Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow by Stoneheart

Rating: PG
Genres: Drama, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 29/10/2006
Last Updated: 31/12/2006
Status: Completed

In their seventh year at Hogwarts, Harry and Hermione prepare themselves for the ultimate task
of destroying Voldemort. But the Dark Lord has made preparations of his own to thwart his
adversaries. A simple journey leads to an unexpected destination, leaving our heroes to make
choices that will affect not only their lives, but the existence of the entire wizarding world.
Minor AU (see explanation).




1. Up the Floo
--------------





**I expected to be back sooner, but one thing or another kept getting in the way. One of those
things is my planned seventh-year novel that puts a new spin on events in HBP. To give you an idea
how long it'll be, I'm presently working on the first draft of Chapter 8, and Harry
hasn't left the Burrow yet. This is shaping up to be a major project, one which I fear will
*not* be finished before the real seventh book comes out. But the various theories I want to
put forth, some of which I believe may actually occur in Book 7 in one form or another, all come up
in the early chapters, and I expect to have those posted in time to beat Scholastic's
publication date. After that, the rest of the story will be entirely my own creation, and if that
isn't done in time to beat J.K.'s finale, no harm will be done.

Now, as to *this* story, this is my personal favorite of everything I've ever done. For a
time I wasn't sure if I wanted to share it with anyone save a few friends, such as Fae
Princess. It was she who convinced me to post it. But there was a slight problem. This story, set
in Harry's seventh year at Hogwarts, was written just after OotP came out. A lot has changed in
canon since then, and I knew there was no way to revise this early work to adapt to the new facts.
The whole story would simply fall apart. Indeed, there would *be* no story. So I offer it as a
minor AU. It holds to canon through OotP, but nothing in HBP will apply here.

Everyone ready? Here we go!



**
*** * ***
**



**
**Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow**
**


**
**Chapter 1**
**


**
**Up the Floo**
**




**
*** * ***






“Curse me, Harry,” Hermione said.

“What?” Harry replied from his comfortable chair in the modest study chamber of his Head Boy
quarters. “Hermione, you know I *never* use that kind of language! And even if I *did*,
I’d *certainly* never use it on *you!*”

Hermione stared at Harry for a moment before shaking her head and sighing.

“Don’t tell me…when you were in Hogsmeade yesterday to restock your potions ingredients, you ran
into Fred or George at the apothecary, right?”

“Both of them, actually,” Harry said with a guilty smile. “How did you guess?”

“And I suppose they were buying something dangerous, like doxy venom or powdered knarl quills, to
make more of those vile Skiving Snackboxes to sell to Hogwarts students.”

When Harry replied with a nonchalant shrug, Hermione sighed again.

“Honestly, Harry,” Hermione said humorlessly. “Every time you spend more than ten minutes with
those – those demented delinquents – you come back with your head lodged firmly up your arse. If
you can’t manage to resist their so-called charms, I swear, I’m banning them from our flat once
we’re married.”

“Married,” Harry said dreamily, his impish expression softening. “Merlin, but I love the sound of
that.”

“If you want the *reality* of it,” Hermione said seriously, “then get out of that chair and
work with me! If Voldemort *does* attack the school, as Dumbledore is sure he will, we’ll have
to be ready for him. Now pull out your wand and attack me.”

“Are you sure it’s safe – here in the room, I mean?” Harry’s Weasley-inspired capriciousness
evaporated as he rose unhurriedly from his chair and reached for his wand. “We wouldn’t want to
cause any damage.”

“Don’t use any *really* dangerous spells,” Hermione said. “Just some ordinary attacking
spells. If the Charm I've cast works as it should, it’ll be effective on the big Curses as well
as the small ones. Now, attack me!”

His body language betraying no hint of the action to follow, Harry sprang to his feet, drew his
wand in a lightning motion and cried, *“Expelliarmus!”*

To his utter amazement, the disarming spell had no effect whatsoever. Hermione stood calmly, her
wand held firmly in her hand.

“Try another one,” she said with growing satisfaction. “Try…the Stunning Spell.”

“Are you sure?” Harry said uncertainly.

“Take your best shot,” Hermione said daringly.

Again giving no warning, Harry whipped his wand up and said, *“Stupefy!”* A jet of red light
shot from the tip of his wand and struck Hermione full in the chest. But instead of slumping to the
floor, unconscious, she merely smiled back at Harry, her eyes alight.

“You have some explaining to do, Miss Head Girl,” Harry said, clearly impressed, as he slipped his
wand back into his pocket. “If you had erected a shield or something to deflect the spells, I could
understand why my Stunner didn't flatten you as it should have done. But I’ve been watching you
since you came through the door, and I know you didn’t cast any spells. And I know you didn’t come
down with a shield already around you. I saw you close the door behind you – I saw you grip the
handle with your hand – and you couldn’t have done that if you were surrounded by a magical
barrier.”

“So you *were* paying attention,” Hermione said with a pleasantly approving smile. “Good.
Maybe that pre-Auror training is doing some good after all.” Replacing her own wand in her robes,
Hermione approached Harry and extended her left hand. Harry stared at her hand for a moment before
raising his eyes to meet hers.

“The ring? You did something to it?”

Hermione smiled and nodded.

Upon announcing their plans to marry, early in the school year, Harry and Hermione had followed
long-standing wizard tradition and obtained a pair of plain silver rings from the jeweler in
Hogsmeade. These were Bonding Rings, equivalent to an engagement ring in the Muggle world, except
that, in the wizarding world, both parties wore this symbol of their mutual devotion and their
promise to each other. Per centuries-old tradition, the betrothed couple sequestered themselves in
a private chamber (in this case, the very room in which they now stood ), where each placed a
special Bonding Charm on the other’s ring before placing them upon each other’s hand. This Charm
linked the two rings, and thereby their owners, so that each could always feel the other’s presence
and draw strength and reassurance therefrom. It was the first phase in their eventual union,
wherein they would ultimately become one, body and soul, thus realizing the promise represented by
the linked rings.

Harry took Hermione’s hand and raised it to his face. He looked at her ring, then at his own. Aside
from Harry’s being a couple of sizes bigger to accommodate his larger hand, they were
indistinguishable. If Hermione had, in fact, added some new spell to the Bonding Charm, there was
no outward evidence to betray that fact. Hermione saw Harry’s unspoken questions in his eyes, and
her smile widened.

“It’s called an Inversion Charm,” she explained. “Professor Flitwick told me about it in Advanced
Charms, and we worked on it together, after classes. It took me a week to get it just right.”

“What does it do?” Harry asked. “It doesn’t cast a shield. My Stunner didn’t bounce off you; I saw
it hit you. Does the Charm neutralize spells? Render them impotent?”

“Not exactly,” Hermione said as she slipped her hand from Harry’s grasp and held it up so that the
silver band caught the light from a nearly window. “As the name states, it *inverts* an
attacking spell. It turns the spell upside-down, so to speak, so that it works
*backwards*.

“When you tried to disarm me, the Charm reconfigured your spell so that, instead of flinging my
wand away, it bonded it to my hand so that an earthquake couldn’t have shaken it from my
hold.

“As for the Stunner, you know that that spell knocks the subject out by blocking nerve impulses so
that no signals can go to or from the brain.”

“I know that, do I?” Harry said with an exaggerated lift of his eyebrows.

“You would if you paid attention in class,” Hermione retorted, narrowing one eye in accusatory
fashion. “But the Inversion Charm reversed the spell’s configuration and turned it into an
Invigorating Spell, sort of like the counter-stunner, Ennervate. Instead of deadening my nerve
impulses, your spell *enhanced* them. It was like a surge of adrenaline had gone through me.
Had I been disposed to counter-attack, I would have been able to move about ten times faster than
normal – though only for a few moments. But in those moments, I could have counter-attacked before
you could open your mouth to speak another spell.”

“The effects don’t last very long, then,” Harry said, completely serious now. His preliminary Auror
training was now awakened, and he attended Hermione’s every word.

“No. The Charm has to remain flexible so it can react instantly to whatever spell comes next. If I
were being attacked from more than one direction, and simultaneous spells hit me, it wouldn’t be
able to deal with all of them. But while I was defending against one spell or another
*consciously*, the Charm would automatically protect me if someone attacked me from a blind
side. In close quarters, where the enemy couldn’t attack in large numbers for fear of hitting each
other, the Inversion Charm is invaluable.”

“How long does the Charm itself last?” Harry asked. “How often do you have to reinforce it?”

“It goes dormant in about an hour,” Hermione replied. “It’s a powerful Charm. It’s maintained on a
subconscious level by one’s own will. Once activated, it begins to draw on the wearer’s strength,
if only marginally. In time, the mind becomes exhausted, rather like the body will when carrying a
heavy physical load. After a time, the mind needs a rest period before the Charm can be
reactivated.”

“When can you place the Charm on *my* ring?” Harry asked. “I presume that’s your
intention?”

“Of course,” Hermione said. “I’ve already booked the Room of Requirement for Saturday. I’ve been
using it a lot this year, while you’ve been in your pre-Auror classes. The rules don’t allow me to
take those classes, since you’ve declared for an Auror career and I haven’t. But the teachers have
been helping me prepare in my own way, giving up their free time in the process. When Voldemort
attacks, I need to be ready. *We* need to be ready.”

“I wish I could keep you out of harm’s way,” Harry said wistfully. Hermione’s eyes flashed for the
merest fraction of a second. “But I know that’s useless,” he added with a defeated smile. “If I’ve
learned anything in the last six years, it’s that, when the chips are down, there’s no one I’d
rather have at my side than Hermione Granger. Well,” he added with a gleam in his eye, “maybe
Hermione *Potter.*”

Hermione’s eyes softened immediately. “I love you for worrying about me, Harry, for wanting to keep
me safe. But *no one* will be safe if Voldemort isn’t stopped. There will be nowhere to hide.
Your…your parents’ death proved that.” She paused, seeing the momentary twinge in Harry’s shoulders
at this painful but necessary reminder. “We have to do this. Now.

“I’ve begun to think it’s for the best if Voldemort *does* attack the school. Our defensive
spells are among the most potent in the world. And with Dumbledore leading us, I know we’ll not
only survive, but win out. The sooner we take Voldemort down, the sooner the world can breathe
normally again.

“Besides,” she added with a slightly pained smile, “if you lock me away in a broom cupboard, the
Blood Circle will be broken. All of our work and preparation – ours and everyone else’s – will have
been for naught.”

“How exactly *does* that work?” piped a high-pitched, somewhat timid voice from Harry’s right.
He and Hermione turned to see Neville Longbottom standing in the open doorway. Neville lowered his
head slightly in an apologetic gesture. “Sorry to just barge in. I was going to knock, but the door
was open, and in order to reach the door to knock on it, I’d have to come in anyway, so…” Neville’s
voice trailed off, and Harry laughed good-naturedly.

“No worries, Neville. I’ve told you loads of times, any time the door is open, just come right in.
When I want privacy, I’ll *close* the door, won’t I? *Then* you can knock.”

Neville smiled nervously before his face came alert. “I just remembered why I came in. Professor
McGonagall said it’s all cleared with the Floo Regulation Board. You and Hermione can leave on
schedule.”

“Thanks, Neville,” Harry smiled. Turning to Hermione, he asked, “You ready to go, love?”

“Yes,” Hermione said. “But you didn’t answer Neville’s question, did you?”

“What question? Oh – the Blood Circle, right. Um…suppose *you* explain it to him.”

Hermione gave Harry a disapproving frown before turning to face Neville with her warm, friendly
smile back in place.

“The Blood Circle is very old magic, Neville. It’s both a Charm and a ceremony. And as the name
implies, blood is a key ingredient.”

Holding out her left hand, Hermione showed Neville a thin, white, nearly invisible line running
diagonally across her palm.

“The spell is commonly used on three people,” she said, “though the number varies in accordance
with each grouping. It seems to work at its best, however, when only three are involved. Three is a
very powerful number. Three represents the pyramid, the strongest geometric shape. The upper point
can support a tremendous weight, so long as the foundation remains strong. With the two anchoring
and supporting the third, the Circle represents tremendous power when properly employed.”

“I thought the egg was the strongest shape in nature,” Harry said in a quiet undertone.

“But not just *any* group of people can form the Blood Circle,” Hermione stressed, ignoring
Harry, who merely smiled. “It has to be a group who are closely linked by friendship and love –
people whose minds and hearts are fused through years of mutual trial and unshakable fraternity.
The Charm unites them, fuses their individuality into a oneness of mind and heart, imparting a
power far in excess of their combined strengths. The whole thus becomes *more* than the sum of
its parts.

“But its success depends almost entirely on a oneness that *already* exists between them.
That's why three is considered the ideal number for the Circle. A small, close group usually
shares a stronger bond than a larger one. The Charm doesn't *create* oneness, but rather
it uses the unity that already exists as a foundation and builds on that, strengthening it to the
Nth degree. When united by the Blood Circle, a trio whose friendship has been forged in the fires
of adversity can be the equal of a small army, provided the participants are wholly dedicated to
their purpose. It’s only rarely that the Blood Circle is successfully created. One flaw in any of
the links can weaken the chain and cause the Circle to shatter. And when the Circle consists of
only three, it’s crucial that each point be sharp, each side unbending. Remove one side from a
hexagon, the other sides can close in to form a pentagon. But remove one side of a *triangle*,
the remaining two sides collapse.

“So, though the three-sided Circle is the most efficient, it’s also the one most easily destroyed
if the three links aren’t bonded securely. That's why it's critical that the three
participants be as closely joined as possible before they undertake to form the Circle.”

“Ron is the third link in *your* chain, right?” Neville said.

“Ron is the one who suggested it,” Harry interjected. “Well, it was Moody who had the original
idea. He mentioned it to Ron one day Summer last, and Ron told Hermione and me about it the night
we arrived at the Burrow.”

“Who performed the Charm?” Neville asked.

“Dumbledore,” Hermione said. “With Flitwick’s help. But in order for the Charm to work, the three
of us had to perform part of it ourselves.”

“I could never have done that,” Neville said timidly.

“Sure you could,” Harry assured him. “Don’t forget, we both saw you in action at the Ministry at
the end of Fifth Year.”

“Yes,” Hermione agreed heartily. “You did your mum and dad proud that day.”

Neville reddened slightly before his eyes narrowed strangely.

“W-Will this Blood Circle enable you to…to defeat the D-Dark Lord?”

“Of itself, no,” Hermione said. “Voldemort is *very* powerful, and much as I hate to admit it,
he has a decided advantage over us. *He* has no compunction against using Dark Magic.”

“But Dumbledore came up with a viable solution,” Harry said. “It’s not Dark Magic, but it’s a close
cousin. It’s virtually forgotten by all but the most learned witches and wizards, which is just as
well, because it isn’t something that just any wizard can pull off.”

“Wh-What is it?” Neville said hesitantly.

“A potion,” Harry said. “In ancient days, before magic was refined with the development of wands,
potions played a much larger role in the war between good and evil. A very old Sumerian text, of
which Dumbledore owns a copy, describes a ceremony involving a potion which acts as a sort of
magical armor against one’s foe.”

“And P-Professor Snape made you this potion?”

“Say what you want about Snape,” Harry grunted, “but there’s probably no better potions brewer in
Britain. It’s a good job he re-joined our side. I’d hate to think what deviltry he might have got
up to if he were still serving Voldemort.”

Neville’s eyes seemed no more than slits now. Abruptly his face resumed its typical benign
timidity.

“And y-you said there was a ceremony?” Neville asked.

“Yes,” Harry said. “There’s one key ingredient without which the potion is useless. And an
incantation must accompany its addition; speak a single syllable wrong, the whole lot is just
rubbish.”

“What *is* the secret ingredient?” Neville asked somewhat hesitantly.

“A personal artifact from the enemy himself. Usually hair or blood. And that was the real trick.
Where could we get a piece of Voldemort to complete the potion? It’s not like we could just sneak
into his chamber and snatch a few hairs from his pillow.”

“So what *did* you use?” Neville said in an anticipatory hush.

“Hermione?” Harry said, nodding to one side.

Following Harry’s gaze, Hermione turned toward Harry’s writing table, which was littered with
scrolls of half-finished homework (at which she tutted under her breath). Lying to one side, easily
spotted in the midst of Harry’s school items, was an old, unsavory-looking book. She picked this up
and handed it to Harry, who held it out for Neville to see.

“This is Tom Riddle’s diary,” Harry said. When Neville responded with a blank look, Harry
elaborated. “Tom Riddle is Voldemort’s real name. The name he used when he was a student here at
Hogwarts.”

“H-How did *you* get it?” Neville said wonderingly.

“Interesting story, that,” Harry smiled grimly. “You remember the Chamber of Secrets? *This*
is why it was opened again after fifty years. Lucius Malfoy, Draco’s father, slipped this diary
into Ginny’s cauldron when we were buying school supplies in Diagon Alley. This book held the
essence of Tom Riddle’s mind – his life-force, if you will. But not any more.” Harry pointed to a
black-edged hole in the middle of the book’s cover. “The poison from the basilisk’s fang ‘killed’
the spirit possessing the book. But, like any ‘dead body,’ the book still represents a physical
aspect of Riddle. As far as the spell is concerned, any fragment of this book is as good as the
blood from Voldemort’s veins. ”

Neville’s eyes were intent on the book now. “But…” he said in a barely audible whisper, “…how did
*you* get it?” Harry smiled grimly.

“After Tom Riddle was destroyed, I gave this diary back to Draco’s father. He tossed it aside, not
wanting to admit to his complicity in the attacks and all, and Dobby the house-elf picked it up.
Dobby is very fond of this book. He wouldn’t be a free elf today without it.”

“R-Really?” Neville said.

“When I gave this to Mr. Malfoy,” Harry chuckled, “it was tucked into my sock. He tossed the sock
into the air, where Dobby caught it. If a house-elf’s master gives him *any* article of
clothing, the magic bonding the elf into servitude is broken. Dobby kept the sock *and* the
diary. They’re like holy artifacts to him. When we got the idea to use the diary in the potion
ceremony, I wasn’t sure he’d want to give it up.”

