinned in memory.

“Yeah.”

“And fireworks. Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes.”

Ron looks up, eyes steady. “Fred had nothing to do with it, Harry.”

After a moment, Harry finds a rough spot and a loose thread on the bedspread to fiddle with.

Ron carries on. “Nick had taken some for a show and tell, I suppose, a couple of weeks back. They’d found a way to pack them in with extra gunpowder without breaking the charms. Pretty clever. Not all of them worked, of course.”

“But enough did.”

Stretching back in the chair, looping his hands behind his head, Ron looks up at the ceiling. “Hermione hasn’t even looked at him. I think she’s scared she’ll go into rage a

and just claw him to pieces.” He sighs. “I’d have done it, but someone has to keep their head.”

Harry glances over. A smattering of stubble covers Ron’s parched face and his eyes look pinched. In fact, he looks somehow pinched all over, squashed into his hand-me-down shirt and too-short trousers. But that’s because his clothes never fit him, not the other way round, thinks Harry. Like Harry himself but in reverse; no one’s ever got Ron clothes large enough for who he is.

“And last but not least, and no surprise to any of us, apparently Scrimgeour had his fat finger in the pie too.”

The thread twisted tight enough to cut off circulation in his index finger, Harry listens to Ron’s account of Sally’s visit to Grimmauld Place the morning of the fire. A single star pulses at the window like some obscure cosmic code.

“So yeah, it looks as if Scrimgeour’s prepared to just about to anything to hook you in and--”

“Well, I can think one way to stop his bullshit.”

“What’s that, mate? Didn’t hear you.”

“Nothing. Go on.”

“I was just saying, apparently Scrimgeour’s about to be stood down because of all this.”

“What?”

“Yeah, he won’t be Minister for Magic much longer. The idiot slipped on his own shit. The editor of The Daily Prophet double-crossed him. The stuff about the Incinerator, you know, about you and Hermione, that was top hush-hush stuff, you see, and Scrimgeour wasn’t meant to tell anyone. So the Wizengamot’s onto him for breaking wizarding law and get this, it seems he tried to bribe two of the members into pushing his bill for conscription.”

Ron pauses and peers at Harry.

“What’s the matter, Harry? I thought you’d have looked happier to hear about the old fart.”

Harry shrugs, his brain whirring. Shooting him a curious, almost suspicious look, Ron carries on. “Anyway, on top of all that, he lost it with the Muggle Prime Minister yesterday and Kingsley had to restrain him from pummelling the man into a pulp.”

He heaves a noisy sigh and leans his elbows on his knees.

“That’s partly why we are in so much trouble right now. The Muggle Prime Minister’s suddenly gone tough on witches and wizards. Which means anyone who looks ‘different’. There have been a couple of what Scrimgeour calls ‘incidents’ and several arrests by Muggle police. There are a couple of groups about, Muggles. A woman was attacked because she ‘looked’ like a witch. One of the kids from the Ministry said she was dressed in this long, cloak-like thing with a funny hat, but she looked nothing like one of us. Turned out she was in fancy dress, off to some gig somewhere. What kind of person goes to a fancy dress party when London’s burning? Anyway, our idiots are not letting things be either. Two were hauled up somewhere in Newcastle for Muggle baiting.

“It’s strange, they still think we’re some sort of weird cult. At least some things never change. Magic always has to be explained away in some way, they just can’t believe it’s real.”

Harry makes a small noncommittal sound. He’s finding it difficult to concentrate, but not because the potion’s numbed his brain, but because his brain seems to working faster than he can follow. He listens to the many sounds surging outside his room, inside the house. The longer he listens, the stranger they seem in a house where the loudest sounds were of squabbling birds and settling timber. Now there are footsteps, doors, running water, voices, the chink and clink of glass, china, metal. It’s like overnight, a living tree had driven roots in the dying house, its brilliant leaves rustling and scraping, blowing into every empty, silent niche.

Footsteps sound out on the street, then the front door opens. Ron struggles to his feet and sticks his head out the window again.

“Excellent, that’s Ginny and Mum with more stuff from St Mungo’s. Now all I need is for Fred to come and get that dead starling out of the roof. Oh--” He runs a hand down the back of his neck and looks away at the window again. “Harry, by the way, something you should know.”

“What?”

“Ginny’s going away.”

Harry rubs hands over his face. “What do you mean?”

“She just told us yesterday. She’s going to Amsterdam of all places. Apparently she met someone there when she went looking for Snape with Tonks. I really don’t get the timing but she’s been in a right strop the past week or so that I’ve been at home, I didn’t want to argue.”

Without waiting for comment or question, he turns his back and drags the chair into the corner he pulled it up from. Harry shifts his legs. He seems to have shifted some balance in the air; the smell of the antiseptic hits him again.

“This place stinks!”

Ron looks around. “Yes, about that. I hope you don’t mind, Harry. St Mungo’s was overflowing so I said they can bring people in here. We had to strip the place down of course, that’s what the smell’s about. They sent us some Healers, but most downstairs are volunteers. People just off the street. I think there are Muggles there as well, I’m a bit iffy about them right now but beggars can’t be choosers, and I’ve got people keeping an eye on things. Times like these, I wish we still had the Order together. I just don’t trust Scrimgeour’s lot.”

Ron shuts the window and draws the curtain. “Okay, enough chit-chat. You’ve a lot of skin to re-grow. The Healer said the old skin will begin to peel off soon.” He grimaces. “Sort of…slough off, I imagine. A bit like a snake. Or a bird moulting. And please tell Hermione I made you go back to sleep the moment you woke up, all right? Actually, tell her you slept like a baby and didn’t wake up at all.”

Harry slides under the covers. Ron limps to the door. Through half closed eyes Harry watches the thread of light at the door become a thick ribbon.

“Harry?”

“Yes?”

“Mate, they say you were brilliant out there. There are a couple of people in here who’d seen you, and anyway, it’s all over the papers, about how you stopped some of the fires and all, but…I don’t know if there’s much more you can do.” He pauses, the door swinging. “It’s crazy out there, things that are happening are…beyond all of us and…and it wouldn’t be good if you were to put yourself in danger. Again.”

After a long moment, Harry slips his forearm behind his head to peer better at Ron.

“Where’s the spirit of adventure, Ron?”