“Bloody hell, Harry,” Hermione put in with a shake of her bushy head. “Dobby *worships* you.
He’d cut off his *ears* if you asked him to!”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to *that*,” Harry said, returning Hermione’s smile.

Neville was scrutinizing the diary closely now. His mouth was pressed into a very thin line, rather
like Professor McGonagall when she was expressing severe disapproval.

“We tore a page out of the diary,” Harry resumed. “It was burned in the flame of a black candle,
and the ashes were added to the potion, accompanied by the incantation. When we all drank the
potion – Ron, Hermione and I – we absorbed a small portion of Voldemort’s essence. And that’s the
key. You see, all magic has a personal ‘signature,’ partly from the wand, but mostly from its user.
All magic originates in the mage’s magical blood. Well, the three of us now have a bit of Voldemort
in *our* blood. Our personal auras should ‘harmonize’ with Voldemort’s, making us less
vulnerable to his magic.”

“Of course,” Hermione interjected, “it’s worth bugger all against his Death Eaters.”

“Well,” Harry shrugged, “if we’re not good enough to get past *them*, then we wouldn’t survive
against Voldemort anyway.”

Neville’s head turned slightly, and his eyes went round. “Look at the time! Shouldn’t you be
leaving soon?”

Harry stole a look at the baby grandfather clock which stood by the door, and he nodded. “Almost
eleven. Our window opens in one minute.” Turning to Hermione, he said, “All ready, love?”

“All we need is the Floo powder,” Hermione said.

“Right,” Harry said, his brow wrinkling now across the thin line of his lightning scar. “Now, where
did I leave that pouch?”

“Is that it?” Neville piped up, pointing to the mantel of the fireplace. Harry turned about and
spied the small pouch, sitting between two framed photos, one of his parents, the other of
Hermione. Harry took a step, but Neville said quickly, “I’ll get it for you, Harry!”

Before Harry could stop him, Neville drew his wand and pointed it at the fireplace.

*“Accio pouch!”*

The drawstring pouch leaped from the mantel and flew directly at Neville, who, as Harry had feared
from the start, did not raise his free hand in time. The pouch smacked into Neville’s face, and as
he stepped back his feet tangled in his robes and he fell onto his backside. Harry and Hermione
rushed forward, quickly saw that Neville was uninjured, and they each took an arm to help him to
his feet.

“Sorry, Harry,” Neville apologized, his round face reddening.

“No worries,” Harry laughed. He picked up the fallen pouch and brandished it. “See, still snug. Not
a bit spilled.”

“That’s good,” Neville said. “So, um, I guess you’d best be off, right?”

“Right you are,” Harry agreed. He nodded toward the open door, and Neville exited, followed by
Hermione and Harry, the latter of whom locked his door with an unbreakable Locking Charm
(unbreakable by any but Hermione, to whom he had given the secret of the tricky wand movement which
alone unlocked the door).

Harry’s chamber was at the very top of the boys’ spiral staircase. There were, in fact, separate
quarters for Head Boy and Head Girl in each of the four Hogwarts Houses. It was only rarely that
the two highest student posts were assigned to members of the same House. The last time it had
happened, it was Harry’s parents, James Potter and Lily Evans, who simultaneously occupied the
matching chambers at the pinnacle of Gryffindor Tower.

The Head Boy and Head Girl quarters, though occupying the same tower, were separated by an
impregnable stone wall – the very wall into which was set the back-to-back fireplaces which warmed
the two opposing rooms. It was by this means that Harry and Hermione traveled throughout the castle
at need (and by which each visited the other after hours, to avoid being subjected to their
housemates’ bawdy humor). Harry frequently thought back to his third year at Hogwarts, when first
he had seen Professor Lupin step calmly out of Snape’s fire and into the Potions Master’s office.
It had been a startling sight then, but now, nearly four years later, it was become for Harry a
routine like any other in the magical world.

Unfortunately, his and Hermione’s fireplaces shared a separate chimney from the great fireplace in
the common room below. Since it was only the common room fire which had been temporarily linked to
the Floo Network, Harry could not use his own convenient fire for today’s journey. Nor could he
just step into his own fire and emerge in the common room; his fireplace was linked only to the
teachers’ offices (including, of course, Dumbledore’s), as well as to the teachers’ lounge. The two
Heads could thus be summoned at a moment’s notice when duty called.

There was also an optional Charm which linked the Head Boy’s fire to the Head Girl’s, most useful
on those occasions when one Head was housed in Gryffindor Tower and the other in Slytherin’s
dungeon. Harry and Hermione had exercised this option many times since the beginning of term,
sparing Hermione the embarrassment of being seen to walk up the boys’ staircase in full view of the
Gryffindor common room on those occasions when her visit was prompted by less than professional
motivation. (Harry, of course, could not use the girls’ staircase, which was enchanted to prevent
any boy from climbing it.)

The three emerged at last into the common room, where they found Ron waiting for them, his
trademark grin on his face and a square of folded parchment in his hand.

“Any news from Bill?” Harry asked as he spied the Gringotts Wizarding Bank seal on the top corner
of the parchment Ron held.

“Not much,” Ron said. “He and Fleur still haven’t set a date. Mum’s going crackers, says she
doesn’t want the two of them living together like common Muggles.”

“I’ll have a talk with Fleur when we visit the Burrow over the Christmas holidays,” Hermione said.
“And Harry can – “

“Leave me out of it,” Harry said quickly. “Besides,” he added hastily when Hermione’s eyes flashed
momentarily, “once they see how happy Hermione and I are as a properly engaged couple, it’s only a
matter of time, innit?”

“Nice save, Potter,” Hermione chuckled. “You should’ve been a Keeper instead of a Seeker.”

“We already have a Keeper,” Harry responded, nodding at Ron. “And a bloody good one, I might
add.”

“There *is* one odd thing in Bill’s letter,” Ginny put in as she emerged from the girls’
staircase and joined the conversation. “It appears someone broke into one of the tombs Bill and his
mates have been de-Cursing.”

“Did they steal anything?” Hermione asked. “Gold…or artifacts?” It was the latter which worried her
more, as the ancient Egyptian wizards had enchanted some extremely powerful objects which many had
long feared might be used by Voldemort in his war against the Light Side.”

“Well, that’s the odd thing,” Ginny said. “As far as they can tell, nothing was taken.”

“Then why did they go to the trouble of combating all those Curses to break in?” Hermione
puzzled.

Ginny looked from Hermione to Harry, then to Ron, who shrugged and shook his head, feeling that the
subject had already received more attention than was its due.

“Where you two off to, then?” he asked, as much to redirect the conversation as out of
curiosity.

“Top secret,” Harry said, pressing a finger to his lips. “I could tell you, but…”

“You’d have to put a Memory Charm on me, I know,” Ron laughed.

“Top secret, my backside,” Hermione said with a twinkle in her eye. “We’re off to Diagon Alley. I
ordered new dress robes for the Halloween Ball, and their owl arrived this morning telling me
they’re ready. They cut it bloody close, too. The Ball is tonight, for Merlin’s sake!”

“I keep telling her she doesn’t need new dress robes,” Harry said. “I still think those blue ones
are smashing.”

“Harry James Potter!” Hermione scolded. “I outgrew those robes ages ago! They’re three sizes too
small! And if you even *think* of responding to that,” she added tersely, “ you can bloody
well dress Millicent Bulstrode in my old robes and take *her* to the ball! I daresay they’ll
be even *tighter* on *her!*”

“Professor Dumbledore arranged for the Floo Network to be hooked up to the fire for two ten-minute
windows, right?” Ginny said hastily, her hand covering a smile as Ron trembled with silent
laughter.

“The first of which is going to close in one minute,” Hermione said, one eye on Harry, the other on
her watch. “If I don’t get to wear those new robes after all the trouble I went to, all the
fittings I stood for…”

“Say no more, love,” Harry said as he opened the pouch in his hand and held it out for Hermione to
dip inside and extract a pinch. Tugging the drawstring tight, Harry tucked the pouch into his robes
and slipped his arm around Hermione’s waist, drawing her close. Grinning up at her fiancée,
Hermione turned and tossed the Floo powder into the roaring flames, which immediately turned
emerald green. With a good-bye wave at their friends, they leaped into the flames to a chorus of,
“Diagon Alley!,” and with a great whooshing sound, they vanished.

With the departure of Harry and Hermione, the small crowd dispersed quickly and went back to their
individual pursuits. As Ginny seated herself and picked up a battered copy of *Witch Weekly*
magazine, Ron turned to Neville and said, “Fancy a game of chess, mate? Harry’s so busy nowadays,
we haven’t played in ages.”

“S-Sorry,” Neville said. “I have to go. I…forgot something.”

“You need another Remembrall,” Ron said as Neville pushed against the back of the Fat Lady’s
portrait, which swung open easily. “I’ll get you one for Christmas.”

“Th-Thanks,” Neville said with a weak smile. “See you.”

As the portrait swung closed behind him, Neville stood for a moment as a shadow passed across his
round-cheeked face. His eyes, which had been soft and benign, grew hard as flint. A very
uncharacteristic expression twisted his face, something akin to a sneer. He reached into his pocket
and withdrew a small drawstring pouch. He cradled the pouch in his palm, surveying it with a sort
of Machiavellian satisfaction. He laughed shortly, a cold, hard, biting laugh.

“So much for your triangle, Potter!”

He laughed again, then shoved the pouch back into his pocket and moved swiftly down the corridor,
his eyes darting back and forth to his watch as he quickened his pace and disappeared through a
shadowed doorway leading to the dungeons.








2. Into the Fire
----------------





**Thanks for coming back, and for the kind reviews for Chapter 1. The chapter below will contain
two details not particular to canon. I'll address them in greater depth in a postscript. For
now, read and enjoy.


**
*** * ***
**


**
**Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow**
**


**
**Chapter 2**
**


**
**Into the Fire**







Neville slunk through the shadowy bowels of Hogwarts Castle. His path was not straight, but his
destination was no less certain for that. He ducked through tapestries concealing hidden doorways,
answered a challenge from a night-black suit of armor that sought to block his way with a
blood-stained battle axe, hissed curses at a portrait of an old hag, her seamed face twisted with
hate as she croaked, “You don’t belong here, boy! Go back to your own House!”

At last Neville stopped before a stretch of blank stone wall. “Password,” he muttered in
irritation. “They changed the password last night – ah, yes. *Mudblood filth*.”

The outline of a door appeared in the midst of the featureless stone, and Neville pushed it open
and entered the chamber that lay behind it.

The Slytherin common room was long and low, lighted by lamps which suffused all with a sickly
greenish glow. Two Slytherin First-Years were doing some homework in front of the hearth, in which
somber flames burned low. Apart from them, the common room was deserted.

The opposite wall of the serpentine chamber was broken by seven doors, each marked with a number
from 1 to 7. Beyond these lay the dormitories housing the student body of Slytherin House. Neville
passed these doors without so much as a glance. Instead he walked the length of the room and passed
under a tapestry woven of black silk. He found himself in an alcove from which six doors debouched,
each marked with an ornate letter P around which a green serpent was twisted. Neville drew his wand
and traced a complex rune before the first door on the right, which immediately swung open. He
entered the chamber beyond, closing and locking the door behind him.

Neville crossed the 5th-year prefect’s quarters and, rounding the double-wide four-poster bed,
stood before a trunk which bore seven keyholes. Grinning malevolently, Neville fetched a ring of
keys from the top left drawer of an antique writing desk. He flipped through the keys, found the
one he wanted and thrust it into the seventh lock. The lid sprang open, and with a hideous grin
Neville looked down upon – himself.

The Neville Longbottom at the bottom of the trunk was clad only in socks, knickers and an
undershirt. He lay unmoving, his eyes closed as if in sleep. Even as he surveyed the motionless
form of his mirror image, the watcher’s face began to change. From round and soft, it became thin
and hatchet-like. The black hair paled to silver-blond, and the deep brown eyes to an icy
grey.

Having felt his skin crawl in concert with the change, Draco Malfoy surveyed himself in the
silver-framed mirror hanging beside the dresser – and he laughed.

“Thank the Dark Lord,” he sneered down at the prone figure of the true Neville Longbottom. “I was
getting sick of seeing your fat, stupid face every time I passed a mirror.” Pitching the ring of
keys onto his bed, Draco dipped a slender white hand into a pocket and pulled out a phial
half-filled with a thick, mud-colored liquid. Holding the phial before him, he looked into the
trunk and sneered, “Ever hear of Polyjuice Potion, you great oaf? Likely not. N.E.W.T. standard,
this is. Bet you lot in Gryffindor couldn’t brew up a batch to save your lives. And even if you
*could*, it’s not bloody likely that *I’d* be fooled by a sodding Polyjuice impostor.” He
laughed again, tossing the phial onto the bed next to the keys and pulling off Neville’s robes,
which were both too broad and too short for his lanky frame.

Donning fresh robes from his dresser, Draco peered over the edge of the trunk, his wand held at the
ready. There was a momentary flicker of conflict in his pale eyes.

“No,” he said regretfully. “Much as I’d prefer to have you climb out under your own power, it’s not
worth risking Azkaban to use the Imperius on you. Ah, well. There are other ways.” Pointing his
wand downward, he said, *“Wingardium Leviosa!”*

Neville drifted up from the floor of the trunk, lurching this way and that as his dangling limbs
and lolling head caused his center of gravity to shift. He bumped against the walls of the trunk
with every foot he rose, and Draco laughed again.

“I take it back. This is *much* more fun.”

Neville rose past the edge of the trunk, and Draco directed him with his wand until he was hovering
above an ornate Persian rug at a height of about three feet. Draco jerked his wand up, negating the
spell, and Neville crashed to the stone floor.

“As clumsy as you are,” Draco sneered, “no one will find a few new bruises unusual.”

Draco grabbed a handful of Neville’s hair and jerked him into a sitting position, thereafter
propping him against one of the bedposts. With a distasteful scowl, he knelt and replaced Neville’s
shoes. “This is servant’s work,” he muttered as he looped and tied the laces. “Honestly, the school
should assign a house-elf to each of the prefects. There must be loads down in the kitchens that do
nothing but sit on their lazy arses all day. Do ’em good to serve a proper pureblood wizard instead
of that lot of blood traitors.”

But this thought soured his mood even more. His father had never told him how they had lost their
own house-elf, Dobby. His father hadn’t mentioned Riddle’s diary, either. Damn his father and his
secrets. But he should have known that Potter had had a hand in it. Meddling, Mudblood-loving
Potter, his own personal demon, taunting him, bringing him nothing but misery. But no more, he
mused with a twisted smile. No more.

He caught up Neville’s robes and flung them indifferently over the insensate boy’s head. As he
tugged them impatiently into place, he felt a bulge in one of the pockets. He pulled out the small
drawstring pouch, and his smile grew more venomous.

“Wouldn’t want you to find *this* in your pocket, Longbottom. Don’t want to give them any
clues, do we? If anyone were to recognize this as Potter’s Floo powder, there might be, shall we
say, embarrassing questions.”

A small piece of folded parchment had fallen from Neville's pocket with the removal of the
pouch. Draco picked it up and unfolded it, grinning. It was a list of the Gryffindor passwords,
which Neville had written down as a safeguard against his unreliable memory. Everyone in school
knew of the incident wherein Sirius Black had invaded Gryffindor Tower by means of a similar list
obtained from Neville. This was one reason he had been chosen by Draco as his Polyjuice subject.
Draco stuffed the list back into Neville's pocket, lest its absence lead to still more
questions best not asked.

Standing up now, Draco looked down on Neville, surveying his handiwork smugly. “What a pathetic
excuse for a pureblood you are, Longbottom. If your family’d had any common sense, you’d all have
sided with the Dark Lord from the first. If they’d done that, you wouldn’t be a virtual orphan
today, would you?

“You and the Weasleys never realized, it’s all about power. Look at this chamber.” He swept an arm
around the room grandly. “Dumbledore took away my prefect’s badge after the Umbridge affair. But I
bullied the new 5th–year prefect into giving me *his* room. He’s doubled with the 6th-year in
the next chamber over. The Malfoy name is *still* a force to be reckoned with. My father may
be in Azkaban, but it’s only a matter of time, isn’t it? The Dark Lord broke his loyal servants out
once before, and he’ll do it again. And now, with Potter and his Mudblood whore gone, that day will
not be long in coming. If you don’t wise up and switch sides, Longbottom, you’ll go the way of your
parents. If you’re lucky.”

Careless though he had been in re-dressing the other boy, Draco was satisfied that Neville looked
no more disheveled than was normal for him. With a decisive nod, Draco drew his wand again and
pointed it downward.

*“Ennervate!”*

Neville’s eyes sprang open. With the return of conscious feeling, Neville immediately felt the deep
ache of his bruises, both those just acquired, and those incurred when Crabbe and Goyle had waylaid
him on his way back from breakfast earlier that morning. Blinking stupidly, Neville looked around
until he saw Draco standing over him.

“M-Malfoy?” he stammered. “What – where am I?”

“Do you remember what happened to you?” Draco inquired coolly.

“I – “ Neville said hesitantly, “ – someone – hit me – “ As if this memory had reawakened the pain
of the actual event, Neville raised his hand to the back of his head, where he found a large, soft
lump that pulsed hotly when he touched it.

“You fell down,” Draco said condescendingly, speaking as though to a six-year-old.

“No,” Neville said, wincing in pain as his voice echoed in his throbbing head. “I *didn’t*
fall. It was – “

Neville’s eyes suddenly went round with realization.

“It was *you! You* hit me!”

“No,” Draco said smoothly. “You’re mistaken.”

“If it wasn’t you,” Neville said, his anger rising, “it was your goons, Crabbe and Goyle. And
everyone knows they only do what you tell them to.”

“You really believe that?” Draco said, his voice remaining calm.

“Yes!” Neville said.

“And I suppose you’re off to tell the headmaster?”

“Bloody well *right* I am!”

Draco sighed. “You’re stupider than you look – and *that’s* saying something.” In a motion
swift as a flash of heat lightning, Draco stabbed his wand at Neville and barked,
*“Obliviate!”*

Neville’s anger melted away, along with every other thought or emotion. A dreamy look spread across
his face, and Draco pocketed his wand and bent to help Neville to his feet.

“By the time you can think clearly again – if you ever could, that is,” Draco added caustically,
“you’ll be in the corridor leading to the Great Hall. If anyone asks,” he said pointedly, fixing
Neville’s glassy eyes with his cold-fire orbs, “you ate too much at breakfast and went outside for
some fresh air to settle your stomach. You got that?”

“I’ve been walking,” Neville said vacantly. “It’s lovely outside this time of year. The leaves are
turning such beautiful colors. I love to walk through the fallen leaves. Do *you* like to walk
through the leaves – “ Neville paused, his brow furrowing. “Sorry…I seem to have forgotten your
name.”

“I’m just a friend,” Draco said as he guided Neville through the Slytherin common room and out into
the corridor, ignoring the wide-eyed stares of the two First-Years sprawled on the hearth.

“A friend,” Neville echoed pleasantly. “That’s good. Bloke can’t have too many friends, can
he?”

“That’s true,” Draco said agreeably. “But if he isn't careful,” he added under his breath, “he
*can* have one *enemy* too many.”


*** * ***



As Harry and Hermione traveled through the Floo Network toward Diagon Alley, they had no idea where
they would end up. Diagon Alley was the busiest spot in wizard Britain, making it far and away the
most frequent destination for both Apparating and non-Apparating wizards. The latter proved quite a
headache for the dispatchers at the Floo Network. It was their job to route travelers as quickly
and smoothly as possible along the many byways of the Network. But there were so many destinations
in Diagon Alley that any one fire was liable to be occupied at a given moment, causing a back-up in
the system of potentially catastrophic proportions. To alleviate this congestion, the Floo
Regulatory Commission decreed that travelers could not specify a particular location, but must
simply declare their destination as “Diagon Alley.” It then fell to the dispatchers to monitor the
traffic to and from that general location and insert travelers into the first open fire that turned
up.

All this had been explained to Harry by Hermione when he had related to her and Ron his
near-disastrous journey to Knockturn Alley during his first visit to the Burrow.

“When they see a lot of people Flooing from one location,” she said, “they always try to send them
to the same fire. But all too often, that's easier said than done. When you first made your
first Floo journey with the Weasleys, you were going to buy school supplies, right? How many other
Hogwarts students were doing the same thing? Imagine if all of them had announced their destination
as, say, Flourish and Blotts. Can you picture the mayhem of so many people trying to come out of
the same fire all at once?”

Harry did not have to imagine it. Something very similar had happened on Privet Drive when the
Weasleys came to fetch Harry prior to the Quidditch World Cup. None of the Weasleys had imagined
that the Dursleys would have blocked their fireplace and substituted an electric fire. The Weasleys
could laugh about the incident now, in retrospect, but it had been anything but funny at the time.
Harry understood that the Floo Regulatory Board could not permit such a back-up in a public venue.
It was only natural, therefore, that multiple travelers expect to be separated in the course of
their journey.

But that wasn't going to happen *this* time, Harry thought as he and Hermione sped through
the air toward their destination. Locked firmly in each other's arms, they would emerge from
the same fire when they ultimately came to journey's end. The only question was, which fire
would it be?

Whooshing blurs that were travelers like themselves flashed by on every side. As Harry and Hermione
watched one grate after another fly past, they knew that, at any moment, one of these would
eventually flash “clear” on the Floo Central control panel, and a dispatcher would push a wooden
peg into an enchanted board, completing the open-ended Transfer Spell and depositing them at their
destination.

And no sooner did that thought occur to Harry than the deed was done. Awash in a soft bath of green
flames, he and Hermione tumbled abruptly out of a fireplace and got quickly to their feet. Now that
they had arrived, their grate would flash a “clear” signal back at Floo Central, and they did not
want to risk being trod upon by the next traveler to fall from this particular grate. This was the
busiest time of the year for the wizarding world, and the air was no doubt filled to bursting with
magical creatures of every sort setting out upon (or returning from) last-minute Halloween
shopping.

“I keep forgetting how filthy traveling by Floo is,” Hermione groused as she shook soot from her
bushy brown hair.

“I’ll be glad when we finally get our Apparation licenses,” Harry said as he ruffled his hair,
making it even messier than usual as particles of soot clouded the air. “Until then, I'd settle
for being able to enchant a portkey. I understand Portkey Theory comes up in N.E.W.T., so I’m sure
Flitwick will be bringing it up eventually.”

“Oh, I already know how to enchant a portkey,” Hermione said indifferently.

“You *what?*” Harry gaped. *“How?”*

“I’m taking an Advanced Charms class,” Hermione returned. “Just as *you’re* taking Advanced
Potions and Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

Harry was flabbergasted. “Then why in Merlin’s name are we traveling by Floo when you could have
Charmed us up a portkey at any time?”

“Because you can’t just whip up a portkey whenever the fancy strikes you,” Hermione said with a
note of impatience.

“Why not?”

Hermione gave Harry another of her withering stares as they moved farther away from the fireplace,
shaking her robes to dislodge loose particles of soot.

“Enchanting a portkey is like booking a flight on a Muggle aeroplane. A plane can’t just take off
and fly wherever it wants. A flight plan has to be filed. It’s the same with portkeys. That's
why the Ministry regulates the enchantment of portkeys, just like it regulates Floo travel.

“You saw how crowded the air all around us was with people traveling by Floo, right? Imagine the
chaos that would result if Floo Central wasn’t regulating all those hurtling bodies. Portkey travel
is just as crowded. If two people inadvertently set portkeys for cross-destinations, they could
clash in mid-air, just like a plane. Honestly, Harry. If you’d listen to Professor Flitwick instead
of thinking about Quidditch – “

“Our Quidditch victories add points to Gryffindor’s hourglass,” Harry said defensively. “They’ve
helped us win the House championship for – “

“There are more important things than House points and Championship Cups, Harry.”

“More important things than House points?” Harry repeated incredulously. “We’d best get you to a
Healer, love. I think you’re running a fever.”

“If we don’t get to Madam Malkin’s before she closes for the holiday,” Hermione said tartly, “then
*you’re* the one who’d better run. Otherwise, you’ll be wearing my bootprint on your backside
from now until Ron’s birthday.”

“Point taken,” Harry smiled. Looking around now, Harry realized that they didn’t even know where
they had landed. But when he caught sight of the bar, and the man standing behind it, he grinned.
He waved at the bartender, who responded with an acknowledging jerk of his bald head and a broad,
toothless smile.

“Mr. Potter,” Tom greeted as Harry and Hermione crossed the table-strewn floor of the Leaky
Cauldron. “The usual, then?”

“No time now, Tom,” Harry said. “Maybe later.”

Tom nodded amiably, but when he caught sight of Hermione, whom he had missed due to her short
stature, his eyes narrowed. His grin widening obscenely, he said in a conspiratorial whisper,
“You’ll be wantin’ a room, then? Got one with a built-in Silencing Charm. Privacy
guaranteed.”

Momentarily speechless at Tom’s unexpected offer, Harry said at last, “No, no room.” He felt the
need to say more, to ask why Tom had made such an offer in the first place, but Hermione jerked the
sleeve of his robes and dragged him toward the back door before he could put his jumbled thoughts
into words.

“Why did he ask if I wanted a room?” Harry wondered aloud as Hermione pulled him close to the stone
wall separating the Leaky Cauldron (and Muggle London) from Diagon Alley.

“What?” Hermione said distractedly as she counted the bricks in the wall carefully, her index
finger wagging before her. “What did you say?”

“I said – “ But Harry never got to finish his thought. Hermione found the brick she was searching
for, touched it, and the stone wall shrank away on either side until an arched doorway stood open
before them.

“Hurry,” Hermione urged. “Madam Malkin closes at noon today. I may need some last-minute
alterations, so there’s no time to muck about.”

Hermione scurried past the many quaint and fascinating shops lining either side of Diagon Alley,
Harry trotting in her wake, as she made a beeline for a door standing under a sign that read Madam
Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions.”

“I *still* don’t know why we didn’t just go to Gladrags in Hogsmeade,” Harry sighed, his long
legs easily keeping pace with Hermione’s frantic scurrying. “They had virtually the same robes as
the ones you picked out, and we could’ve *walked* there.”

“The same robes at *twice* the *cost*,” Hermione panted, which thought made her place a
hand to the pocket in which rode her money pouch. “Honestly, Harry! If we’re going to keep a
household running smoothly after we’re married, we’ve got to get every Knut’s worth out of every
Galleon. We’ve got to learn to *budget* ourselves. I expect we’ll accomplish a lot of good in
our chosen careers, but no one ever got rich working for the Ministry of Magic.”

Gasping for breath doubly hard from running and talking simultaneously, Hermione burst into Madam
Malkin’s shop three steps ahead of Harry and collapsed into a chair, holding her side with one hand
and patting her money pouch reassuringly with the other.

Madam Malkin emerged from the back of the shop just as Harry entered. She greeted him with a smile,
her arms open.

“Ah, Mr. Potter! And what can I do for you on this beautiful Halloween morning?”

“I think there’s another customer before me,” Harry said, suppressing a smile as he nodded toward
Hermione, who was rising from her chair on unsteady legs. Madam Malkin looked from Hermione to
Harry and back again, and her smile retreated into one of detached professionalism.

“May I help you?” Madam Malkin said in a clipped, formal voice.

“I’m – “ Hermione said as she regulated her breathing, “— here – to pick up – my dress robes –
“

“Your ticket, please?” Madam Malkin said crisply.

Hermione and Harry exchanged a mildly surprised look as Hermione fished in her robes for her
ticket. It was customary procedure, of course, to produce one’s ticket for a special tailoring job.
But over the past couple of years, Harry and Hermione had come to expect a more personal touch from
Madam Malkin, especially since they had only last month contracted her to supply formal dress robes
for the entire wedding party. Madam Malkin had treated Harry as warmly as ever upon his entry just
now – but why was she being so coldly distant to Hermione?

When Hermione handed over her ticket, Madam Malkin scrutinized it with an intensity to equal Molly
Weasley appraising Fred’s and George’s pockets for the presence of Ton-Tongue Toffees. Harry led
Hermione back to her chair and sat down beside her as Madam Malkin disappeared into the back room.
The old witch returned less than a minute later, her normally pleasant face hard as flint.

“This ticket,” she said, thrusting it out before her as if it were contaminated, “is invalid. If
this is a Halloween prank, I assure you we are *not* amused.”

“What?” Hermione leaped up and snatched the ticket from Madam Malkin, drawing it to her face to
read the writing thereon. Was it possible that one of their friends – or, more likely, an enemy –
had switched tickets on her? But no, there was the number Hermione remembered, scrawled in Madam
Malkin’s own hand. It was even initialed by Madam Malkin. Hermione looked up into Madam Malkin’s
stony face.

“You did these robes up *yourself,*” Hermione said, half angry, half panicked, as she
brandished the ticket before her like a sword. “You told me you would handle it *personally*.
I stood for three fittings – “

“Not in this shop you didn’t, young lady,” Madam Malkin said sharply.

Hermione was now fighting back tears. “Y-You told me…they’d be ready…for the…the Halloween
Ball…”

“The what?” Madam Malkin said, her eyes suddenly raking Harry with the same caustic look she had
heretofore reserved solely for Hermione.

“The Hogwarts Halloween Ball,” Hermione said weakly. Madam Malkin snorted imperiously.

“The Halloween Ball has been cancelled this year,” she said, firing her words like an arrow from a
taut bowstring. “As you would *know* if you were a Hogwarts student as you claim. You
don't look old enough to have graduated,” she observed haughtily. “More likely you were
expelled for some deviltry and were attempting to infiltrate the Ball, not knowing that it had been
cancelled at some point *after* your dismissal.”

“The Ball has been cancelled?” Harry blurted out. “When? How?”

“Hagrid related the story last night at the Leaky Cauldron, when he was in London on school
business,” Madam Malkin said as she eyed Harry shrewdly. “A group of Slytherins, who had been given
week-long detentions encompassing the Halloween holiday, set off some dung bombs in the Great Hall
during breakfast yesterday. They were determined that if *they* could not attend the Ball,
there would *be* no Ball. Upon examination, Mr. Filch estimated that he would need at least
forty-eight hours to rid the Great Hall of the stench. Students are taking their meals in their
dormitories until further notice, and the Ball will *not* be held as scheduled.

“*You* would not likely have heard of this, Mr. Potter,” she concluded. “Though that does not
necessarily exonerate you in certain *other* regards.” She flashed her eyes searingly at
Hermione before tugging her starched robes taut with claw-like fingers. “I will be closing shortly,
due to the holidays. I believe our business is concluded. Good day to you both.”

Both of them stunned speechless, Harry and Hermione exited Madam Malkin’s and drifted listlessly
past the shops of Diagon Alley, all of which showed evidence of preparing to close early for the
holidays. Walking aimlessly, the young couple found themselves back before the wall behind which
lay the Leaky Cauldron and Muggle London. The wall was solid once more, and Harry scrutinized the
bricks for fully five minutes before correctly choosing the one which would open the magical
doorway. Hermione could have made a quicker job of it, but she seemed to have “gone inside”
herself, and Harry thought it best not to disturb her thoughts just yet.

They entered the Leaky Cauldron, Harry’s arm holding Hermione’s shoulder comfortingly. Tom the
bartender walked over, his evil leer returning.

“Looks like I *will* need that room after all, Tom,” Harry said.

Tom’s toothless grin became positively lewd as he went to fetch the key to the room.



*** * ***
**



Postscript: Two things were necessary for this story to proceed toward its destination, neither of
which is supported by canon. First, we have seen no evidence that prefects enjoy private quarters.
We might assume that the Head Boy and Head Girl are of a station that they do not sleep in the
dormitories. When indignant Head Boy Percy turned up in PoA to complain about the commotion
following Sirius Black's invasion of Gryffindor Tower, he appeared totally clueless, arguing
that he was separated from the others in a private chamber. Why shouldn't the prefects have the
same perks? They have their own private bathroom. Don't they deserve private rooms, too? I
thought so -- and since it was essential to the story for Draco to have a private room to hide
Neville, I so ordered it. Ah, the privileges of a writer. AU covers a multitude of sins.

The other variation was the obvious reference to Hermione being younger than Harry rather than
older, as HBP clearly establishes. But before that book, Hermione's age was in doubt. At the
end of PoA, Dumbledore referred to Harry and Hermione as "two thirteen-year-old wizards."
If we are to believe J.K.'s assertion that Hermione was born in 1979, then our bushy-haired
know-it-all would have been only three months shy of her *fifteenth* birthday at the end of
PoA. Why would Dumbledore refer to her as a "thirteen-year-old," then? Surely such a wise
wizard would not have blundered in this manner. The answer seems to be that J.K. hadn't yet
decided to make Hermione older than Harry when she wrote PoA. It makes more sense to me to overlook
a 19-day gap in Hermione's age and admit her to Hogwarts at the age of 10 years and 346 days.
If Hermione entered school a year older than everyone else, it cheapens her accomplishments in my
opinion. Howbeit, Hermione's birth year in the story above is 1980, because that was the
general consensus at the time. Could I have changed this detail when the "truth" came
out? The short answer is, no. To say any more would be telling. Rest assured, future chapters will
make everything clear.

I hope everyone is as baffled as Harry and Hermione regarding what happened in this chapter. That
will ensure your return for another slice of the mystery pie next time. Until then, thanks for
reading.**






3. Dust
-------





**To reviewer brad: One of the ways I amuse myself is to take something from a book or story that
appears vague or incomplete and shape it into something that makes sense. In CoS, I wondered why
the Weasleys and Harry announced their destination as simply "Diagon Alley" when there
were so many distinct points within those magical borders. The short answer is that J.K. needed for
Harry to end up in Knockturn Alley, and he couldn't have done that if he had declared for a
specific location. There are a lot of quick-fix situations in the HP books that don't stand up
to close scrutiny. I find that by adding meat to these bare bones, I can accomplish the double goal
of making the books read more smoothly and providing grist for my own writing mill. My definition
of the workings of the Floo network made sense when I set them down, but I'm just as keen to
see if anyone else has a different view on things. In GoF, Arthur told Harry that he had to make
special arrangements to connect the Dursleys' fire to the Floo network, so we know that the
Ministry exercises some measure of control over these magical journeys (just as they regulate
simple communication via fire, as revealed in OotP). My notion is probably far afield of J.K.'s
vision of her magical world. But until she sees fit to explain some of these obscure details, it
falls to us fan writers to plug the gap by inserting our own vision into the mosaic.

More such personal visions await in subsequent chapters. There might even be one in the installment
below. There's one way to find out. Happy reading.


**
*** * ***
**


**
**Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow**
**


**
**Chapter 3**
**


**
**Dust**




It had been more than four years since Harry set foot on the upper levels of the Leaky Cauldron. It
was the Summer preceding his third year at Hogwarts, when he’d accidentally blown up his Aunt Marge
into something resembling a weather balloon in a tweed jacket. He’d gone on the run, only to find
the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, waiting for him on the doorstep of the Leaky Cauldron. To
his amazement, Fudge did not arrest or even punish him for his transgression, but secured him a
room above the pub, where he stayed until, accompanied by Hermione and the Weasleys, he journeyed
to King’s Cross station to board the train back to Hogwarts.

That was the year his godfather, Sirius Black, escaped from Azkaban on his mission to find and kill
the wizard who had betrayed Harry’s parents. Thinking back on that time now, Harry wished his
godfather had never escaped from the terrible wizard prison. Miserable though his existence might
be there, at least he would still be alive.

Harry shook these oppressive thoughts from his mind as he opened the door with his key and steered
Hermione inside. It wasn’t the same room Harry had occupied before, but only the number on the door
was proof of that distinction. The rooms over the pub were probably identical to the last stick of
furniture, and Harry doubted that they had changed since before he was born.

He sat Hermione down on the bed, where she stretched out and settled into the soft mattress with a
smile of gratitude.