The leaves rustle and rustle, drowning the meaning of Ron’s words; Harry barely hears the door close after him. What a lot there is to do, to think about. But soon his eyes droop shut, and he sinks into the warmth of the covers thinking that he wouldn’t complain about new skin.

--end chapter fifteen--

## 17. Chapter Sixteen

Disclaimer: They belong to JKR, I’m only playing.

***

--Chapter Sixteen--

When he wakes up the next time there’s pounding rain, all other noises suspended in its steady hissing in the deep black of night. Why do I always wake up in the middle of the night? He watches the window for a moment, listening to the different demands the rain makes on different surfaces. Someone’s left a plate of sandwiches and a bowl of cold soup on his bedside table and he reaches for them gratefully. Mouth crammed with corned beef, he flexes his back and arms; still stiff, but not painful. In front of the bathroom mirror, he resists the urge to turn around and peer over his shoulder but fails; then steps into the shower in a hurry, swallowing repeatedly. The water pools round his feet, faintly coppery, carrying flecks of dark matter.

When he’s dressed and ready, he strips the bed. The sticky smell of potion lingers even after the bedclothes have all been bundled away into the hamper.

Outside, the brightly lit corridor is empty. He pauses, uncertain. The hospital light has inflated the house. Were the corridors always this wide, the stairs so spacious? Surely there never were this many rooms, a door at every third step, round every corner? He steps up to the banister and looks down. A couple of mediwizards bustle in and out of rooms, their faces grey. Through an open doorway, he spots Sally talking to a Healer. He wonders if she’ll be around once he’s spoken with Ron and Hermione. It might be a good idea to catch Scrimgeour at home, without the armour of office.

Or it might not.

His feet take him to Buckbeak’s room. The room’s untouched; the dusty heart of the house throbs only with the streetlight. Someone’s brought his bike back. The rain’s loud here, the window melting, the murmur of activity below subsumed into the greater silence of the downpour. Hedwig’s empty cage stands on an old wardrobe.

He’s only just sunk down onto the bike, shadows warm around his shoulders, when he hears footsteps at his back. A second later, the door pushes open.

“Harry!”

She rushes around the bike, and his knees and arms pull her in.

“Oh, Harry! Ron, he’s up here! How are you feeling? You should be in bed--oh, let me see your back…your skin still looks too pink! Does it hurt? I should’ve brought more of the ointment from Healer Smith. I wonder if Janice or Martha might have some left…”

Her hands cup his face. She’s trying to do everything at once; talk, touch, fuss, worry, stare at him like she hasn’t seen him for weeks, months. To make matters simple, he kisses her.

She makes a small sound of protest, but her own body doesn’t listen, tumbling into him, immediately pliant.

Then she begins to cry.

“Hermione, what--”

“You just burst into flames, Harry!”

“I know, I…I’m sorry--”

“Oh, don’t be silly, it wasn’t your fault--”

“Yeah, okay then, don’t cry Hermione--”

“You burst into flames and--”

“I promise to never do that again--”

“It’s not funny!”

“No, of course not, I only meant--Hermione, shhh, come on, look at me, I’m okay now, see, I’m fine…”

He strokes her hair, kisses her tears and tired eyes, the skin around them still a bruised red from inhaling smoke. She even smells a bit like smoke still. He lifts a corner of his shirt and wipes away the tracery of raindrops on her forearms.

“Are you really okay?” she whispers.

“Yeah, I promise. Still a bit wooden, but that’s all. I’ve even had some food.”

His earnestness teases a small, very wet smile. “What about you? How are you?” he says, but she doesn’t reply. She touches his cheeks, lips, eyes, pushes his hair back from his forehead, then with a great sniffling sigh drops her face into his shoulder and her arms around his neck.

“Cut it out, cut it out. I’d like to keep my dinner down.”

Ron rattles in. There’s a small commotion in which he knocks over Hedwig’s cage while reaching for a crate to sit on, and Hermione’s attacked by a fit of yawning. Patiently, Harry answers questions about his health and asks after the state of affairs outside. Ron catches Hermione’s outbreak of yawning. Harry looks at Hermione perched on the bike and trying not to slump against him, and Ron’s pale face, and takes pains to point out the obvious; that they should get some rest. Both decline loudly, eyes shifty in that way when they’ve been talking about him in his absence.

He sighs.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

Ron looks at Hermione, then back at Harry. “Like what, mate?”

“Like you think I’m about to go do something really stupid.”

Ron rubs his nose. “Are you?”

Hermione sighs. “Ron.”

Ron shrugs. “All right, I’m shutting up. Go on Harry, put us out of our misery and just spit out whatever it is you’re about to do.”

“What makes you think I’m about to do something?”

“Oh, come on.”

“Ron, just let him talk.”

“Well, tell him to talk then.”

“I’m going to see Scrimgeour tomorrow.”

The room falls silent.

“And?” says Ron.

“And I’m going to ask him if I can still be an Auror.”

Silence again.

Then Hermione begins patiently. “Harry--”

He stalls her. “He hasn’t been stood down already, has he?”

“I don’t know, we haven’t heard anything, but--”

“Hear me out, all right? Hear me out and tell me if either of you have a better idea.”

He twirls the double-faced talisman still tangled around the handlebars of the bike. The rain drums steadily.

“When I was in Diagon Alley that day, you know, in the middle of that fire, there was one time when I…just couldn’t do magic.” He looks up at their faces, then gives the talisman another tug.

“Not the way it’s been so far, not magic with a wand, but I was trying to pull someone out with a wandless spell and it just didn’t work. Has that happened to either of you?”

After a moment, Ron shakes his head. “I can’t remember the last time I used wandless magic. Never learnt it properly when they were trying to teach us during the war.”

“I haven’t tried anything really strong,” Hermione shrugs. “Nothing as big as putting out a fire like that.”

Harry nods. “I mean, it’s irritating when the odd spell fails, but this was different. I’ve had trouble with all sorts of magic with my wand, sometimes Lumos wouldn’t work and that sort of thing, but I’ve always been able to do wandless magic. So, when I couldn’t all of a sudden, it felt really strange. Almost frightening. Like--I don’t know--like trying to speak without a tongue or something like that.” He looks towards the window.

“And it felt real. I know all this time Sally’s been talking about magic failing, and I’ve come to believe her, but this was the first time I actually felt it.”

Hermione reaches into her pocket absently and brings out a piece of paper that looks like an old train ticket. He watches her fingers worry the ticket into bits.