“I’ll nip on down to the kitchens for some lunch,” Harry said, kissing her on the cheek. Hermione
nodded and closed her eyes.

Harry was met with a further disappointment downstairs. Since it was expected that he and Hermione
would be occupied at Madam Malkin’s until she closed her shop at noon, their return window had been
set for 1:00. That meant that they would miss lunch at school, so they had planned to eat at the
pub. Harry remembered the fine dinner they had all had before leaving for the station four years
ago, and he fully expected that he and Hermione would dine in like manner today. But his calculated
plans had hit a snag in the form of the Halloween holiday.

He knew that the Leaky Cauldron would not follow the example of the other shops and close early
today; pubs traditionally did their best business on holidays. Regardless of where he and Hermione
emerged into Diagon Alley, it was taken for granted that they would return to Hogwarts from the
Leaky Cauldron. And indeed, when Harry walked downstairs he found the pub filled to the far corners
with a bustle of witches and wizards, all of them raising their glasses and toasting the
holiday.

But although the pub itself was conducting business as usual, the kitchen staff had followed the
pattern of the shopkeepers and taken the day off, leaving only Tom the innkeeper to provide all
services required. And Harry quickly discovered that, as a cook, Tom was only two steps ahead of
Hagrid, if that.

When Harry re-entered his room, Hermione sat up, her face expectant. But her nose wrinkled when it
caught the aroma from the covered plates in Harry’s hand.

“Harry, what *is* that?”

“Bubble and squeak,” Harry said, balancing the plates as he closed and locked the door behind him.
“The kitchen staff’s off for the holidays. It was either this or fish and chips – and if you’d seen
the grease Tom’s been frying in all morning…”

Harry set the plates on the small writing table next to the bed and caught up the lone chair,
which, aside from a small chest of drawers, was the only other piece of furniture in the room.
“This isn’t very comfortable,” he said, thumping the chair meaningfully. “Hang on.”

Hermione was sitting on the edge of the bed, and Harry pointed his wand at the pillow, which
promptly rose up and positioned itself firmly against her back.

“Nicely done,” Hermione said approvingly as she pressed her shoulders into the pillow, which hung
in mid-air as if braced against a solid wall. She uncovered her plate, and even as she caught up
her knife and fork, she asked, “Did you bring something to drink?”

“Almost forgot,” Harry laughed. He pulled two bottles of butterbeer from his robes and set them on
the table. A tap of their wands opened the bottles, and they dug into their lunch with something
less than the gusto they would have shown had they been dining with their schoolmates at
Hogwarts.

The beef and potatoes, flavored with onions and cabbage, were satisfactory, Harry decided. But
six-plus years of Hogwarts cuisine had spoiled Harry beyond redemption. If there was one who could
give a Hogwarts house-elf a run for his money in the culinary arts, it was Molly Weasley. Having
sampled both in abundance, Harry found it difficult to regard his present meal with anything
resembling enthusiasm.

“A little too much pepper, but not bad,” Hermione said shortly, agreeing with Harry’s silent
assessment of Tom’s dubious kitchen skills. “Tom’s not really a cook, after all, just an
innkeeper.”

“He’s a bloody robber is what he is,” Harry grumbled through a mouthful of mashed potatoes and
cabbage. “Charged me a whole day’s rent for the room. When I told him I only wanted it for an hour,
he just laughed and winked at me. And the way he looked at you – I was two seconds away from trying
Ginny’s Bat-Bogey Hex on him, just to wipe that bloody smile off his face.”

“It’s like something out of Alice in Wonderland,” Hermione said as she sipped from her bottle of
butterbeer. “What does it all mean?”

“I thought it might be Fred and George at first,” Harry said. “I told them we’d be coming to pick
up your robes, and that we’d be using the fireplace here to go back to school because the other
businesses would be closed. I wouldn’t put it past them to have told Tom that I was bringing you
here for a quick shag – “

Harry caught himself, his face going red, but Hermione, to his relief, merely giggled. But her face
clouded over almost immediately.

“That *still* doesn’t explain Madam Malkin,” she said thoughtfully. “And what in Merlin’s name
is this rubbish about the Halloween Ball being cancelled? We both had breakfast in the Dining Hall
this morning, and there was no trace of any disturbance, whether dung-bomb related or
otherwise.”

“And if there *had* been any such disturbance,” Harry said through a mouthful of beef in a
very Ron-like manner, “Dumbledore or McGonagall would have told us straightaway.”

“All I know,” Hermione said gloomily, “is that I didn’t get my new dress robes. I almost wish the
Ball *was* cancelled.”

“All kidding aside, Hermione,” Harry said, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on hers, “it doesn’t matter
to me what you wear. You’re the most beautiful witch at Hogwarts, and that has nothing to do with
your robes.

“And I’m sure our friends will want to pitch in and help. Parvati and Lavender are always on the
cutting edge of fashion, aren’t they? And you know Ginny will do everything she can. Maybe even
Luna – no, forget Luna – we’re not *that* desperate – yet.”

Hermione laughed so that butterbeer sprayed her plate. Harry’s right hand reached across the table
and covered Hermione’s left. He touched the smooth band of her Bonding Ring.

“Just so we’re together,” Harry said.

Hermione smiled and nodded. Her eyes strayed to the alarm clock sitting atop the chest of drawers
behind Harry, and she drew her hand back suddenly.

“It’s nearly one. We’d best get downstairs. There might be a line to use the fire.”

Hermione set her silverware on her plate and covered it, but when she moved to pick it up, Harry
stopped her.

“The old pirate is charging us for 24 hours,” Harry grunted. “Might as well get our money's
worth.”

With a Fred-and-George gleam in his eye, Harry picked up his and Hermione’s plates and set them on
the bed as Hermione pushed the table forward and stood up.

“What in the world are you doing?" Hermione asked. Harry lifted an eyebrow meaningfully.

“Don't you remember that nursery rhyme about the dish running away with the spoon? Well, what
do you reckon they were running away for, then?" Turning toward the bed, Harry nodded at the
plates and, with a wink reminiscent of Tom’s, said, “There you are, you lot. The room’s all paid
for. Shag your brains out. Have a bash.”

Though she shook her head in slight disapproval at yet another manifestation of her fiancee’s
contamination by the Weasley twins, Hermione could not suppress a smile as Harry ushered her out
the door and locked it behind them.

The pub was more crowded than ever now. Harry tried to get Tom’s attention to give him the room
key, but it was all the toothless innkeeper could do to keep up with the calls for drinks (and the
occasional order of fish and chips). Shrugging, Harry pocketed the key. He could always send it
back with Hedwig tomorrow.

Squeezing their way through the crowd, Harry and Hermione came at last to the great fireplace which
strove to ward off the late October chill in the damp, stone-walled pub. Harry produced his pouch
of Floo powder and opened the drawstring. But before he could dip his fingers inside, an old witch
with a whiskey glass in her hand stumbled forward, her bloodshot eyes blinking repeatedly.

“‘Ere, now, guv’nor,” she mumbled drunkenly, “would yer ever let us ‘ave a pinch o’ that? Me ol’
man’ll be wantin’ feedin’ ‘bout now, an’ I don’ think I’m in any too good o’ shape ter
Apparate.”

Harry offered his pouch with a gracious smile, and the witch grinned stupidly in thanks as her
gnarled fingers dipped into the pouch and came out with a pinch of sparkling silver powder. Reeling
slightly, the witch waved her hand in front of her face, studying the powder with her beady eyes.
“Bloody marv’lous stuff, this is, innit,” she mumbled. “It’s – “

The old witch stopped abruptly. She squinted at the pinch of powder, brought it to her nose and
sniffed. Her slack mouth curled in disgust.

“Bloody ‘ell, lad! Oo in the name o’ Beelzebub sold yer this rubbish?”

“Why?” Harry said in confusion. “What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s contaminated is what it is!” the witch spat. “The knacker what mixed up this batch ought ter
be drawn an’ quartered an’ the pieces chucked inter Azkaban!” She flung the pinch of powder onto
the floor and ground it under her heel, nearly losing her balance in the process. She staggered
away, ignoring Harry and Hermione as if they had never existed. Her hungry husband apparently
forgotten, she wobbled back toward the bar, her empty glass held out before her in a manner to
imply that it would not remain so for long.

Harry and Hermione stared down at the powder on the floor, then at each other.


*** * ***



Back upstairs, Harry stood over the table as Hermione sat in the chair and prodded the small mound
of Floo powder with the tip of her wand. With a deft twist of her wrist, she magically separated
the grains into two smaller heaps. Though it was difficult to completely separate the two
components of the mixture, one mound was predominantly silver while the other was more the color of
sand. Hermione touched the silvery portion and said softly, “Incendio.” There was a soft puff as
the pile erupted in green flame, which flickered and died as quickly as it had come. Nodding, she
turned her attention to the sand-colored pile. She bent low, sniffed. Her brow furrowed.

“What is it?” Harry said, having stood in silence for far too long (though it had, in fact, been no
more than two minutes since Hermione began her examination).

“Do you know how Floo powder is made?” Hermione said cryptically. She looked up at Harry, who shook
his head. “Floo powder is never 100% pure,” Hermione explained. “It’s so powerful, even a pinch of
uncut powder would propel one through the air like a cannon shell. The apothecary has to intermix
the powder with a dampening agent at a ratio of about two to one.”

Harry saw where Hermione was going. “But that little pile there – it *isn’t* the usual
dampening agent?”

Hermione did not answer. She stared at the second pile of powder, her wand tapping the table as an
outward manifestation of the thoughts hiding just behind her deep brown eyes. Suddenly her wand
hand froze in mid-tap. She leaned in until her nose was nearly touching the dun-colored pile. “No,”
she whispered. “It can’t be. Merlin, let me be wrong…”

Hermione waved her wand over the powder in a series of complex wiggles that Harry had never seen
before, from Hermione or anyone else. The powder stirred, as if prompted by a delicate breeze. It
began to move as if it were alive. It traced itself into something resembling the characters in
Hermione’s Ancient Runes textbook, which Harry had seen lying open in the Gryffindor common room
table any number of times.

“What does it mean?” Harry said, his voice betraying a growing fear that was becoming like a lump
of stone in his belly.

“It means,” Hermione said with a trace of what might have been the beginnings of a hysterical
giggle, “that we’re not in Kansas any more.”

Harry caught Hermione’s shoulders and turned her around to face him. “What *is* it, Hermione?
What are you talking about?”

To Harry’s surprise, Hermione rose from her chair and slipped her arms around his neck. Holding her
to him, Harry slid over to the bed and sat down, swinging Hermione onto his lap, where she clung to
him even more fiercely. The plates he had jokingly left on the bed crashed to the floor. He ignored
them, his attention focused wholly on Hermione. Though he was aching to scream a thousand questions
at her, Harry merely sat and cradled Hermione with a gentle strength. She was trembling ever so
slightly, and that frightened him more than he could put into words. When at last he felt her
relax, Harry leaned down until his mouth was pressed against her cheek. He was startled to find a
salty wetness there.

“What is it?” Harry said with quiet urgency. “Tell me.”

“I – “ Hermione said slowly, “ – I remembered the common room – before we left – Ron – letter from
Bill – ”

Hermione looked up now, revealing red-rimmed eyes.

“The spell I used on the powder,” she explained, “is used by wizard archaeologists, like the ones
Gringotts engages to find the tombs that Bill has to de-Curse. It reveals the age of something, in
a runic language that only scientists use. I was having a chat with Bill a few months ago on the
subject of ancient civilizations, and he taught me the spell. Harry – th-that powder is…more than
5000 years old.”

Harry’s expression indicated that he still did not understand Hermione’s implications.

“Do you remember Ron’s letter from Bill?” Hermione prompted. “Where he mentioned the break-in at
the tomb?” Harry nodded, still bewildered. “I wondered why someone would go to the trouble of
breaking into a tomb guarded by all those dark spells and then not bother to take any gold or
artifacts. But something *was* taken. That.”

Harry followed Hermione’s eyes to the mysterious rune on the table that was composed of the powder
from Harry’s pouch. “Powder?” he said unbelievingly.

“Dust,” Hermione said. “Dust from the mummified body of an Egyptian wizard, unless I’m
mistaken.”

Harry felt Hermione’s arms around his neck relax. She straightened, and he allowed her to rise from
his lap, watched as she walked around the table, her eyes never leaving the dust-rune lying
thereon.

“When we were explaining the Blood Circle to Neville,” she said in an even, controlled voice, “we
told him that the ancient wizards relied on forms of magic that could be performed without wands.
Wands have been around, in one form or another, for more than 3000 years. But *magic* existed
long before wands were ever conceived.

“Between my Ancient Runes classes and occasional chats with Bill, I developed an interest in
Egyptian history – magical history, that is. I learned that the Egyptian kings frequently rose to
power solely on the expertise of their court magicians. One of these wizards single-handedly won a
key battle for his king, resulting in a victory in which no sword was drawn, not one drop of blood
spilled.

“In those days,” Hermione said, sounding very much like Professor Binns, “it was common for the two
opposing generals to ride out to a point between their armies and dine alone the day before the
battle, sizing each other up for the conflict to come. They dined under a canopy, in full view of
their armies, who were camped on opposing ridges that looked down onto the plain where the clash
was to take place the following day. Weapons were forbidden, and each general brought a servant
who, besides preparing his master’s meal, searched his enemy to ensure that neither blade nor
poison was smuggled in. The servants then departed, leaving the generals to dine alone. In this
way, they could speak freely, recounting past triumphs and appraising each other’s strengths and
weaknesses as best they might.

“When the meal was over, both generals turned to the setting sun to beg the favor of Ra, the
sun-god. Each of them carried a small pouch containing dust from the tomb of some valorous
ancestor. They opened their pouches, poured the dust into their hands and tossed it into the air,
calling on their departed ancestors to lend them strength in the coming battle. They would always
wait until the wind was blowing toward them, so the dust would cover them and infuse them with
their ancestors’ might. If the wind shifted and blew the dust *away* from one or another of
them, it was seen as an ill omen, a sign that the ancestors in question would *not* stand with
him on the morrow. So they were always *very* careful to cast the dust only when the wind was
just right. They were superstitious, but they were also pragmatic.

“But before one such battle, as both armies watched, one of the generals tossed his dust into the
air – and vanished!”

“Where did he go?” Harry asked, dry-mouthed as if he were standing in the desert of Hermione’s
narrative.

“Not where,” Hermione said heavily. “But *when.*”

Harry gaped. Hermione turned to regard the dust on the table accusingly.

“Since battles were usually won or lost based on the skill of the commanding general, removal of a
commander virtually guaranteed victory for the other side. Demoralization added to the equation.
Stripped of its leader, an army would frequently surrender rather than fight a battle it believed
to be already lost.”

“Why not simply kill the opposing general?” Harry asked without thinking.

“Because that would *inspire* the other side,” Hermione replied. “It would be an act of
treachery, to be avenged with blood. But if their leader just vanished before their eyes, it was
taken as an act of the gods, a sign of disfavor. And who wants to oppose the will of the
gods?

“The secret of this magic dust was jealously guarded by the wizard,” Hermione said. “But no secret
endures forever. His fellow wizards captured him and tortured the process and the incantation from
him. Each of these guarded the knowledge just as jealously in their turn. When the last of them
died, the secret died with them. Or so it was believed.

“It was called by many names. Most scholars came to know it as the Wind of Horus. Horus was a
hawk-god. It was believed that, when someone vanished, he had been picked up by Horus, gripped in
his claws and carried away to the next world. Horus was never seen, of course, but the wind was
said to be caused by the beating of his wings as he swooped in too quickly for human eye to
see.

“Those who suffered by it came to call it the Dust of Set, the god of the underworld, because, to
them, it brought only evil. But Set had nothing to do with it. Nor Horus.”

Without warning, Hermione swept the dust-rune from the table. She looked up at Harry, her eyes hard
even as she fought to keep her lip from trembling.

“The Egyptian wizards would mix their own blood with the dust, which was made from the bones of a
wizard long dead. The more ancient the dust, the more powerful the spell.”

“And this general…” Harry said haltingly, “…he vanished into…”

“Into time,” Hermione said with a forced calm. “Into the future.”

“How far?” Harry asked, dreading the answer.

“It varied with each situation,” Hermione said. “The function of the spell was to remove a key
person to a point beyond which his presence was no longer relevant. If the first battle proved
decisive, the general would reappear to find his army defeated, his king deposed or dead. If a
battle were inconclusive and more followed, the departed general might go missing for years.”

Harry sank onto the bed. He felt numb all over.

“If we’re here – whenever we are – then that means that – that Voldemort has already attacked
Hogwarts.”

“And without us there to complete the Blood Circle,” Hermione finished, “he – he probably
won.”

“No!” Harry snapped. “Dumbledore wouldn’t be defeated that easily. One battle wouldn’t have decided
the war – and I don’t believe that my absence or presence would make a difference, no matter
*what* Trelawney’s damned prophesy says.”

“Yes,” Hermione agreed. “Even if Voldemort did overwhelm Hogwarts the moment we vanished, the war
itself would have gone on. And so long as it *did* go on, the Dust of Set would ensure that it
went on without *you.* Because, despite what you want to believe, you *are* the key,
Harry. Trelawney’s prophesy said that one could not live while the other survived. If we take the
prediction literally, then Voldemort can *only* be destroyed by *you.* And viewed from
the other angle, it also means that, *without* you, Voldemort can’t *ever* be
destroyed.”

“Then,” Harry said, a sudden chill rippling through him, “if we’re here – if we’ve completed our
journey and arrived at some future time – does that mean that Voldemort has *won?* That it’s
*over?*”

Hermione had no answer.

Harry bolted up from the bed like an uncoiled spring. “How did this happen? *How?*”

Smiling weakly, Hermione said, “I left one thing out of my story. How did the general come to have
the Dust of Set in his pouch in the first place?”

“The servant!” Harry said, his eyes seeing the obvious with stark clarity. “When he searched the
general for weapons, he *switched pouches!*”

Hermione nodded meaningfully, lowering her eyes to Harry’s pouch, which still lay upon the
table.