“I don’t think we have a lot of time left. I don’t think I have a lot of time left, even if I could dig up the last dregs of magic wandlessly, as Sally says. So I…I want to use up whatever time I have left to right some of the stuff that I’ve put wrong. No, Hermione, it’s true. Don’t you think Scrimgeour’s got a point? London wouldn’t have burnt the first time if it wasn’t for me, and it wouldn’t have burnt the second time if it wasn’t for the first time. I am really--” his eyes dance around the room unseeingly, fingers clutching the bike “--sick of having this over my head. I can’t undo what happened, the first time I ended up doing…this, but if I don’t do something while I can, I don’t think I can live with myself.”

Drawing a deep breath, looking up, his heart pauses for a fraction. Masked with exhaustion as their faces are, they can’t hide fear from him, their fear for him. He clears his throat.

“But I’m not going to just walk in there like some sacrificial lamb. He’s going to have to agree to certain…terms.”

Hermione curls her hand around the shredded ticket. “Like what?” says Ron.

“For starters, he’ll have to face up to facts about magic. I want him to promise me he’ll do something about it. If there is no way magic can be saved, then there should be something done about that, about the people. Hermione, don’t look like that--I’ve done a lot of thinking, I’ve had four days to just lie there. I can’t do much about what’s happening to magic, if there’s anything that can be done. The Ministry can. They have centuries of magical knowledge at hand, they have experts, they have international bodies or networks or whatever you call it to ask for help… pretty much everything that you need, to do something about something this huge.

“Beyond that, if I somehow learn to use wandless magic to…to the best of my ability, to the last drop, then I can lend a hand to put London back together. That way the Ministry will at least have an olive branch to offer the Muggles. That could be a first step. Don’t you see? If that problem isn’t fixed, we’re not going to be able to carry on with what little magic we have, to find out what the hell is happening to magic. Either we’ll be slaughtered out of existence or we’ll have to go into the worst kind of hiding ever!”

He’s sitting so far forward that he’s tilting the bike, Hermione with it. He’s surprised at his own lucidity; is this how it works when people make up their minds? Settling back, he wishes they would speak now, tell him it’s a terrible idea and get it over and done with. And then what would you do? He rubs his eyes and pushes his glasses back. The window continues to melt, the glass caught in an endless spin of change.

After a long silence, Harry gives up.

“Look, I know you both think it’s a bad idea--”

Hermione turns around suddenly, rocking the bike a little, her foot hitting the fender.

“Harry, Scrimgeour tried to sell you out! You’re going in there with the best of intentions but they’re not going to play fair!”

“Don’t you think I know that?” He stands up and looks at them in turn.

“Can’t you see? This is something that has to be done with the Ministry no matter how twisted the whole lot of them are! There’s no Dumbledore anymore to look ahead and see what no one else can see and--and…orchestrate things. Nearly all the older members in the Order are gone. Something really big is happening to us, something bigger than ever. I don’t know how to stop it, I don’t know if it can be stopped. Look, I didn’t pull this out of a hat--I’ve thought long and hard and this is the only thing I can think of. If you can come up with anything better, go on!”

He strides to the window and glares at it. The room seems detached from the rest of the house, beaten off somewhere else by the deafening rain.

Ron drums fingers on the edge of the crate. “What if Scrimgeour’s been stood down already?”

“Well then, I’ll talk to the Wizengamot,” Harry snaps over his shoulder. “Kicking off Scrimgeour isn’t going to solve anything. He’s an idiot but he shouldered this whole mess all this time, didn’t he?”

Hermione’s foot hits the fender again. She’s going to break the damn thing. “‘All this time’ has only been a few weeks, Harry. Before that he just stood back and watched while somebody else did his work for him. And he didn’t stick with it out of the goodness of his heart, but because he likes being what he is--the Minister.”

Pressing his palms flat against the window, Harry feels his skin recoil at the cold, almost as if from heat. He walks slowly to the far corner of the room, trying to pick out and name everything that he bumps into. Chair, chair, mirror. Two crates, broom, broken ancient footrest. He knew it wasn’t a very clever idea, didn’t he? He wasn’t expecting them to agree, was he? Then why does he feel so let down?

The simultaneous rapping at the door and window startles all three out of stillness. Hermione throws the window open and a soggy Hedwig topples into her arms, a soggier newspaper tied to one leg. Harry opens the door to Nick.

“Hi Harry.”

Without meaning to, Harry looks at Hermione. She pauses only for a second. Hedwig hoots, the paper drops, and Hermione returns to the bike without a glance towards the door.

Nick shifts on his feet. “I hope you don’t mind…the nurse, I mean, the mediwitch said she saw you heading this way.”

Harry doesn’t think he’s ever heard Nick speak so hesitantly.

“Hey Nick,” says Harry. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine. Thanks for asking.” He takes a stab at mirth. “Don’t be put off by the bandages, they’re just to keep the wind out.” A pause, a half-done gesture. “Hi, Hermione.”

She doesn’t look up. Harry sighs.

“Come in.”

Nick starts at the soft snap as the door falls shut behind him.

“Look, I just came here to say…I’m really sorry.” His eyes are on Harry, but Harry doesn’t think the rushed words are meant for him.

“I never knew Fergus was part of that…group. He and a friend of his wanted to see Diagon Alley. I had no idea they had it all planned. I mean, he seemed rather disbelieving when I told him about Hogwarts, I don’t know if you read the paper…anyway, it seems they were ready for weeks. I took them in, and before I knew it, it was too late. I swear! I really--I never meant to harm anyone. You have to believe me!”

Ron fishes the dripping copy of The Quibbler with his crutch. Hermione’s hands preen through Hedwig’s plumage, the owl cooing at the drying charm. Nick raises a bandaged hand to his mouth.

“I…it’s this ring, you see. It makes me talk too much, makes me say things I don’t mean to. I wasn’t going to tell Fergus anything about the fire but once I started to tell him what I knew about…your world, everything came out. I know you warned me--”

Hermione laughs. Hedwig hoots and flaps her wings.

“Oh, for crying out loud, Nick. You don’t need a stupid ring to make you talk.”

The tip of Hedwig’s wing catches Hermione on the chin. A shower of feathers drift to the floor. When Nick speaks again, his voice has changed.

“Well, maybe if you’d taken the trouble to tell me, I wouldn’t have gone asking other people, would I? ”

Ron looks up. “Hey--” he begins, but Nick ignores him, making his way towards the bike. Harry steps close to Hermione.

“Does it come with magic, Hermione? This secretiveness? It is after all a mark of your kind, isn’t it?”

After a long pause, Hermione shakes her head wearily. “Nick, you still don’t understand, do you? This is the very reason we’ve stayed hidden for centuries! You should never have written to Scrimgeour--”

“No, of course not! I finally dragged it out of you why you could never show me your homework, and I was supposed to just put it out of my mind and go on? What would you have done if it was me? Writing to Scrimgeour was the only way--”

“Yes, and now you’ve fallen into his trap and messed up everything!”

“I didn’t fall into anyone’s trap--”

“And why did you let them burn Diagon Alley? If you wanted me and Harry, you knew where to find us!”

“You and Harry? Why’s that?”

“Oh, stop it Nick. I’ve had enough of your games.”

Nick laughs suddenly, head thrown back. “Oh, I see.” He raises his hand to his mouth again.

Harry takes a step up. “All right, enough Nick--”

But Nick disregards him. I could stop him, Harry thinks, but doesn’t do anything.

“Contrary to what you think, Hermione, the world doesn’t revolve around you and your Harry. Fergus doesn’t care two hoots about that, about the two of you. You mean nothing to them! Can’t you see? In their eyes they’ve been duped by the whole lot of you! As far as they’re concerned it’s not one person who’s responsible for the way their families died--that would be too easy--but it’s the scale of this…this whole thing!”

No laughter on his face now, he looks at all three of them in turn. For a second, Harry’s thrown by how similar Nick’s brown eyes are to Hermione’s when in a rage.

“Don’t pretend that you’re some trodden-on, persecuted group of people with no alternative but to hide! You people have this enormous power at your beck and call and what have you done with it all this time? Have you ever thought it might be useful for anything other than sweeping the yard? No! It’s always been…your property and the only thing you’ve ever done that made it felt was blowing London up!”

“So you think they were right to set fire on us?” Ron’s halfway up on his feet.

“No! I’m saying maybe it’s not such a bad idea that your stupid magic is running out!”

“Yeah? Well, thanks for you opinion, now get out!”

“Ron! Stop it! Nick--wait! How did they get the fireworks?”

Nick turns around, the door half open. He looks at Harry, shuffling his feet. “I showed a couple to Fergus weeks back. He has a little sister, and ever since their parents died she’s been very…odd. She loved them, the fireworks. So he asked if he could have more.”

“And you had no trouble getting them at all, of course.” Hermione scoffs. “I’m sure even Scrimgeour couldn’t have thought of a more perfect plan had he tried.”

Nick takes a step back inside the room. “For the last time Hermione I have no idea why you’re going on about Scrimg--”

“He set up one of his cronies to tell you the full story about the Incinerator, he knew that you’d blab to all your Muggle friends--”

“None of Scrimgoeur’s cronies told me anything!”

“Right. What a clever boy you are. You found out all by yourself, did you?”

“Hardly.” Light shifts at the doorway. “I told him.” Fred steps in, scans all their faces and slips his hands in his pockets.

“He thought it was an interesting story.” He lifts a thin shoulder. “Anyway, Nick, come along now, Healer Periwinkle’s worked himself up to a right state because you weren’t in your bed.”

For a long moment there’s only the sound of the rain. Hedwig flaps up to her cage, still moulting all over the room. Fred returns all their looks without flinching. Finally, Nick turns to Hermione. “Look, I really am sorry, Hermione. I know you thought I was always a little pest, always asking questions about this and that--”

She brushes at her wet clothes absently. Her shoulders are rounded, her face hidden. “Do you understand, now? Yes, it comes with magic. I couldn’t tell you I was a witch, I couldn’t tell you about magic, do you get that now?”

“Oh, it wasn’t just about magic. I’m sure you could have found a way to talk to me if you wanted to.”

There’s no edge to his voice but a gravelly agitation. Then the words fall from his mouth like he’s someone else’s mouthpiece, someone a lot younger, someone who couldn’t lie or dress the truth. “You had cooler friends. So you didn’t care about who you had at home. You went on for hours about them, to you parents. Yeah, I listened, you didn’t know. Always Harry this and Ron that and…I mean,” he stabs a hand in Fred’s direction. “He doesn’t mind me. I can’t be all that bad, can I? I’ve known him barely weeks but he treats me like f--”

Fred grabs Nick by an elbow. “For crying out loud, the first chance we get, you’re going to get that stupid ring removed! How many times did I tell you to get that done before all this shit happened? It’s called a Silver Tongue for a reason, you dingbat!”

*

Their voices trail away and the door shuts with a creak. There’s nothing to say all of a sudden. Harry sits down on the bike and his arm winds around her waist. After a moment of struggling against his warmth, she gives up.

“Nick’s an arsehole,” Ron offers succinctly. “So’s Fred.”

She is tired. Almost queasy, and cold now too: her clothes are drenched all over. She could use the same drying charm she used on Hedwig, but Harry’s got her hands in his and that feels better than anything. She makes a small sound and bites her trembling lip, tilting her forehead against his cheek.

“And you know what else, Hermione?” continues Ron. “It’s natural you talked about us all the time. You did spend a lot of time with us and anyway, you had much more of an exciting time with us, didn’t you? So I’m not surprised you wanted to talk about your brave, adventurous, funny, good-looking, interesting best friends. What do you say, Harry?”

She laughs to make them happy. Ron grins. Then he looks away, fingers drumming again on the crate.

Was it ever possible to do the right thing? Nick isn’t easy to tolerate, everyone knows that. She was never unkind to him, was she? Nick’s been in and out of their house for ages, but after she went to Hogwarts, she rarely saw him. When she did, she had a secret to keep. It wasn’t hers to give away, was it? It involved a whole world.

And at Hogwarts she met another boy, almost like Nick but not quite. Nick’s parents had died in a motor accident when he was little, and until recently he lived with his father’s sister. With a sinking feeling, she tries to remember if she’d ever mentioned that to Harry and Ron. It seems suddenly terribly important she should have. How could she not? Such a simple thing really, could come up in the vaguest conversation.

But isn’t that the point? Nick never came up in your conversations. He was just…there.

So is this my fault too?