“But who switched *my* pouch?” Harry said blankly. He looked at Hermione, whose eyes were now
narrowed shrewdly. Harry’s mouth fell open. “*Neville?* But – he’d *never!*”

“No,” Hermione agreed, confusing Harry even more. “He’d never.”

Harry was now replaying the scene in his Head Boy chambers in his mind. There was something nagging
at him, something he’d noticed then but brushed off, something so impossible that he was sure he
had imagined it.

But he hadn’t.

“Neville asked me,” Harry said slowly, “if the Blood Circle would enable us to defeat the Dark
Lord. Not You-Know-Who – the *Dark Lord!*”

“Whoever broke into the tomb to take the mummy dust,” Hermione said, “could easily have used the
Imperius on Neville. Sirius proved years ago that it’s not that difficult to sneak into Hogwarts by
purely physical means. The school is protected chiefly from *magical* ingress, after all.
Neville spends so much time outside, in the greenhouses and all, it would be easy to get him alone
– “

“DAMN!” Harry roared without warning. He slammed his fist down on the table with such force that
his Floo pouch leaped up and fell to the floor. Hermione jumped back in alarm.

“Harry? What – ”

“DAMN HIM!” Harry shouted as his fist thundered against the table again.

“Who?” Hermione whispered fearfully.

“*Malfoy!*” Harry growled. “It was *him!* I *know* it was him!”

“How do you know?” Hermione said shakily, gripping the back of the chair for support.

“We take Advanced Potions together, Malfoy and I,” Harry spat. “At the start of term, Snape ran us
through some of the potions we’ll be brewing this year in preparation for our N.E.W.T.’s. One of
them was *Polyjuice!*”

“It…” Hermione stammered. “Could it…”

“It *is!*” Harry said. “I remember now. After that first class, Malfoy handed Snape a special
permission slip to sign. I’d bet every Galleon in my vault that it was for the Restricted Section
of the library. And if we could ask Madam Pince what book he checked out that day, you know what
her answer would be, don’t you?”

*“Moste Potente Potions,”* Hermione said weakly. “But where would he get the ingredients? Even
Snape wouldn’t just hand over boomslang skin and powdered bicorn horn.”

“Malfoy’s of age now,” Harry reminded her. “Same as you and I. He could just go to the apothecary
in Hogsmeade and *buy* what he needed. Oh, it’d cost him a fair few Galleons right enough, but
since when has Malfoy wanted for money? With his father in Azkaban, dear old Draco has access to
the entire Malfoy fortune now. He probably sent some of his father’s Death Eater mates to rob that
tomb for him. Dunno *where* he found out about that time-dust stuff. Maybe –

“But no,” Harry shook his head savagely, “I’m giving him too much credit. This is too big to be
Malfoy alone. Like as not, Voldemort found a scroll with the formula and the incantation in some
tomb he plundered and whipped it up himself. And quick as he did, he knew whose leash to tug to
make use of it, didn’t he? Draco’s a good little arse-kisser, just like his father. Given the
chance to serve Voldemort *and* get rid of *me* – he’d jump through a hundred Quidditch
goal hoops for the chance.”

“So,” Hermione said slowly, “it was Malfoy we were talking to, not Neville?”

“And if he hurt Neville,” Harry said venomously, “I *will* tear his heart out, if it takes me
a hundred years to do it, I swear I will!”

Harry’s words awakened a slumbering thought in Hermione’s numbed brain. “We still don’t know how
far ahead the dust took us. Who knows how long we were up there, flying around like disembodied
flames, before the spell brought us back?”

“A long time, I’m thinking,” Harry said. “Even if Voldemort reduced Hogwarts to a pile of smoking
stones, one battle doesn’t win a war. But none of that matters, does it? Once we’re back where we
started, it’ll be like it never happened. In fact, it might even give us the edge. Malfoy probably
sent word straightaway that we’d gone, if not by owl, then through the Slytherin common room fire.
We were expecting an attack shortly, maybe as soon as a few weeks -- but if Voldemort thought we
were out of the way, he'd likely attack *immediately,* wouldn't he? Blimey, but I
can’t wait to see the look on his face when he sees you and me and Ron together, leading the charge
against him!”

“Harry?” Hermione said timidly, her face going white. “What are you talking about?”

Harry turned now and looked at Hermione as if she were being intentionally obtuse.

“If we’ve gone *forward* in time, we’ll just go *back,* like we did before!” Hermione
continued to stare blankly at Harry. “Merlin’s arse, Hermione! All we need is a Time-Turner!” Harry
paused now, his face screwing up in thought. “The Department of Mysteries is our first stop. If
Voldemort’s somehow managed to send the Ministry packing, I’m sure there’ll be *someone* who
can get one for us. Mundungus! I’m betting the old bugger’s still around – self-preservation was
always his strongest point. And there’s nothing he can’t get his hands on if there’s enough gold
involved.

“Hermione, what the hell is *wrong* with you?”

Hermione was looking at Harry with pity in her wide, dark eyes. “Harry,” she said slowly, “we – we
can’t use a Time-Turner to go back – ”

“Of *course* we can!” Harry said harshly, wondering how such a smart witch as Hermione had
suddenly become so stupid. “We went back and saved Buckbeak, rescued Sirius from Flitwick’s office
– ”

“Harry!” Hermione sobbed. “We went back *three hours!* We’re talking *years* here!”

“Hours, years,” Harry said impatiently, “it’s all time, innit? “Years are made up of days, which
are made up of hours, it’s all the same.”

“It’s *not* the same!” Hermione bellowed, her eyes precariously close to tears.

“It *is!*” Harry roared back. “We both saw that Death Eater in the Department of Mysteries –
his head regressed to that of a baby! That must’ve been at *least* thirty years!”

“But that was *raw* time, Harry,” Hermione said, her voice pleading. “There’s no way to
*control* it! The only *controlled* time device is the Time-Turner – and that only works
in *hours!*”

“So we’ll turn the flippin’ thing over a thousand times,” Harry said petulantly. “*Ten*
thousand! As many as it takes!”

“It doesn’t work that way, Harry,” Hermione said sadly. “Don’t you see? If someone could just use a
Time-Turner any time something didn’t go right, then why *don’t* they? When your parents were
killed, why didn’t Dumbledore just go to the Ministry, get a Time-Turner and go back and stop
Voldemort *before* he killed Lily and James? And when he learned that Voldemort had been
resurrected during the Triwizard Tournament, why didn’t he go back and stop the ceremony before it
took place?

“And – in the Department of Mysteries – why didn’t Dumbledore just go get a Time-Turner
straightaway and stop Sirius from falling through the archway?

“He *didn’t* – because he *couldn’t!* And neither can *we!* We can’t change what’s
already happened, Harry! And even if we *could,* we aren’t wise enough to know if we’d be
doing more harm than good.”

“But,” Harry said weakly, his strength draining away as his anger ebbed, “we saved Buckbeak from
Macnair – we saved him – ”

“No,” Hermione said. “Dumbledore told me the whole story, just after I handed in my Time-Turner to
Professor McGonagall. Buckbeak never *did* die. When Dumbledore went to witness the execution,
he made up his mind to save Buckbeak and Sirius, using you and me and my Time-Turner. The moment he
made that decision, Buckbeak lived. You and I merely completed the circle. It’s – it’s complicated,
I know. But there’s just no way to change something that’s already happened. I’m – I’m sorry,
Harry.”

His face twisting with inexpressible agony, Harry slumped onto the bed and buried his face in his
hands.

“Wh-When the portkey took me back to Dumbledore’s office,” he choked, “I cursed myself for not
running straight into the time-room when I had the chance. I could’ve grabbed a Time-Turner, gone
back an hour and stopped it from happening. I could’ve put a shield around the arch so no one could
fall through it – I could’ve blasted it to pieces – I could have done something…something…”

Hermione sat beside Harry and put her arms around him. “No,” she said quietly. “There was nothing
you could have done. Not then. And not now.”

Harry was trembling now in silent anguish, weeping inside for his parents, for Sirius, for Cedric –
and in no small part for himself. Hermione continued to hold him until his spasms subsided. Only
then did she speak, in the same calm, rational voice which had strengthened him so many times in
the past.

“We need to find out far ahead the dust took us. We need to find out – a lot of things.”

“Like how many of our mates are still alive,” Harry said grimly as he sat up. His eyes were red,
but by sheer power of will he had let not one tear escape, though Hermione knew there must be a
veritable ocean waiting to burst forth from behind that clouded emerald veneer.

“And where we can find the remains of the Order of the Phoenix,” Hermione affirmed. “There
*must* be *someone* left! And if there isn’t – then we’ll start our *own*
resistance. Just because the spell dumped us here, where our presence is presumably irrelevant, I
don’t plan on bowing down and kissing Voldemort’s robes like Malfoy. Magic is just a tool. It isn’t
infallible. Since it was undoubtedly Voldemort’s magic that empowered the spell, maybe we were
dumped here because his arrogance has made him *think* he’s won and he's convinced there’s
no way anyone can stop him – not even *you.* If that’s the case, it’s past time we showed him
different. I can’t speak for anyone else, but *I’m* not giving up. I intend to fight with
everything I’ve got.”

“You mean *we’ll* fight,” Harry said, his voice strong and decisive once more.
“Together.”

The young lovers united in a tender, needful kiss, after which they sat holding each other for a
very long time.






4. Look Back In Anger
---------------------





**A big welcome back to Fenriswolf. It's always good for a writer to receive a thoughtful
review that questions the logistics of his work. Hermione is an intelligent witch, but any
conclusion is only as valid as the information on which it is based. New information results in new
conclusions, but it also raises new questions. More surprises await below.



**
*** * ***
**


**
**Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow**
**


**
**Chapter 4**
**


**
**Look Back In Anger**






Harry tried to ignore Tom’s toothless leer as he and Hermione passed through the Leaky Cauldron on
their way to the back wall leading to Diagon Alley. As the bricks closed behind them into a solid
barrier once more, Hermione tugged her cloak around her shoulders. If anything, the afternoon sun
was warmer now than it had been upon their arrival some two hours ago. But Hermione felt a chill
all the same, one entirely unrelated to the state of the weather.

Harry was so lost in his own thoughts that he was aware of neither the sun on his face nor the icy
wind that ruffled his already untidy black hair. His thoughts were focused on a single face: cruel,
snake-like, with flat nostrils and red, unwinking eyes.

Voldemort had stolen so much from him already. His parents. His godfather. Voldemort had robbed
Harry of ten years of his life, the terrible decade he’d been forced by Dumbledore to live with the
Dursleys, being denied his very birthright and heritage while suffering torments both physical and
emotional. Now, how many *more* years had Voldemort stolen from him via the Dust of Set?

Without his realizing it, the chill October wind was penetrating Harry’s cloak and seeping into his
bones. But when he felt the cold slithering through him, he did not associate it with the wind.
Instead he thought of tall, hooded creatures, with scabrous hands and rattling, fetid breath. The
dementors. And with that thought came memories.



*“Lily, take Harry and go! It’s him! Go! Run! I’ll hold him off – “

“Not Harry! Not Harry! Please – I’ll do anything – “

“Stand aside. Stand aside, girl!”*



“Harry?”

Hermione was tugging on Harry’s sleeve. He snapped out of his reverie and turned to look at
her.

“You looked like you were in a trance,” Hermione said with a touch of worry.

“I was remembering my parents,” Harry said. “I was remembering their last moments, the way I
remembered them when the dementors came to Hogwarts four years ago.”

“You don’t have the dreams any more, do you?” Hermione paused before adding, “Because, after we’re
married, I don’t fancy being awakened out of a sound sleep every night the way you used to wake Ron
up in Gryffindor Tower.”

Harry gaped for a moment before his face split in a warm smile, which Hermione returned.

“No worries there,” he said as he slipped his arm around her, pulling her close against him. “But
I’ll never forget. Especially now.

“Did I ever tell you that Dumbledore told me the whole story of Voldemort’s attack?”

“When?” Hermione asked with interest. “And how did he know if he didn’t arrive until after it was
over?”

“My memories were the missing pieces,” Harry said. “Added to what he’d already figured out, the
whole picture came clear. We had a talk about it a year ago, when we came back to school following
Sirius’ death.”

“So, what exactly happened?” Hermione pressed delicately.

“Voldemort was the most terrible wizard of his day,” Harry said. “Maybe of all time. But that's
not all he was. He didn't rely on magic alone to achieve his goals. According to Dumbledore,
who knew him better than anyone, he was also a strategist. He studied history and psychology. He
understood the subtle ways to gain a victory in the swiftest manner.

“He came to my parents’ house at dinnertime. That’s when most people instinctively let their guard
down. Add to that they’d just engaged the Fidelius Charm, the last thing they were expecting that
night was an attack by the Dark Forces, much less Voldemort himself.

“When they heard the knock on the door, they thought it must be some Muggle with a collecting tin
or handing out election leaflets. They were confident that no one in the wizarding world knew where
they were. Pettigrew had instructions to tell Dumbledore straightaway, and then Sirius, who'd
go straight into hiding to act the decoy, but there hadn’t been time to tell either of them. So
they were completely off guard when my dad opened the front door and found himself looking straight
into the eyes of Voldemort.”

“Your dad held him off while your mum tried to rescue you,” Hermione repeated Harry’s narrative
from the many times they had discussed his dreams.

“Mum was going to get me out of bed and Apparate the both of us to safety,” Harry said. “She got to
me in time – my dad accomplished that much before he died – but neither of them knew that Voldemort
had placed a barrier around the house to block magical travel. Dumbledore detected traces of the
spell as soon as he arrived. He said that even a portkey wouldn’t have been able to get
through.”

“Portkeys *can* breach such barriers sometimes,” Hermione reflected. “But only under certain
conditions. Like when Dumbledore sent you to his office from the Ministry of Magic. But that was a
special case. I imagine Dumbledore has special spells on his office, and on his private chambers,
that allow him and only him to come and go. You told me about how he grabbed hold of Fawkes'
tail feathers and vanished in a flash of fire when Fudge wanted to take him away. Only an extremely
powerful wizard can do something like that, and even then, it only works with oneself. No one else
could enter or leave Hogwarts magically, not even Voldemort.”

“Then how did I get sent back to Dumbledore’s office,” Harry asked, “if it only works for
him?”

“Because he personally enchanted the portkey for you,” Hermione replied. “I’ve read about such
spells. The only person who can get around them is the one who cast them. That’s why Voldemort’s
barrier around your parents’ house was effective. Since he cast the spell, none but he could breach
it.

“You know,” Hermione said in a professorial tone, “in their way, portkeys are more powerful than
Apparation magic. Little wonder that the Ministry of Magic regulates portkeys so stringently. Look
at how Barty Crouch changed the Triwizard Cup into a portkey. It would’ve been impossible for him
to just snatch you and Apparate you to Little Hangleton. But one of the flaws in Hogwarts’ wards is
that, while a portkey can’t bring someone *in,* it *can* take someone *out.* When
Crouch used the Portkey Charm, he harmonized it specifically for you, just as Dumbledore
did.”

“Then why did it take Cedric, too?” Harry asked.

“If Cedric had touched the Cup alone, nothing would have happened,” Hermione said. “But when
*you* touched it at the same moment that Cedric did, the spell was activated and Cedric just
got carried along. But that’s a whole different story. It’s all very complicated. I’ll explain it
all to you in detail sometime. Sometime when we’re not under so much pressure.”

“We’ll be older than Nicholas Flamel by then,” Harry smiled thinly.

Hermione hugged Harry as they continued down the street, which was deserted save for
themselves.

“Are you sure Gringotts will be open?” Harry asked as they passed shop after shop shut tight, their
proprietors all departed for one Halloween celebration or another.

“Goblins don’t keep the same holidays as humans,” Hermione said casually.

“What holidays *do* they keep?” Harry asked with sudden interest.

“The biggest one is Founding Day,” Hermione said. “The anniversary of the day Gringotts Wizarding
Bank was founded.”

“And what day is that?” Harry asked. He had never even heard of Founding Day.

“The date is in dispute,” Hermione replied. “But while different factions dicker over the
particulars, it’s presently celebrated on May 28th. One of the arguments is whether one counts the
date the bank was first incorporated under charter as the true beginning. Some hold to this date,
while others believe the day the bank opened its doors and accepted its first deposit of wizard
gold represents the true beginning.”

“How do *you* know about all this?”

Hermione sighed. “It’s all in *Hogwarts: A History.*”

“What does a bank run by goblins have to do with the history of Hogwarts?”

“Because the gold used to build Hogwarts came from Gringotts,” Hermione explained. “As payment for
the loan, Hogwarts provided the goblins with Curse-breakers from the first few graduating classes,
which enabled the bank to acquire large sums of gold from loads of ancient tombs, more than
repaying the loan.”

“I’m surprised Binns never mentioned that in History of Magic,” Harry said.

“He *did,*” Hermione said accusingly. “If you hadn’t always been dozing during classes…”

“It’s impossible *not* to fall asleep in History of Magic,” Harry said defensively. Then his
face relaxed as he said mournfully, “But that’s all behind us now.”

“Yes,” Hermione said softly. “But,” she added on a more positive note, “we’re both seventeen, so
we’re perfectly within our rights not to go back to Hogwarts, whatever the circumstances. Fred and
George left early.”

“I wonder what they’re up to now?” Harry said longingly. “I’ve been looking all up and down the
street, and there’s no sign of their joke shop.”

Hermione did not reply. If Fred and George had followed the example of their older brothers and
joined the Order of the Phoenix (as they were all too keen to do the year of Voldemort’s return),
their absence now might be an ill omen. How many of their friends had given their lives in the war
against Voldemort while she and Harry were spinning through uncounted years on the Wings of Horus?
That was one of the first things they must learn if they were to resume their own personal fight
against the forces of Darkness.