Harry’s arms tighten around her, as if he could feel what she’s thinking. No one speaks for a long time. Nor does anyone seem keen to leave despite the combined exhaustion heavy in the room. Ron’s voice reaches her from faraway.

“Hermione,” he begins cautiously. “I was just thinking that maybe Harry’s got a point. About the Ministry, I mean.”

The drenched newspaper on the floor has a picture of Hogwarts, before and after, on the front page. It’s the Special Edition of The Quibbler Luna and her Dad were working on, the day she went to see Sally. How long ago that seems. How much more real. She looks at Ron, trying to focus her thoughts. His fingers pause on the wooden crate, then begins again with a different tune.

“If it’s not Scrimgeour, it’ll be some other nut job. What’s the use of that? Might as well keep him, at least we know what his tune is, we can work with it. What’s more, this way, Harry can have Scrimgeour eating off his palm.”

“That’s blackmail, Ron.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is. You can dress it up whichever way you want but if Harry tells Scrimgeour he’ll get him off the hook if Scrimgeour does as Harry says, that’s--”

“A good bargain. Hermione, listen--”

Harry interrupts. “Look, we should do this later. And I never said I want Scrimgeour eating off my palm.” He gets to his feet, tugging her hand, flashing Ron a look. Ron shrugs, unabashed. Then he yawns loudly and scratches his head.

“Well, I reckon we should call the Order back together.”

In the flickering streetlight tossed everywhere by the rain, she looks at Ron.

“Yeah,” she says slowly. “I think we should…”

“Then Harry doesn’t have to do this alone,” Ron presses on. “Besides, I don’t trust Scrimgeour so I reckon we should have a back-up plan if things go pear-shaped. The Auror department is pretty much useless anyway. With all this stuff going on, I’m sure the Order can do a better job.”

She sits up. “Yeah. Whoever’s up to it in the Order could be trained to do wandless magic. That way London could be sorted out faster. We might be using up magic faster, but if it’s going to stop anyway might as well use it for a good cause.”

“Well, I suppose we’ll have to get the Ministry to approve that sort of decision,” adds Ron.

“If they don’t?”

“We’ll go ahead anyway. When has the Order ever listened to the Ministry? Hermione, there’s a time and a place to be honourable but--”

Harry interrupts. “You can’t teach everyone wandless magic. They’ll be in danger. There’s a thing called extraction, remember? And anyway, who’s still left in the Order?”

She raises her eyes at him. Every time she looks at him, she still sees how he fell, flung by the fire. So she has to blink, clear her eyes and see him as he is now, light on his feet, and straight.

“Out of those…alive, your Mum’s not what she used to be, Tonks isn’t herself, Fred hates the sight of us, Ginny’s leaving, and you, you two--”

Ron raises an eyebrow. Time quickens. “What about us, Harry? Do you think just because I’m lame I’m incapable?”

“No! That’s not what I meant--I just didn’t know how you felt, and you--” He turns to her. “I thought you didn’t want to have anything to do with magic anymore.”

He says it too fast, like it didn’t bear telling. She looks away. How final the rain seems, as if intent on making an undeniable point, as if it wanted it all done and over for all time. Her heart beats fast. She clasps her hands on her lap.

“Well, needs must when the devil rides.”

She knows she’s blushing now. “I went and spoke to Healer Bellamy today. He still had one internship spot open, so I…signed myself up for it.” She shrugs, trying hard to be casual. “It’ll be very busy, I still want to do Muggle school, you know, but I’m sure there’ll be time to…to do work for the Order.”

She stamps her foot on a feather on the floor that flutters and flutters in a breeze she can’t see. Harry remains standing. Ron thumps his crutch on the floor.

“Brilliant, Hermione! I knew you’d come around! I bet Bellamy’s on cloud nine right now. It’ll be a wonder if the poor old codger doesn’t conk out of happiness!”

“Ron!” She grins. She steals a glance at Harry and finds she can’t bear the expression on his face. Slowly, he walks up to the bike and sits down next to her. A little far, as if he wouldn’t dare come close, he might break it all apart again. He looks so young, like they were starting all over again, back in the train to Hogwarts. She bites the inside of her lip to keep it from trembling. Scooting up close, she slips her hand in his. Shoulder to shoulder, palm against palm. A strangely shy kiss lands offside her cheek. In the dim distance, Ron clatters to his feet, remonstrating loudly, incomprehensibly.

“Oh no, don’t start getting all lovey-dovey, wait till I’m out of here! Honestly, we need some ground rules here, all right? Number one, how about, no snogging when our best friend in the world, Ron Weasley, is around. It’s like watching my parents doing it!”

Hedwig hoots sleepily, shuffling her feathers. The rain continues to shimmer at the window. Ron voice fades, the door closes. Then there’s only the two of them, she and her Harry.

--end chapter sixteen--

## 18. Chapter Seventeen

Disclaimer: They belong to JKR, I’m only playing.

***

--Chapter Seventeen--

In the morning, the household wakes to a worse catastrophe; Ron’s fish are dead.

“Must be all that cleaning stuff. Oh, I’m so sorry, Ron.” Hermione squeezes Ron’s hand. Ron seems at a loss for words. Harry fishes out the vivid carcasses with a soup ladle. He drops the first one--the brightly finned Gogol--unceremoniously into the small wooden jewellery box someone had found somewhere. Hermione nudges him and frowns. Harry sets his jaw but takes gentle care with the next deceased, one of the modest, sunny mollies. When the last one’s been laid wetly in the makeshift coffin, Ron looks at Harry and Hermione.

“Do you reckon the backyard’s a good place to bury them? Maybe under that burnt tree by the fence. It’s begun to sprout leaves. Mum reckons it’s a cherry tree, so it’ll have flowers soon.”

Harry lets go. “Ron, they’re fish.”

Hermione looks like she’s about to hit him. But Ron’s eyes light up.

“Yeah, you’re right, Harry. You’re absolutely right.”

Minutes later, complete with rear and front guards made up of hospital and Ministry staff, they stand along the municipal drain behind the house. Fattened with rainwater, clear of the usual cigarette butts and empty wrappers, the drain gushes with a spring in its dip and surge. Ron squats on the cobblestones, Hermione takes his crutch. Instead of dropping the dead fish in the water, he closes the lid and places the whole box in the drain. It sinks to the bottom. Unable to keep a straight face any longer, Harry slips away.