Harry should not have been surprised to find no trace of a calendar anywhere within the Leaky
Cauldron. Hermione had told him in their first year at Hogwarts that wizards routinely disdained
logic and common sense. Most wizard clocks did not tell the proper time the way Muggle clocks did,
and their calendars were just as confounding, covered as they were with boxes that moved about
according to their owners’ changing plans, and shouting reminders like, “School starts in three
days! Have you been to Diagon Alley yet to buy school supplies?”

Harry finally gave up, reasoning that they could always find a Muggle calendar in London proper
once they left Diagon Alley for good. And the moment they had secured enough gold from Harry’s
vault to make their new start, that was precisely what they intended to do.

As they approached the pillared entrance to the bank, they saw the familiar uniformed goblin
standing beside the door. For all Harry knew, it could be the very same goblin that had greeted him
on his first visit to the bank with Hagrid – he had no idea how long goblins lived. As they mounted
the steps and made for the door, the goblin bowed deeply, a scowl etched onto his grotesque
face.

“I don’t suppose the goblins care *who* rules the wizarding world,” Harry said as he closed
the door behind Hermione and stepped back against the wall, drawing her alongside him as he dipped
a hand into a pocket of his robes and fumbled about.

“No,” Hermione agreed. “They’ll deal with anyone, and even Voldemort knows better than to incite a
goblin riot by interfering with the bank.”

“I still wonder if we shouldn’t just take out *all* of the gold in my vault,” Harry said,
resuming the debate they had had before leaving their room above the Leaky Cauldron.

“No,” Hermione said decisively. “As I said, even Voldemort knows that, if he’s to have a proper
world to rule, he has to keep that world running as smoothly as possible. Upsetting the banking
industry would plunge the wizarding world into chaos. No,” she repeated with a shake of her bushy
head, “Gringotts is still the safest place to keep your gold, Harry.”

“*Our* gold,” Harry corrected her. “It’s as much yours as it is mine.”

Hermione gave Harry’s hand a squeeze. “Not until we’re married, it isn’t. Your parents left
everything in your name. It's no one else’s to claim.”

But it was Harry’s turn to shake his head. “Do you remember when Sirius bought me my Firebolt? He
couldn’t come into the bank, but he wrote a note and had Crookshanks carry it to the bank for him.
I’m sure they verified his signature from their records before accepting it as genuine. He may even
have placed some personal identifying Charm on the note. But we know that, in the end, they
*did* take the gold from his vault to buy the broomstick, even though he wasn’t there to open
the vault himself. And Mrs. Weasley got some money out of my vault for me, using my key.”

“All such keys are enchanted,” Hermione said knowledgably. “If they’re taken and used without the
owner’s consent, they scream out *Thief!* when they’re thrust into the keyhole. I used a
similar spell on the D.A. parchment two years ago, only changing the hex from verbal to physical.
But why are you telling me this, Harry?”

Harry’s hand now emerged from his pocket. His fingers opened to reveal two small keys lying on his
palm.

“I had a spare made,” he said, holding one key out to Hermione. “Take it.” Hermione demurred at
first, but Harry said, “Please.”

Hermione took the key and looked at it, then lifted her eyes to Harry’s. “Are you sure,
Harry?”

“With all my worldly goods I thee endow,” Harry said solemnly. Then, grinning: “Except my Firebolt,
of course.”

Hermione threw her arms around Harry’s neck and kissed him just under his ear.

“So,” Harry said, wary lest someone see the flush rising to his cheeks, “how much do you reckon
we’ll need for a start?”

“A couple of sackfuls should do,” Hermione said. “We don’t want to draw undue attention to
ourselves.”

“You’re joking, right?” Harry smiled. Brushing aside his bangs to reveal his lighting scar, he
said, “Do you really think we can remain incognito for long?”

“Good point,” Hermione said soberly. “Maybe it’s best if I go get the gold. I assume you’ve already
Charmed the key?”

“Of course.”

Harry had learned when having the duplicate key made that such objects were commonly enchanted with
an Isomorphic Charm so they would not work for anyone but their owners. This spell could be limited
to an individual, or broadened to encompass an entire family. Harry's key fell into the latter
category. The goblin who created the duplicate informed him that James Potter had specified that
any member of the family have access to his gold. This explained why Harry was able to open his
parents’ vault on his first visit to Diagon Alley with Hagrid. The spell was briefly transferred to
Molly Weasley when Harry gave her his key on the occasion he had recalled to Hermione. But Harry
did not want Hermione to have to ask for his key whenever she had need of some money. In her
absence, Harry had used one of Hermione's hairs (which he'd deftly plucked from her
shoulder without her knowledge) to combine her own personal aura with that of the Potter family. By
placing this combined Charm on both keys, Harry made it possible for either of them to open his
vault without the other being present. He realized only now that this Charm was very much like the
one Hermione had described in regard to the portkeys of their earlier discussion. He was beginning
to wish he had listened a bit more closely in Professor Flitwick's class.

Flashing Hermione an appreciative smile, Harry said, “I’ll wait here while you go down and get
‘our’ gold. I’ve never been too keen on those carts, truth be known. So I’ll – “

Suddenly Harry froze. A young man was walking toward them from the back of the bank. He looked to
be in his late 20’s, Harry reckoned. He was tall and angular, with a long, pale face and eyes like
chips of grey ice. His white-blond hair was worn long, tied in the back in a short pony tail.

“Malfoy!” Harry spat. He reached for his wand without thinking, and only Hermione’s iron grip on
his arm stayed the completion of the intended action.

“Harry, no!” Hermione hissed. “We can’t let him see us! If he knows we’re back, he’s sure to run
straight to Voldemort. Don’t you see? It’s just like when Voldemort returned two years ago. It was
safe for him to move about only so long as the Ministry thought he was still gone. It’s the same
for us. We can’t let our enemies know we’re back until the time is right.”

Hermione felt Harry’s wand arm relax, and she sighed gratefully.

“He’s coming this way,” Harry said. “I’d better go before he sees me. I wish I had my dad’s
cloak.”

“We don’t need it,” Hermione said as she drew her own wand. “We have something just as good.”

Hermione tapped Harry on the top of his head. Instantly it was as if ice water were being poured
over him, sending a chill down his spine. His momentary surprise quickly melted into appreciation.
He looked at his hands, sighted down his robes to the polished floor. Thanks to Hermione’s
Disillusionment Charm, his body was now camouflaged to look just like the paneled wall of the
Gringotts entrance hall against which they were standing.

“I love you,” Harry whispered as Hermione slipped her wand back into her robes and pulled up the
hood of her cloak. He saw her smile at him before she covered her face and glided forward, slipping
past the approaching Malfoy, who did not so much as glance in her direction.

Harry studied Malfoy’s face as the tall man approached. It was little changed from the way Harry
remembered. It was older, more mature. But it was also more calculating, severe and cynical. It was
a face devoid of compassion or human decency, Harry reflected.

A young woman appeared as if from nowhere, her graceful stride calculated to intercept Malfoy’s
path. She was tall and lithe, with a serpentine beauty that Harry instinctively found repellent.
Her beauty was that of a marble statue, with as little warmth and softness. Compared to Hermione,
Harry thought, this woman was uglier than the most grotesque Gringotts goblin.

The woman glided toward Malfoy with the inhuman grace of a dementor, and Harry saw now that she was
carrying a baby in her arms. Harry caught a glimpse of a tiny, pale face with a crown of
white-blond hair. Malfoy’s pale eyes ignited like twin spotlights as they fell upon the baby. He
extended his arms, and the young woman surrendered her precious bundle with fluid ease as she
regarded her husband with shrewd, narrowed eyes.

“Is all our business concluded, my dear?” Malfoy said distractedly, his full attention on his baby
son.

“Yes,” the woman replied. Then, leaning in very close to her husband, she said in a soft, venomous
hiss, “It’s tonight.”

“Excellent,” Malfoy breathed. He surveyed his son with something like triumph. “Soon the Dark
Lord’s power will be absolute,” he said to the child. “I will bequeath to you a world free from the
pollution of Mudblood filth, my son. You will serve the greatest wizard who ever lived, even as
your mother and I. After this night, the Dark Lord will be supreme among wizards. There will be
none to challenge his might.”

Harry held his breath, his heart hammering in his chest. Hermione's supposition had been right.
The two of them had been returned to this time because Voldemort was about to become supreme and
all-powerful. The last barrier between Voldemort and ultimate victory was about to be eradicated.
Given Harry's removal by means of the Dust of Set, who else could this be but Dumbledore, the
only wizard Voldemort ever feared?

But according to Malfoy, it hadn’t actually happened yet. There was still time to stop it, time to
avenge the deaths of their friends by saving the life of perhaps the greatest wizard who had ever
lived. Harry reached up and touched his scar. It was hot to the touch, tender. But it did not yet
burn with the white-hot intensity that marked Voldemort’s extreme moods, whether exultation or
raging fury.

Harry thought again of Trelawney’s prophesy: “Neither can live while the other survives.” The Dust
of Set was supposed to remove Harry to a time when he could no longer threaten Voldemort or his
plans. And the spell had been powered by Voldemort’s magic, which, according to Hermione, could not
be countered by any save its own master. Why, then, did the spell return Harry to a time
*before* Voldemort’s final victory?

There seemed to be only one answer. In speaking of Harry, Trelawney’s prophesy had also said, “The
Dark Lord will mark him as his equal.” It was Voldemort’s own magic, embodied by the scar on
Harry’s head, that had thrown a spanner in the works and deposited Harry here, at a time when he
could still make a difference. Despite the Dark Lord’s schemes and Malfoy’s treachery, there was
still time to tip the scales back into balance.

But how? Where?

Harry wanted nothing more in that moment than to leap upon Malfoy, place him under the Imperius
Curse and wrest the knowledge from him that would send Voldemort’s plans of ultimate conquest
tumbling like a house of Exploding Snap cards. Indeed, it was only the baby in his enemy’s arms
which stayed his hand. He could not see a way to attack Malfoy without injuring an innocent child
in the process.

*Innocent?* his mind scoffed. This was Malfoy’s son he was talking about, the latest in a line
of pureblood scum reaching back into the mists of time. This child was just another twisted link in
the Malfoy chain, like Draco and Lucius and all those who came before. Young he may be – but
*innocent?* The blood of a thousand generations of suffering was mingled with the milk this
babe suckled. *Strike!* Harry’s mind screamed. *Strike now, before it's too
late!*

But he could not. He could only stand helplessly as the three Malfoys passed through the great
doors and exited the bank, the goblin outside bowing them on their way. When the door closed behind
them, Harry felt as if a door had closed for him as well – the last door leading to a vengeance
long overdue.

Jerking his head away from the door, Harry was startled to see Hermione running toward him, her
bushy hair flying about her shoulders. He saw at once that she was carrying no gold; indeed, she
had not been gone nearly long enough to have made the miles-long journey to their vault and back
again.

He was sure that Hermione could not see him, but she ran toward him unerringly, no doubt
remembering where he had been standing when she placed the Disillusionment Charm on him. As she
drew nearer, he saw that she was holding a piece of parchment in her hand.

“Harry,” she gasped, drawing her wand and holding it out. Harry instinctively bent his head until
it was just beneath Hermione’s wand. Hearing the scuffle of Harry’s feet, Hermione brought her wand
down, felt it tap the top of Harry’s head. Waves of warmth poured over Harry as the Disillusionment
Charm was lifted.

“You didn’t go to the vault,” Harry said. “Was there a problem?”

“No,” Hermione shook her head vigorously. “We have to go, Harry! Back to our room, now!”

“Hermione,” Harry began, “I have to tell you – “

“Later, Harry!” Hermione hissed through clenched teeth. “We have to go *now!*”

“Is it something to do with *that?*” Harry asked, nodding at the parchment in Hermione’s
hand.

“Yes!” Hermione said impatiently. “Now let’s *go!*”

Harry knew better than to press Hermione for information before she was ready to divulge it. After
a swift journey back to the Leaky Cauldron, Harry retrieved his room key from Tom, who fairly
cackled with glee as he handed it over.

“Back fer more, eh?” he chortled. “A little wildcat, that’n is. Kin tell by lookin’ at ‘er. The
small ones is the best, they is. I remembers one – “

Harry snatched the key from Tom, resisting the urge to take a leaf from Dudley’s book and cave the
old innkeeper’s face in with his fist.

When Harry opened the door to their room, Hermione dashed inside without a word. Closing and
locking the door, Harry saw Hermione sit back down at the table and spread the parchment out flat.
He walked over and bent his head slightly, trying to see what was written on the parchment. When he
finally got a good look, he was more in the dark than ever. There was writing on the parchment,
scribbled hastily, it seemed. But the characters were in no language Harry had ever seen.

“What *is* that?” Harry said at last, daring Hermione’s wrath as his curiosity gripped him
with talons sharper than those of Horus. “What *are* those letters?”

“They’re numbers,” Hermione rapped as she pored over the scratchy characters, tracing her wand over
them time and again, her brow furrowing deeper by the minute.

“I never saw numbers like *that,*” Harry said. “What language are they?”

“Gobbledegook,” Hermione said without looking up. “Goblin language.”

“Where did you – “

“Harry!” Hermione snapped peevishly. “I need to concentrate! This is important!”

Feeling slightly hurt, Harry backed away and sat down on the bed. Glancing around idly, he spotted
the shattered plates lying where they’d fallen when he’d sat himself and Hermione down before. More
to pass the time than for any other reason, he drew his wand and reassembled the plates, thereafter
cleaning up the spilled food with a Scouring Charm. He levitated the plates and silverware onto the
night table and replaced his wand. If nothing else, his little exercise in boredom allowed his
wounded pride the respite it needed to heal. Turning back to watch Hermione working at her usual
frantic pace, he realized that, given the situation in which they had unexpectedly found
themselves, she would not be laboring with such energy if this were not important. Harry could not
imagine what she could have found in the bank that was so critical to their predicament, but he was
not prepared to challenge her reasoning. If there was one thing he could count on in a world of
uncertainty, it was Hermione’s ability to think clearly in a crisis. Her manipulation of Dolores
Umbridge on the night they’d gone on their ill-fated mission to save Sirius had been nothing short
of masterful. Comforted by that thought, Harry relaxed as best he could and waited.

When Harry looked up again, he saw that Hermione was no longer studying the parchment. Her head was
bent, her face buried in her hands. Harry jumped up and put his arms around her.

“What is it?” he asked gently. “What are those numbers?”

“They’re the date,” Hermione said, speaking with an eerie calmness. “Today’s date. I copied it from
a desk calendar at one of the clerks’ stations. Unlike wizards, goblins measure time in very
precise terms. Wizards could learn a lot from non-human magical creatures if they take their heads
out of their collective arse once in a while.”

“Why are there so many figures?” Harry asked. There appeared to be at least a dozen strange-looking
runes scribbled over the parchment, which Harry could see clearly over Hermione’s shoulder.

“The goblin calendar goes back more than 12,000 years,” Hermione said. “It’s the devil’s own work
to translate. Part of the language is borrowed from other, extinct languages. There are fragments
of text in my Ancient Runes book. I wish I had it with me now. I don’t know if I translated this
right. Because if I *did*…”

Harry sat on the edge of the table and looked into Hermione’s eyes. “Tell me. It can’t be that bad.
We *know* the Dust of Set took us into the future. The only question is, how far.”

To Harry’s astonishment, Hermione laughed, a high-pitched titter nearly devoid of sanity. She
pulled herself together quickly, brushing her hair back from her face.

“I used the day and month as the key,” she said in as clinical a voice as she could manage. “We
know it’s Halloween, because of the decorations, and the fact that the shops are closed early. And
Madam Malkin confirmed the date when she said she was closing early for the holiday. So we know the
day and the month. All that’s in question is the *year.* But if I’m right…”

“What year did you come up with?” Harry said. “How long were we away? Five years? Ten? It couldn’t
be much more, from the way Malfoy looked.”

“Malfoy,” Hermione whispered, her face suddenly going chalk-white.

“What about him?” Harry said blankly.

“The woman with him,” Hermione said distantly. “His wife. I didn’t pay much attention to her. I was
busy copying down the date figures when she walked past me. Did you get a good look at her,
Harry?”

“No,” Harry admitted. “I was more focused on Malfoy.”

“Did she look familiar, Harry?”

Harry blinked. “Was she someone we know? Someone from Hogwarts?”

“We know her,” Hermione said in a faraway voice. “We’ve only seen her in person once…at the
Quidditch World Cup. She was older then. She was a lot younger in the picture on the
tapestry.”

“Tapestry?” Harry echoed vacantly.

“The tapestry at Sirius’ house. The tapestry of the Black family tree.”

Harry’s brain went numb, seized by an iciness colder than the Disillusionment Charm had been.

“It’s not possible! That would mean…” His mind refused to shape the words for his mouth to
speak.

“That would mean,” Hermione finished. “the man we saw in the bank wasn’t Draco. It was Lucius!
Lucius, and Narcissa…and their one-year-old son, Draco.”

Harry stared down at the parchment on the table, then up at Hermione. His mouth was open, but he
was incapable of speech, nor of any sound at all.

“I didn’t mistranslate,” Hermione said, her lips dry and numb. “The date on the calendar at
Gringotts is…October 31, *1981!*”



*** * ***
**



And the mystery deepens. Look for some answers next time. And maybe some more questions. Who knows?
*I* do – but I'm not telling! And in answer to the question from MischiefManaged, this
story was written before HBP revealed that all of the Time-Turners were destroyed. This is one of
many elements that could not be updated without hobbling the story. If we pretend that HBP never
existed (something I do all the time), everything should fall into place. (Crosses fingers for
luck.)

Thanks for being here. See you soon.**






5. Nocturne in a Minor Key
--------------------------





**Sorry for the delayed post. I got knocked flat by a flu bug on Sunday, and I couldn't have
felt worse if I'd had the Cruciatus placed on me. I'm on the road to recovery now, so I
hope everyone will forgive my unplanned absence.

And now, to business. If there's one thing that pleases a writer more than fooling the readers,
it's *not* fooling them. Clues are left to be found and applied at the proper time.
Reviewer theryk spotted an important clue in the first chapter and used it to good advantage last
time. But never fear, I have a few more surprises in store. Hermione may even have some words of
interest for Harry. Let's listen in, shall we?