*

He finds Fred in the attic, halfway up on a ladder to the south-facing eave. The attic smells foul, a different kind of foul than the rest of the house.

“Hey, Harry. Had your fill of mourning?” He nods towards the gabled window below which the fish are being given their last rites. He’s wearing George’s jumper again.

“What? Oh, yeah.”

Fred climbs the rest of the way up into the roof.

“Yes, well. Funerals are like that. Bearable in moderation.”

Right. This doesn’t look like it’s going to work.

The floor’s littered with bird droppings and dirty feathers but the stink in the room is too strong for all of that. Fred disappears into the eave, feet sticking out.

Well, you don’t have a choice.

“Fred, we’re going to get the Order back together.”

After a moment, Fred’s voice reverberates through the roof cavity.

“So?”

“So, I was wondering if you want to be back in it.”

After scuffling around for a while, Fred drops something near Harry’s feet. A starling nest, empty and rotting.

“Yeah, okay.”

Harry looks up, surprised. He was braced for questions, cutting remarks, reminders. Fred scoots out, levitating a feathery carcass off the tip of his wand.

“Can you give us a hand?” he says, nodding at an old wooden pail on the floor, his voice misshapen from trying not to breathe.

Harry lifts it up, a hand covering his nose. The small body drops into the pail with a faint squelch.

“One thing though, you’re going to have to get used to Nick hanging around.” Fred pockets his wand and begins to climb back down. “We found a small shop in a Muggle street not far from here. I’m going to start up the joke shop again. Nick’s agreed to be a partner. We’re going to have to keep it hushed with all the crap that’s going on, but it’s going to be, shall we say, a mixed business. A mix of Muggle and magic stuff.”

Back on the floor, he looks at Harry.

Harry shrugs. “Yeah, okay.”

Fred looks at a loss for words. Harry turns to hide his grin.

“You want me to take this out?” He gestures at the second make-shift coffin he’s handled that day.

“No, it’s fine. I’ve got it.” He drops the nest into the pail and takes it off Harry’s hands. “He can be an idiot, but he’s not a bad sort, really. Once he gets rid of that ring, he’ll be all right.”

Not from what Hermione says.

Still, he nods and turns to leave. He’s at the door when Fred’s voice makes him turn back around.

“Harry, I’m sorry. About the fireworks. I had no idea they could be used that way.”

Harry lifts a shoulder.

“No, really--”

“No, Fred. I reckon we’re about even, don’t you think?”

Not waiting for an answer, he props the door open for Fred and his pail and walks downstairs.

*

Ginny proves harder to find.

Almost like she’s avoiding me.

He bumps into Sally on the third floor and scribbles down directions. The house continues to bustle. He wanders into the kitchen where Mrs Weasley pounces on him and holds on for a long time. She turns out to be the easiest re-recruitment to the Order. After about fifteen minutes of searching and dodging well-wishers and peeping toms, he finds Ginny changing sheets in a room at the farthest end of the second floor.

‘Hi,” he says, grabbing the billowing corner of a bedspread.

“Hi, Harry.”

Her hair’s tied back, her face thin and set. A mask. Harry decides not to dally.

“Ron said you’re going away.”

She bends to tuck her end of the sheet in. Harry lifts the mattress, tugs at the bedspread and finds his corner too short.

“Didn’t waste much time, did he?”

“Ginny, why?”

She brushes at couple of creases then grabs two pillows off a chair.

“Why not?”

She turns to the next bed, shaking out a fresh, crackling sheet. Harry picks up a corner again, tugs a bit too hard and ends up with the whole sheet in his arms. He straightens his glasses. Ginny turns to the third bed, leaving him to take care of the middle one by himself. Moments later, Harry surveys a perfectly made bed. Funny how his years with the Dursleys never seem to go to waste.

Suddenly, a pillow is fluffed a little too hard; he turns around. Her eyes glint from across the room.

“Do you ever get the feeling that someone’s always trying to write you into the background? No, you can’t join the Order, Ginny, you’re too young. No, you can’t fight Ginny, you’re too small. No, you can’t do what your brothers do Ginny, you’re just going to have to sit and watch. Like it’s not your story, you’re not even a proper part of it. You’re just…there, to fill the background.”

Then she laughs.

“Well, no, not you, I don’t imagine you know what it’s like.”

“Ginny--”

“I’ve always had to fight with my brothers for anything I want. This is going to sound horrible, Harry, but you didn’t come here for small talk. It’s not that I’m happy that most of my brothers are dead but I don’t have to fight as much. And then Ron came back home. So just because I was there, and he wasn’t, and therefore he’s precious, she latches on to him and Ron’s all full of how Mum’s all worn down when that’s what she’s been like the whole time! Ever since the end of the war, that’s what she’s been like. Except neither of them are there to see. Ron’s always in here and Fred comes and goes. But Ginny’s always there so no one knows.”

She turns around and grabs another sheet, though there are no more beds to be made.

“And I know about you and Hermione.”

Harry plonks down on the nearest bed.

A smile twists her dainty, defined features. “Once again a minor role, Ginny. Whoops.”

“Ginny--” he begins again, but she shakes her head. The venom leaves her voice suddenly.

“It’s all right. If it has to be that way, it has to be that way.” She looks around with the bedspread in her arms and, realizing there’s no use for it, stows it away in the cupboard nearby. There’s something so pitiful in the gesture that he has to look away for a moment.

“Ron said you met someone in Amsterdam.”

She pauses, her back to him.

“I lied.”

Harry leans forward and, sighing, balances his elbows on his knees.

“I tried to explain to them why I wanted to go away, but it was just too much trouble. So I lied. And they bought it, without batting an eyelid. Shows how well my brothers think of me. Ginny scores wherever she goes, no surprise to anyone.”

“Ginny, I don’t know what to say to you, but I’m sure they don’t mean it that way.”

She doesn’t reply. Picking up the laundry basket full of the stripped sheets and pillowcases, she makes for the door.

“Thanks for the chat, Harry. I’ve got to go.”

“Stay,” he says, getting to his feet.

“What?”

“Stay in England. I’ll make it worth your while.”

He strides over and holds the door open for her.

“Listen, Ginny, we’re going to get the Order back together. There’s so much to be done. We…I came to ask you if you want to join us. There’s not a lot of us left, so we need everyone.”

She stands in the corridor and looks at him through narrowed eyes. “There’s not a lot of you left, and that’s when you want me?”

“Ginny, plea--”

“I’ll think about it.”

She hoists the basket up to her hip. He watches her red hair sway all the way down the corridor, then turns back into the room to redo the bed with the shoddily tucked-in sheet.

*

He meets Ron and Hermione at the front door. The hallway below has been turned into a reception area, presided by two medistaff. Signs have gone up on the wall, directing visitors to different floors. The troll-leg and mirror have been removed. A calendar on the opposite wall marks five days since the fire.

Hermione pauses just as he opens the door. “Oh, I forgot to ask Sally for directions to Scrimgeour’s house.”

Harry pulls out a piece of paper from his pocket. “I got it. She was upstairs.”

Hermione scans the hastily drawn map as they step out. Ron hobbles ahead. Harry’s immensely relieved to see him recovered so quickly from his loss.

“Right. It’s not too far.” Hermione shoves the map in her pocket. She slips her hand in his, looks up, and smiles. He lifts her knuckles to his lips. The street’s slick surface returns the sunlight thrown on it. The light seems somehow thicker, more resonant, the particles of soot still wafting about adding to its depth. All around, it’s still strangely silent, except for the sound of rainwater rushing in the drainage system like an underground spring.

They walk along in silence, Harry’s mind still on Fred and Ginny.

“Ron?”

“Yep?”

Ron turns and waits for them to catch up, an elbow on his crutch.

Harry scratches his chin. “How are you all--I mean, with your Dad not there and Fred’s shop gone, how are you all…coping?” That sounded stupid, Harry. You should’ve talked to Hermione first. “I mean--”

Ron squints through the sun, then gives a short laugh. “Oh, you’re wondering about money. Well, Dad’s pension comes through. And…well, with not so many of us anymore, it’s quite enough to go around. But once all this is over, I’ll have to find something.”

They turn a corner. Harry looks sideways at Ron.

“You can join the Ministry too. As an Auror.”

Ron laughs again. “Are you kidding?”

“What?” says Hermione. “Mad-eye Moody had only one leg.”

“Who said it’s about the leg?”

Harry groans silently. Not always the diplomat, my Hermione.

“Oh. Of course, I didn’t mean--well, then, what’s it about?” she demands.

Ron watches his uneven feet. “Okay, don’t laugh at me but…I’m sort of enjoying this, you know.” He gestures back towards Grimmauld Place. “The running of this place. Making sure things work, moving things, people around to get the job done--”

“You mean bullying,” says Hermione. Harry glances at her, taking in the hint of laughter in her voice. But Ron seems oblivious.

“I do not bully, Hermione!”

“Yes, you do. I’ve seen how you speak to those Auror interns Scrimgeour’s given you.”

“Well, they do take some firm handling, in case you haven’t noticed. They’re so itty bitty but think that just because they have a sodding badge they can take on the world.”

“And then I’ve seen how you lord it over the medistaff--”

“I do NOT lord it over--”

“And how when all else fails, you sweet-talk Janice and Martha and the rest of the senior staff into doing exactly what you want--”

Ron appeals to Harry. “Will you listen to her? I’m not like that!”

“So you’re great for the job.”

“What?”

“Yeah, if you don’t watch out they’ll start paying you for it.”

“What job? What are you talking about?”

Hermione grins, swinging their entwined hands. “They’ve been looking for a trainee admin person. Someone will come around to have a chat soon. They love you. Martha thinks you’re rather charming, Malcolm’s impressed at how you’re handling the medi-interns. They’re his graduating class and he called them a bunch of swollen-headed twits. Oh, but Robin--that really pretty blonde who takes care of the second floor--said you need a haircut. She also said she’d be happy to give you one. But unfortunately, I don’t think she will.”

“What? Why? I mean--”

“Because she gave this really funny giggle when she said it, kind of like a twitter--Harry, you know what I mean, girls do that around you--and um, Luna happened to be right there. She said she liked Ronald’s hair just the way it is.”

Harry hoots with laughter. Ron’s cheeks blaze, but after a moment, he chuckles grudgingly. They turn another corner and cross the road into the Kings Cross station.

The fire was limited to Diagon Alley and two surrounding streets this time, but the city’s taken the cue and fled. The green mesh still nests in parts of the station and the blackened walls haven’t been scrubbed and painted over. A few uniforms pace up and down the foyer, the main entrance cordoned off. People still straggle in and out, but no one lingers. Along the pavement, fleets of pigeons rise at irregular intervals, scatter, then land back all together. A grey-white curtain, swelling through a near-deserted house. As they make their way to the ticketing counter, Ron’s crutch echoes freely. The glass at the counter catches a shadow, and Harry glimpses a reflection of their three faces. He turns around. Hermione still looks tired and Ron stifles a yawn. He himself still feels stiff, beset with an urge to roll shoulders every now and then as if to make sure they’re there. The sallow lighting, the colour of curdling milk, drips over their faces. Eyes look too bright, worry lines too deep. What a sorry bunch we are.

But this is what he had. Not a cast of thousands, only a few broken, beaten souls who nevertheless wanted to stand with him, which is all that mattered. And more who aren’t sure, and those who he isn’t sure about. Metal to turn to gold, water to wine.

--end chapter sixteen--

## 19. Epilogue

Disclaimer: They belong to JKR, I’m only playing. Apologies also to Aime Cesare for the poem I’ve butchered below.

A/N: Thank you for sticking by. To try and make an honest writer (or something) out of me I suppose, without thieving others’ characters, I’m going to concentrate on my own scribbles for a while. They’re different from this stuff here (or perhaps not, depending on who you ask) so it’s going to be hard for me to flip back and forth. Which means I’ll be very quiet on this front for a while. But if the mood strikes, you’ll know; I do love doing this HHr thing.

***

I inhabit a sacred wound

I inhabit imaginary ancestors

I inhabit an obscure will

I inhabit a long silence

…I inhabit an abandoned cult

…I inhabit from time to time one of my wounds

each minute I change apartments

and any peace frightens me.