**
*** * ***
**


**
**Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow**
**


**
**Chapter 5**
**


**
**Nocturne in a Minor Key**






“It’s so obvious now,” Hermione said in a ghostly voice, her eyes staring blankly into space. “It’s
all so perfectly obvious.”

“What?” Harry said vacantly. Even with both hands bracing himself on the bed, it was all he could
do to sit up straight. His bones seemed to have turned to rubber.

“The way everyone’s been treating us,” Hermione said. “It all makes sense now.”

“What are you talking about?” Harry said.

“Don’t you see?” Hermione said. “Everyone who’s recognized you has called you Mr. Potter, right?
But not *Harry* Potter! Look at yourself in the mirror, Harry. Your face...your hair...your
glasses...it's as plain as the scar on your forehead. Everyone around us thinks you’re
*James* Potter!”

“They think I’m...my dad?” Harry exclaimed.

“Of course!” Hermione said. “What else *are* they to think? Your dad is only a couple of years
out of school right now. There would scarcely be an atom of difference between you. Height,
features, hair color...”

“What about my eyes?” Harry challenged. “My dad’s eyes are hazel. Wouldn’t someone notice the
difference?”

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione said shortly. “Who really looks closely at *eyes?* Even at a short
distance, eye color is almost impossible to determine. And with your glasses reflecting the light,
even someone looking right at you would scarcely be able to discern such a subtle shade of
difference. The only thing that's keeping you from being your father’s virtual twin is your
scar, and no one can see that under your hair, can they?”

“That still doesn’t explain why Madam Malkin treated me – I mean my dad – like something that just
fell out of a hippogriff’s backside.”

Hermione shook her head with mild exasperation. “Harry, this is the year 1981. Where do you suppose
your dad is at this very moment?”

“Well,” Harry said slowly, certain that there must be some unseen snare in such a simple question,
“I suppose he’s at home, at Godric’s Hollow, with my mum – ”

“Exactly!” Hermione said. “And tell me: What does your mum look like? Does she look *anything*
like *me* – anything at *all?*”

“No. But what does – ”

“Harry!” Hermione said impatiently. “Everyone who knows your dad knows he’s married to a tall,
attractive, green-eyed redhead – and not *one* of those adjectives applies to
*me!*”

Harry was about to dispute Hermione’s assertion that she was not attractive, but she cut him
off.

“Everyone who knows James Potter also knows Lily. So what in the hell is James doing in Diagon
Alley with a witch who is obviously *not* his wife, yet at whom he is *just* as obviously
making lovey-eyes every time he so much as glances at her?”

“I don’t do that,” Harry said, embarrassment reddening his cheeks to an even greater degree than
the sharp October wind had already done. “Do I?”

“Harry,” Hermione said, her smile equal parts amusement and adoration, “Ginny, Lavender and Parvati
are always telling me how you can’t look at me, even a casual glance, without making love to
me.”

“I never!” Harry said indignantly. Hermione giggled.

“Not like *that,*” she said. “I was using the old-fashioned terminology. ‘Making love’ used to
mean making romantic overtures...conveying feelings of affection without words. My grandmum used to
call it ‘pitching woo.’

“Anyway, what was everyone to think when they saw James Potter expressing these feelings toward
another woman?”

“We *know* what *Tom* was thinking,” Harry grunted.

“The old reprobate thought it was quite a lark, I imagine,” Hermione agreed. “It’s no wonder he
asked you straightaway if you wanted a room. He probably thinks my knickers are draped over the
bedpost even as we speak, and not for the first time.”

A low growl issued from Harry’s throat as he thought again how he would like to wipe that simpering
smile off Tom’s smirking face with brutal finality.

“As for Madam Malkin, you’ll remember that she was perfectly friendly toward you when you first
walked in.”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Why did she go ‘round the corner so quickly?”

“Because when you came in,” Hermione said, “you were alone. I was already there, remember? I was
just another customer – a stranger. But then, when you sat down with me and made with the
lovey-eyes, suddenly you became Bluebeard in her book. She knows perfectly well what Lily looks
like, and whoever I was, I most definitely was *not* Lily Potter.”

“Madam Malkin supplied the dress robes for my parents’ wedding,” Harry said. “That’s one reason why
I went to her for *our* wedding. I figured it would be good luck. I mean, before Voldemort
went and mucked things up, my mum and dad *were* happy.”

“And when Madam Malkin saw you with *me,*” Hermione said, “what was she to think? And then
when we mentioned the Halloween Ball? Well, that really tipped the inkwell. Not only were you
cheating on your wife, but with a schoolgirl! It’s a wonder she didn’t pull out her wand and chuck
you into the street with a Banishing Charm. And knowing what I do now, I can see that she was
holding back considerably when it came to me. In her eyes, I was obviously some cheap little bint
who was destroying a happy family, not caring who I hurt so long as I got what I was after.”

“But there’s one thing you still haven’t explained,” Harry said. “How did we *get* here? Why
are we in the past and not the future?”

Hermione sighed with exasperation. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“Not to me, it isn’t,” Harry said uncomfortably.

“Our *rings,*” Hermione said, holding up her left hand. “The Inversion Charm!”

Even as awareness spread over Harry’s face, his expression closed slightly. “But you didn’t have
time to put the Charm on *my* ring. Why didn’t *I* go into the future while *you*
ended up here in the past?”

A chill seemed to spread through Hermione, as if a gust of icy wind had just swept through the
room.

“If we had gone separately, using two pinches of powder,” she said hollowly, “that’s exactly what
*would* have happened. And even using the Floo together as we did, it might’ve happened anyway
– if not for our rings.” Hermione looked up, her eyes embracing Harry’s. “Our *rings,* Harry!
Bonding Rings. If I had used the spell on any other object, it would have remained locked in that
object. But the special Bonding Charm linking these rings together acted as a conduit for the
Inversion Charm so that it ‘arced’ from my ring to yours. But it was a near thing even so. Thank
Merlin we were hugging each other so closely when we jumped into the fire. If we’d been separated
by even an inch, we might have been torn apart, lost to each other forever. But as it was, the
Inversion Charm covered *both* of us, sending us here instead of where Voldemort intended us
to go.

“But why *are* we here?” Hermione now puzzled. “The spell was supposed to take us to a time
when we would be rendered superfluous. But if it worked in *reverse* – does that mean that
we’ve come to a time when we can do something *good?*”

“OF COURSE!” Harry shouted, leaping up in a billow of black robes. “The Charm sent us *here*
and *now* because *this* is the day when Voldemort killed my *parents!* But now they
don’t have to *die!* We can *stop* him! I don’t know *how,* but we wouldn’t
*be* here if we couldn’t do it *somehow!*”

Hermione was now looking at Harry with alarm. “Harry,” she said with a forced calm, “we can’t. We
can’t change what’s already happened.”

“The *hell* we can’t!” Harry shouted. “If you think I’m going to just stand around and let
Voldemort destroy my life *again,* when I can do something to *stop* him, you’re barmier
than Trelawney!”

“Harry,” Hermione said pleadingly, “what can you *do*? This is *Voldemort* we’re talking
about! You can’t face him alone, without help from the Aurors or the Order! Without Ron, we don’t
even have the protection of the Blood Circle! It’s suicide!”

“I faced him once before,” Harry said defiantly.

“And you were nearly *killed,*” Hermione returned. “Only a *miracle* saved you that
time.”

“I’m better prepared this time,” Harry said stubbornly. “We still have the protection of Snape’s
potion. As for the Blood Circle – well – nothing against Ron, but he was never really as good as
you and I. We don't need him. The two of us can – “

“Harry!” Hermione said, her voice cracking. “Whatever his shortcomings, we *do* need Ron!
Without him, the Blood Circle is broken and useless. That’s why Voldemort wanted us out of the way
in the first place, to break the circle. Draco probably learned about it through Snape, and he told
Voldemort straightaway. We were sent away so we couldn't complete the circle. And if we
couldn't defeat Voldemort without it in *our* time, what can we do against him here in the
past, when he was at the peak of his power? Please, Harry! You simply aren’t powerful enough to
defeat Voldemort. The only wizard in the world strong enough to face him is Dumbledore.”

Harry stood still as a statue for almost a full minute before his quivering muscles relaxed.
“Right, then,” he said at last. “That’s what we’ll do. We’ll go to Dumbledore. I know we’ll be able
to convince him we’re telling the truth. It’s a wild story, but if anyone will believe us,
Dumbledore will. Isn’t Hagrid always saying that Dumbledore trusts where others don’t? Yes, I’m
sure we’ll be able to convince him.”

“Harry,” Hermione squeaked, “you still don’t understand. We – we can’t change – “

“DON’T TELL ME WE CAN’T CHANGE HISTORY!” Harry roared as Hermione shrank back in her chair. “I
DON’T GIVE A DAMN ABOUT HISTORY! THE WHOLE BLOODY UNIVERSE CAN JUMP DOWN THE FLIPPIN’ LOO AND PULL
THE LEVER FOR ALL I CARE! I AM *NOT* GOING TO LET MY PARENTS BE MURDERED IF THERE’S A CHANCE I
CAN STOP IT!”

Hermione’s face was now buried in her hands as her shoulders trembled with quiet sobs. Instantly
cut to the heart, Harry dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around Hermione.

“Hermione, I love you,” Harry breathed into her ear. “I love you more than my own life. But don’t
ask me not to try. If you love me, please don’t ask me to just stand by and – and let that bastard
murder my parents all over again. Please.”

Harry felt Hermione’s arms slip around his waist. He pulled her from the chair, and together they
sank onto the floor and held each other for a long time. At length Harry loosed his firm but gentle
grip and allowed Hermione to draw back until he could look into her eyes, which were bright with
wetness.

“Tell me honestly and truly, Hermione,” Harry said. “If it were *your* parents, wouldn’t you
want to try? Even if you failed, could you live with yourself if you didn’t at least *try* to
change it?”

“No,” she said at last. “I couldn’t.”

“And you know you wouldn’t have to go it alone,” Harry said. “You know I’d be right there beside
you, all the way.”

“Yes,” Hermione nodded. “Just as I’ll be right beside *you.* All the way.”

Harry kissed Hermione tenderly, holding her against him as if he never wanted to let her go. But
though he would have gladly spent an eternity thus, time – ironically – was now their greatest
enemy. He sprang up as if his legs had been Transfigured into steel springs, drawing Hermione to
her feet alongside him.

“What time is it?” he asked urgently. Hermione looked at her watch.

“Almost three.”

“That gives us plenty of time,” Harry nodded. “Dumbledore will be at Hogwarts. We’ll have to go to
Hogsmeade and run all the way to the castle. He’ll probably be in his office. We won’t know the
password, but McGonagall will tell us. My dad is a member of the Order of the Phoenix, so she’d
have no reason not to tell him the password. McGonagall’s shrewd, but I think I can pass for my dad
long enough, don’t you?”

“Harry,” Hermione said haltingly, her face etched with worry, “how are we getting to
Hogsmeade?”

Harry stared stupidly for a moment. “By portkey, of course. You said you learned the enchantment,
right?”

Hermione’s legs gave way, and Harry quickly steered her back into her chair.

“Harry,” Hermione said weakly, “I – I can’t enchant a portkey.”

“What?” Harry burst out. He looked almost exactly like Malfoy had looked when Hermione had gone off
on him four years ago and slapped his face. “But – you said you learned the spell!”

“I know the spell,” Hermione nodded in agreement. “But I can’t *do* it.”

“That’s nutters!” Harry barked. “Since when did any spell you ever learned *not* work?”

“Harry,” Hermione said, “you don’t understand how portkeys work.”

“Sure I do,” Harry said. “I watched Dumbledore at the Ministry. You just say, ‘Portus,’ and –
“

“No,” Hermione shook her head, “there’s more to it than that.”

“You mean like the Summoning Charm, or the Unforgivables?” Harry said. “So, you’ll just concentrate
extra hard – we'll do it together -- “

*“Listen to me!”* Hermione shouted. Harry fell silent. Sighing heavily, Hermione said, “In
order for a portkey to work, it has to be linked magically to its destination. The way that’s done
is, the spell-caster reaches out with his mind and ‘touches’ the portkey’s destination. When he
speaks the incantation, his mind automatically creates a link between the destination and the
portkey. Without this link, the incantation is useless and the object being enchanted can’t become
a portkey.”

“Why can’t *you* do that?” Harry asked.

“Because the mind-touch is the first phase in Apparation,” Hermione said. “In Apparation, the mind
reaches out and touches a destination, and the body follows it like an elastic band snapping back
to its original shape. In the case of portkeys, the enchanted object simply takes the place of the
Apparating body.”

“Then how did Dumbledore send me back to his office with that portkey?” Harry demanded. “He
couldn’t possibly have ‘touched’ his office with his mind, since Hogwarts is surrounded by
anti-Apparation wards. And Crouch turned the Triwizard Cup into a portkey while it was
*inside* the Hogwarts grounds.”

“Crouch never said that,” Hermione countered. “It’s almost certain he enchanted the Cup *off*
the grounds – most likely in Hogsmeade. As for Dumbledore, he didn’t need to ‘touch’ his office.
The spells permeating his private chambers maintain a sort of permanent link between them. It's
probably the only place in Hogwarts where he can come and go like that – and as I said before, none
but the spell-caster can breach such a personal barrier.”

Harry felt as if he had been stabbed through the heart. He felt a sudden upsurge of hatred for the
Dursleys. Hermione’s birthday had come after the beginning of term, but he had turned seventeen on
July 31st. If the Dursleys had let Harry go to the Burrow earlier, he might have been able to take
Apparation training with Ron, who was himself now fully licensed to Apparate (even if the wards
surrounding Hogwarts prevented him from actually doing so). Even had Harry been unable to complete
the training, the preliminary exercises – the first phase, as Hermione had called it – would have
enabled him to provide the mind-link for a portkey while Hermione performed the actual spell. Harry
cursed silently, his teeth grinding together like millstones.

“What can we do?” he said, his voice pregnant with anguish. “How can we get to Hogsmeade? The Floo?
I know most of the shops will be closed for the holiday, but surely the Three Broomsticks will be
open? Maybe even the Hog’s Head.”

“And where are you going to get Floo powder?” Hermione said. “All of the shops that sell it are
closed, and ours is so much rubbish.”

“Wouldn’t Tom have some downstairs?” Harry said desperately.

“Tom’s clients are all mature wizards who can Apparate,” Hermione said. “Why do you think that old
witch tried to bum a pinch off of *us?* Because she knows neither Tom nor anyone else in the
pub has so much as a gram.”

“This isn’t happening,” Harry moaned. “Damn, I wish I had my Firebolt. Maybe if I broke into
Quality Quidditch Supplies – ”

“You’d set off a bunch of magical alarms,” Hermione said. “Maybe get yourself stunned, or worse.
And how much success do you think you’ll have convincing Magical Law Enforcement wizards that you
broke in so you could go stop a murder that happened sixteen years ago, but hasn’t actually
happened yet? They’d chuck you in a cell faster than you can say, ‘Dobby wears mismatched socks and
a tea cozy for a hat.’”

Suddenly Harry pounded his fist on the table, his face exultant.

*“The Knight Bus!”*

“Brilliant!” Hermione beamed, clapping her hands together with a report like a wizard cracker.
“Only…”

“Only what?” Harry said quickly.

“The Knight Bus can’t actually come *into* Diagon Alley,” Hermione said. “We’ll have to go
through the Leaky Cauldron and out into Muggle London.”

“Let’s go,” Harry said.

They ran through the crowded pub, Harry resisting the urge to pause just long enough to cave in the
bartender’s leering face with a Herculean effort of will, and dashed out onto the sidewalk. The
Leaky Cauldron did not sit on a busy street, allowing it to maintain a low profile in the midst of
Muggle surroundings. When none of the sparse litter of pedestrians appeared to be looking his way,
Harry raised his wand arm. Almost immediately there was a loud *bang*, and, with a squealing
of tires, the Knight Bus appeared out of thin air.

It was three decks high, painted a violent shade of purple that pained Harry’s eyes. Dobby would
have loved it.

The door sprang open, and a young wizard in a purple conductor’s uniform jumped out. Actually,
Harry thought, it was more like he was *pushed* out. Harry gawked for a moment. He had never
seen the Knight Bus so full to overflowing. He could not even see where the conductor (who was very
like Stan Shunpike, with big ears and a long, scrawny neck ) had found the room to stand inside the
bus in the first place.

“Welcome to the Knight Bus,” the conductor said as he adjusted his cap and straightened the
shoulders of his uniform jacket (which appeared to be at least two sizes too big). “Emergency
transport for the stranded witch or wizard. My name is Reggie Mac – ”

“Yeah, right,” Harry said impatiently. “We need two fares to Hogsmeade.”

“Right y’are,” the young wizard said cheerfully. But his face became apologetic as he said, “There
ain’t no seats left. This is our busiest day, it is, Halloween.”

Harry wondered if there was even standing room, but there was no time to quibble. He would ride on
the roof if he had to, fixing himself to the metal skin with a Sticking Charm.

“How long will it take?” Harry said as he fished around in his pocket for some coins.

“Wot? To Hogsmeade?”

“No,” Harry snapped, “to Buckingham Palace, you git!”

“’Ere, now,” Reggie said testily. “No need to take that tone.”

“Please forgive him,” Hermione said, stepping up now with a Galleon procured from her money pouch.
“He’s upset. We’re going to see his parents. They’re...not well.”

Reggie’s indignation faded as he took the gold coin from Hermione. “Sorry, folks. Well, never you
fear, we’ll arrive in Hogsmeade, oh, sometime before eight, I reckon. Now, if you’ll step up –
”

“EIGHT?” Harry exploded. “*Eight o’clock?* That’s five bloody hours!”

“O’ course,” Reggie said. “It’s way up in Scotland, innit? An’ we got all them other blokes to drop
off ’tween ’ere an’ there, don’t we? All three decks is full to burstin’, they is, and them as has
the nearest destinations ’as got to be delivered first, don’t they? An’ you bein’ last on an’
all...I mean, it’s only fair, innit?”