Aime Cesare; from Lagoonal Calendar

--Epilogue--

Where it was frozen and immovable before, the air’s become translucent with moisture; a membrane behind which you could sense the giddiness of buds and leaves on their way back for the year. Harry wheels the bike out of its new rooftop home. To avoid the need for levitation, which might not be possible soon anyway, they’ve made a kind of shed for the bike up against the chimney. Everyone agrees that it’s really quite ugly. They’re waiting to see if the house would seethe, but so far all seems well. No 12 is emptying out of hospital beds but filling up with various other purposes; an incipient library, an extension of the Auror department and headquarters to the re-birthing Order. No one says it out loud but everyone nurses a lopsided affection for this house they never consciously considered home, yet always was exactly what they needed at the right time. A House of Requirement.

Hermione follows Harry up to the roof. She pauses at the trapdoor, eyeing a loose panel and hinge. This will take some time to get used to, this second-guessing, this constant worry about wasting. She’s caught Harry do this several times, more often than anyone else--stand and stare, frowning, with veiled, confused sadness, before reaching for his wand or simply reaching with his hands to fix something with magic. Magic gave him life, this life. She keeps wondering how frightened he must have felt when he was suddenly caught short in the middle of the fire. She keeps wondering, because in true Harry fashion, he doesn’t seem to want to talk about the things that hurt the most.

But she knows, and he lets her.

He’s already on the bike, on the lip of the roof. She joins him, links her arms around his waist, close and tight, and kisses the side of his neck.

He twists around to look, pleased.

“Mind the traffic,” she teases, nodding at the flush of starlings into air.

He grins. His hands curl around the handlebars, but he doesn’t seem in a hurry to move.

“Hermione,” he begins thoughtfully. “You never told me how you knew where I found the bike. How did you know it was stashed where that old statue was?”

She hooks her chin over his shoulder. The starlings pool into the sky, above the city which still walks stiff, peering over its shoulder.

“It’s that talisman you’ve got there. It’s called Janus, Harry. He’s the god of two faces, one looking backward, the other forward.”

His fingers move to the wooden face.

“January is named after him because January is like that. On the edge, you know, always hedging, the coldest and most miserable month of the year, and yet the first of a new year. Not quite an end nor a beginning, or perhaps both. Sirius must have named the bike Janus. Maybe…” she trails away, blinking into the light.

“Maybe what?”

“Oh, well, I just like to think that the first trip Sirius took on this bike was to your Dad’s house, when he went there to stay. You know, when he’d had enough of the Blacks. A beginning for him.” Rubbing her cheek against his shirt, she thinks she could sit here all day, shrugged around him. “Hagrid took you to the Dursleys on this bike as well.”

He doesn’t say anything.

“When Hagrid returned it after taking you to the Dursleys, Dumbledore would’ve hidden it in the castle, transfigured to the Janus statue. That’s how I figured it out.”

Down below, through the morning smog, a red traffic light blinks green. Pressed along his spine, her ear and skin find his heartbeat on the other side. Eyes closed, she smiles; the other side, as if they’ve emerged from somewhere underground, brushed off darkness and looked around for each other. When they finally lift off, enclosed in a frail invisibility charm, she’s still holding on fast, cheek to shoulder.

*

Standing in the lane in front of the house, he demurs. A hand shielding her eyes from the sun, she raises an eyebrow. His fingers grip her other wrist. The bike’s shining fender winks from behind the shaggy fence.

“I don’t know if you’re going to like it. I mean, I…really liked it when I saw it first, but you know, if you don’t, we can always find somewhere else.”

She’s about to tease him, but there’s something so life and death about the way he’s got her halted in front of the rickety gate.

He loves this one.

When he finally lets her through, across the weedy garden, past the broken bird bath and four stormy aspens, she knows why. Out of all the houses they’ve looked at so far, this is the gloomiest. Hermione’s not at all surprised; she’s long sensed a theme. She’s been to No 4, Privet Drive once and seen both Harry’s room and the cupboard under the stairs. Hogwarts wasn’t given to light and airy conditions much of the year either. And of course Grimmauld Place bred darkness after darkness.

She walks slowly through the cool rooms. After trailing her for a while, he goes out into the garden as if unable to bear it anymore. It’s a spacious, solid house with worn window-seats and a stained glass front door. There are cobwebs about, and the remains of an ants’ nest in the kitchen. A shoddy paint-job hides a child’s mural on a wall. A trellis of some heady, unrestrained creeper softens the light in the lounge and two more rooms on the north side. A chestnut at the ivy-smothered back wall takes care of other rooms, upstairs and down. Standing at a window in the room she’s already decided will be her study, she strains her eyes to see, beyond the broad, aspen-shouldered garden and down a hidden cliff, the sea far away. The garden has gone on as if nothing’s changed after the previous owners left, and the sea’s never paused.

It’s as if we’ve walked right into the middle of something.

Hands in her pockets, she drifts downstairs. She’s had enough of beginnings for a while--a long uninterrupted middle would make her very happy.

It’s a lie of course; there never are any middles. Harry’s plan seems to be in order so far; the Wizengamot listened to both Sally and Harry, then went away to deliberate. Scrimgeour, tight-lipped and stiff-jawed, shook hands with Harry. Later, Scrimgeour had a meeting with the Muggle prime minister and Kingsley reported that both were impeccably behaved. All well and good, but no one’s fooled--magic isn’t going to last. Being of both worlds, she and Harry would be all right for the most part, but they’ve already seen the terror on Mrs Weasley’s face when her cleaning spells wouldn’t work, and Ron’s despair at himself when neither his body nor magic would oblige. She feels as if she’s settling into a seat in a hushed arena to watch a brutal fight already tipped one way. Their world’s losing its limbs, one by one. There never are any middles, but an end in sight, an unknown beginning in tow.

Still, one can pretend. Enfolded in this house with its pale green light and dog-eared edges it would be possible to spend some afternoons with the world too far to be felt.

She finds him in the backyard, inspecting a patch of ambitious herbs.

“Okay.”

He stares across a jumble of watercress and mint. It takes some time.

“Okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Really?”

It’s hard to look at him when he glows like this, but it kills to look away.

“Yes, really. It’ll take a decent bit of scrubbing, and, um, trimming, but…yes.”

Suddenly, the air’s full of crushed thyme. She laughs into his mouth, but soon grows quiet. Eyes full of him and drifting shut, body lost to his warmth, she makes a discovery she plans to repeat in the future. When they’re absolutely silent like this but for each other, and the aspens that quiver in the slightest wind are still, she can hear the far off sea lean into the warm arm of the sand, over and over.

--end--