“What’s the hold up?” a witch barked peevishly from somewhere in the mass of humanity squeezed into
the bus.

“My ol’ Trouble ‘n Strife’ll have my kidneys for cat food if I’m not home by six,” a hoarse-voiced
wizard announced from an open window on the second deck just above Harry’s head.

“Shake a leg, lad,” admonished the driver, Ernie Prang, who looked no different now than Harry
remembered him from his last trip a couple of years ago. The old wizard squinted through his thick
glasses, and Harry was unsure whether it was Reggie or himself who had been addressed. “We got a
schedule to keep.”

His eyes spitting green flame, Harry snatched the Galleon from the conductor’s hand and whirled
about in a billow of black robes. But a sudden tug on his arm brought him around again.

“Harry,” Hermione whispered. “If we can’t go to Hogsmeade, there’s only one other place *to*
go.”

Harry stared at Hermione with a mixture of disbelief and something akin to worship.

“Do you mean it? You were against it before.”

“It’s the only way,” Hermione said, masking her fear with an effort.

“You getting’ on er not?” Ernie called out.

“Yes,” Harry said as he squeezed Hermione’s hand appreciatively. “Never mind Hogsmeade. We’re going
to...”

Harry choked abruptly, his words catching in his throat like coarse sand. He looked desperately at
Hermione, only to see the same terrible realization stamped on her own features. He let out a
strangled sob.

The Fidelius Charm! How could he have been so stupid? In the time they had stood arguing over a
course of action, the Charm had been engaged, wiping out all knowledge of the Potters’ location to
anyone except the Secret Keeper, Peter Pettigrew! Only a short time ago, Harry had been relating
the story of his parents’ demise at the hand of Voldemort. During that narrative, the image of the
location of which he spoke had been clear in his mind. Now, it was if a hand had reached out and
erased the knowledge from his brain as easily as Hermione had swept the Floo dust from their table
in the Leaky Cauldron.

And even if either of them still remembered where James and Lily lived, neither of them could have
divulged that information to Ernie. The only person on Earth with that power was even now scurrying
rat-like to betray his precious knowledge to his master, Lord Voldemort.

Hermione gently pried the Galleon from Harry’s clutching fingers and pressed it into Reggie’s hand.
“For your trouble,” she said in a faint, distant voice. “Thank you.”

His fingers closing on the gold coin, Reggie nodded with a smile, lifting a finger to the bill of
his cap. Straightening the shoulders of his lopsided uniform, he stepped back onto the bus. There
was a roar, a squeal of tires, a loud *bang*, and the bus was gone.

Harry had collapsed into a heap on the sidewalk, his back pressed against the ancient stones of the
old pub. Hermione knelt and slipped her arms around his neck.

“What are we going to do?” Harry said, his voice perilously close to a sob.

“Let’s go inside,” Hermione said.

Harry shook his head violently.

“We can’t sit here,” Hermione said. “Sooner or later, a policeman will come along, and what will we
tell him when he asks why we’re wearing black robes and traveling cloaks instead of Muggle clothes?
Come on, let’s just go through the pub and into Diagon Alley. Maybe a walk will help us to
think.”

Rising to his feet grudgingly, Harry paused with his hand against the door to the pub, his face
turning slowly toward Hermione.

“If everyone inside can Apparate,” he said with a spark of hope, “could one of them Apparate us to
Hogsmeade? I’ll give him gold – my entire vault – ”

“No,” Hermione said. “It’s against the law. But there’s more to it than simple illegality,” she
added quickly as defiance flashed in Harry's eyes. “Remember that Arthur and Molly couldn’t
Apparate you and the rest of the family to Diagon Alley on your first visit to the Burrow.
Apparation requires a trained mind to work properly, even if someone else is supplying the magic. A
wizard can Apparate with solid objects, like parcels and such, but the process would mentally
splinch another human who wasn’t actually participating in the Apparation process, perhaps beyond
repair. It would be different if we’d learned how to cast our minds out, but in our present state,
it would be like we’re rooted to the ground. If an Apparating wizard tried to carry us along, our
minds would be torn apart like a storm ripping a tree out of solid rock. Someone with mind powers,
like Dumbledore, might be able to erect a protective barrier around his charge to block the
destructive effects. But an ordinary wizard could never...I’m sorry, Harry.”

“My mum was going to Apparate out of the house with *me* when Voldemort attacked,” Harry said
argumentatively, determined to clutch at every straw within his grasp.

“A baby’s mind is open and uncluttered,” Hermione said patiently. “And its body is small enough to
be included in the magical aura that surrounds an Apparating witch or wizard. Without that
protection...”

His shoulders sagging as under a terrible weight, Harry pushed open the door and trudged into the
Leaky Cauldron, Hermione guiding his leaden step.

“Back fer more, eh, Mr. Potter?” Tom cackled. “I tol’ ye, them little ‘uns is the best!”

His bile rising, Harry plunged through the pub and out the back door, where he opened the back wall
by slamming his fist angrily upon the enchanted trigger-stone.

After a few minutes’ walk, the silence enveloping them broken only by the echo of their footfalls
on the sidewalk, Hermione steered Harry onto a stone bench sitting on the patio of Florean
Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlor. Harry sat with his face buried in his hands, trying desperately not
to cry.

“They’re going to die,” Harry croaked. “Voldemort’s going to kill them again. If there was only
some way to warn them.” Harry let out an anguished sob. “I could have taken the Knight Bus straight
to their house!” he squeaked piteously. “I *know* it’s closer than Hogsmeade! Even though I
don’t remember where it is, I can *feel* how close it is! I could have warned them, made them
understand! But it’s too late now. If only I hadn’t waited! I’m an idiot!”

“If you are, then so am I,” Hermione said gently, “because I didn’t think of it straightaway,
either. So much for being the smartest witch at Hogwarts.”

“What are we going to do?” Harry said as he raised his head and pulled off his glasses to wipe his
eyes. “We don’t belong here. This isn’t like with the Time-Turner. Then, all we had to do was hide
out for a few hours until time caught up with us and step back into our lives. But how can we stay
hidden for sixteen bloody years?”

“We can’t,” Hermione said flatly. “We’ll have to leave England.”

“Leave?” Harry said incredulously, his head jerking up. “We’re not going to stay and fight?”

“After tonight,” Hermione said, the words burning her heart like iron brands, “there won’t be
anyone *to* fight. Not for another thirteen years.”

She looked at Harry, whose eyes were now red and puffy.

“If we stay, people will wonder how ‘James Potter’ can still be walking about after he and his wife
were killed by Voldemort. We’ll have to go far away. The states...maybe Canada, where our speech
won’t brand us so obviously as outsiders. We’ll change our looks. I can cut and dye my hair. Maybe
you can grow a moustache or a beard. And while we’re waiting, we’ll work. We’ll study. We’ll
prepare. And when the moment is right, we’ll be ready.

“We don’t know exactly where Voldemort will be during his ‘exile.’ There are too many wild places,
forests and mountains, where he can hide. We *could* try to stop him when he goes after the
Sorcerer’s Stone. Maybe we can stun Quirrell in Diagon Alley, before he tries to steal the Stone
from Gringotts.” She sighed. “But he may attack innocents to cover his escape, leaving us worse off
than before. And once he’s at Hogwarts, it would be much too dangerous for us to go after him.
Anyway, we know Voldemort was defeated and went back into hiding, so I suppose we’re better off
just biding our time.

“But we *do* know *exactly* where he’ll be prior to the Quidditch World Cup and the
Triwizard Tournament!” Hermione’s eyes were dancing with dark fire now, the way they always did
when she was on the verge of some intellectual triumph. “When Pettigrew brings him out of hiding,
we’ll be ready for him. Maybe we can surprise him in his parents’ house, the way old Mr. Bryce did.
Failing that, we’ll try to prevent Barty Crouch from replacing Mad-Eye Moody. That would be a
*major* setback for him. And even if that doesn’t work, we know the ‘other Harry’ will be in
no danger until he enters Hagrid’s maze. We needn’t grow careless. We know Voldemort will be
waiting in the cemetery at Little Hangleton on the night of the Third Task. But instead,
*we’ll* be waiting for *him.*”

“Wormtail,” Harry said coldly. “Yes. It’ll be *worth* waiting thirteen years to kill him. And
when he’s dead, I’ll stamp on that vile slug that Voldemort will have become. I won’t even use my
wand. I’ll crush his skull under my heel, like a cockroach. Yes. *That* will be worth thirteen
years of my life. And to think it will have been Voldemort himself who brought about his own demise
with that damned Dust of Set. Maybe I’ll tell him that, just to see the look on his face before I
stamp his brains out.”

The ice in Harry’s voice chilled Hermione’s blood.

“I’ve been thinking,” Hermione said slowly, “what would have happened if we *could* have saved
Lily and James tonight. What would happen to *us,* I mean.”

“What are you talking about?” Harry said, coming fully alert now.

“I was thinking,” Hermione said as she looped her arm through Harry’s and held him possessively to
her, “that it’s only through the strangest and most unusual of circumstances that we became
friends, much less fell in love.”

Harry placed his hand on Hermione’s arm comfortingly. “We were meant to be together,” he said
unyieldingly. “Nothing could ever change that.”

To his surprise, Hermione laughed.

“What did you think of me when we first met?” Hermione asked.

“I thought you were a smug, annoying, bossy little know-it-all who couldn’t have been more prim if
you’d had a ruddy broomstick stuck up your arse,” Harry said without hesitation.

“That’s exactly what I was,” Hermione smiled. “What happened to change that?”

“To begin with,” Harry said, “Ron and I rescued you from a twelve-foot mountain troll in the girls’
loo.”

“A mountain troll let in by Professor Quirrell, on orders from Voldemort, as part of a plan to
steal the Sorcerer’s Stone.”

Harry’s expression remained blank.

“Don’t you see?” Hermione said. “If Voldemort hadn’t lost his body when he failed to kill you,
there would’ve *been* no troll to bring us together. Hagrid never would have gone to fetch the
Sorcerer’s Stone on Dumbledore’s orders. It would’ve remained locked in its vault at Gringotts. It
never would have been at Hogwarts, where Quirrell tried to steal it by using the troll as a
diversion. And if none of those things had happened, you and I...well, there never would’ve
*been* a ‘you and I.’ “

“What about the Chamber of Secrets?” Harry argued. “Even if we weren’t mates, your curiosity would
have led you to search the library until you found out all about the basilisk.”

“Probably,” Hermione acceded. “But who would I have *told* if you and I weren’t mates? For all
we know, it might’ve been Ron and I who rescued Ginny from Tom Riddle while *he* was busy
killing *you.*”

“*That’s* a cheerful thought,” Harry grunted.

“Or no one might have rescued Ginny,” Hermione added gravely. “Her bones would have lain in the
Chamber forever, just like the message she wrote on the wall said.

“And what about Sirius?”

“What about him?” Harry said.

“It was when we worked together to save Buckbeak, and thereby save Sirius, that I...” Hermione
hesitated a moment before she said in a low, aching whisper, “That was the night when I...when I
fell in love with you.”

Harry tried to speak, but only a soft hiss of breath escaped his throat.

“If James and Lily had lived, ” Hermione said, “Sirius never would have gone to Azkaban. The
incident that brought us together in Third Year never would have happened. *We* never would
have happened.”

“No,” Harry said firmly. “We *would* have come together, somehow. It took me a while, but I
*did* come to see just how important you are to me, and always have been.”

“Exactly,” Hermione said with a sort of pained triumph. “Always have been. But as I just pointed
out, I wouldn’t have *been* important to you without those mitigating circumstances. Before
you and Ron saved my life...well, Ron told the truth that day when he said I had no friends.”

Harry gave Hermione’s hand a comforting squeeze, which she returned.

“And there’s one *other* factor to consider.”

“What’s that?”

“Your dad.”

“My dad?” Harry puzzled. “How could my dad have any bearing on my feelings for you?”

“Do you remember what you were like when you came to Hogwarts, Harry?” Hermione asked.

“I wish I could forget,” Harry laughed softly. “I was timid, scared, unsure of myself...I was the
very definition of uncool.”

“Precisely,” Hermione said. “You didn’t feel like you fit in anywhere. You were a lot like me. And
Ron. I’ve always thought that one of the reasons we bonded as we did – all three of us – was
because we didn’t fit in anywhere else. We became a sort of three-person support group. Us against
the world.

“And tell me now – what was your *dad* like in school? What was he like when you saw him in
Snape’s memory when you entered Dumbledore’s Pensieve?”

“He was everything I never was,” Harry said. “He was confident, sure of himself, popular – with
everyone but my mum, that is.”

“Why *did* your dad fancy your mum?” Hermione asked, rather like a barrister in a judicial
chamber. “It was plain that *she* didn’t give a hippogriff’s toenail for *him.*”

“She was...I dunno...dynamic. Fiery. And maybe my dad fancied her *because* she didn’t fall
all over him like the other girls.” Harry’s voice trailed off. Hermione smiled.

“You left one thing out, Harry. Your mum was beautiful. She was tall and graceful. She had poise
and spirit. Just as James was everything *you* were not, Lily was everything *I* am
not.”

“I don’t – ”

“Harry,” Hermione said with an amused lilt in her voice, “if you had grown up with your dad as your
role model, you would have been just like him when you arrived at Hogwarts. You would have been
confident and self-assured. You probably would have been an arrogant prat like your dad was before
Lily sorted him out, although your mum *might* have succeeded in keeping your head a few sizes
smaller than your dad’s was at your age. And even the things that remained the same would still be
different. I’m sure Oliver would have recruited you for the Gryffindor Quidditch team straight off,
even if you *hadn’t* gone chasing after Neville’s Remembrall. More likely, you would have
lobbied for the Seeker position halfway through the Welcoming Feast, using your dad’s reputation as
leverage. And you would have won the Quidditch Cup for Gryffindor – except that, instead of being
humble about it, you would have eaten up the glory and adoration like Ron eats Honeydukes
chocolate. Just as your dad did.” Hermione giggled lightly. “I can see you now, raking your fingers
through your hair, just like James. And the girls would all *oooh* and *aaah,* and you
would flash them a bright smile and swagger off – ”

“I would *not* have swaggered,” Harry said peevishly.

“You would have swaggered off with your broomstick over your shoulder,” Hermione resumed
determinedly. “You would have been an amalgam of your father and Sirius. The ultimate Marauder.”
Another tiny giggle echoed in the back of Hermione’s throat. “You know, *that* Harry might
well have stolen Cho straight away from Cedric.” She giggled again.

“I know you’re trying to make a point,” Harry prompted. “But your Disarming Spell is missing the
target.”

“Is it?” Hermione said quietly, looking directly into Harry’s eyes. Without preamble, she asked
matter-of-factly: “Am I pretty, Harry?”

“You’re the most beautiful – ”

“If you sent my picture into Witch Weekly’s prettiest witch contest, how high do you think I would
place?”

“That’s a load of rubbish,” Harry snorted.

“James was attracted to Lily from the first because of her looks.” Hermione said. “Later, he
discovered her inner beauty and fell in love with her. But he wouldn’t have given her a second
glance if she’d…if she’d looked like me.”

“Hermione – ”

“I’m not bitter,” Hermione said, her smile warm and genuine. “But I *am* pragmatic. Like those
Egyptian generals I was telling you about, I always know which way the wind is blowing. The truth
is the truth. And the truth is, the Harry Potter I just described would have sought out the
prettiest girls in the school and ignored everyone else – especially a certain bushy-haired,
buck-toothed Gryffindor who would have been as invisible on his radar as if she were wearing his
father’s Invisibility Cloak.

“But, of course,” Hermione said with a small sigh, “that wouldn’t have been *you.* Not really.
That would have been *another* Harry Potter.”

“What are you talking about?” Harry said, his brow wrinkling beneath his wind-tossed bangs. “Unless
we jumped into some kind of parallel universe, like in those Muggle paperbacks Dean is always
reading, that ‘other Harry’ whose parents are going to die tonight *is* me!”

“He is *now,*” Hermione said. “When – when Voldemort kills Lily and James tonight, that Harry
will be sent straight to the Dursleys, to be tormented by Dudley for ten horrible years until
Hagrid delivers his Hogwarts letter and sets him free. That Harry will meet Hermione and Ron on the
train, and together they’ll save the Sorcerer’s Stone from Quirrell. He’ll kill the basilisk in the
Chamber of Secrets, save Sirius from the dementor's kiss, give his blood to resurrect
Voldemort. He’ll go to the Ministry of Magic, fight for his life against Lucius Malfoy and
Bellatrix Lestrange...watch Sirius fall through the veil and never return. And eventually, when
Halloween 1997 turns up again, he’ll go up the Floo with his fiancée and end up here. The circle
will be complete.

“But what if we could have saved Lily and James tonight? As we sit here on this bench, feeling each
other’s warmth, I know we’re real. I know because I can remember everything we’ve been through
together over the last six years. I can remember every detail of our journey through the bowels of
the castle to save the Sorcerer’s Stone. I can remember how it felt to put my arms around you and
press up against you when we rode Buckbeak up to Professor Flitwick’s window to rescue Sirius.
Those memories are a part of me...just as they’re a part of you. But what if that suddenly never
happened? How could we remember something that we never did?”

Smiling, Hermione squeezed Harry’s hand as she gazed into his brilliant green eyes.

“Like everyone in the world, wizard or Muggle, we are what we are because of the things we’ve seen
and done. We’re like patchwork quilts, with each patch representing the events that have shaped our
lives. We’re the product of our experiences. Different experiences equal different patches, equal
different quilts. Which equals a different *us.* And if the world we know were to change to
create a new and different Harry Potter and Hermione Granger – where would that leave *us* –
the you and me sitting on this bench right now?”

“We’re here,” Harry said resolutely, his fingers folding about Hermione’s emphatically. “You and I.
Nothing can change that.”

“*We* can change that,” Hermione said. “Or we *could* have. If we had changed what
*was* into what *will be,* we would automatically create a *new* Harry Potter and
Hermione Granger. As you just said, we *are* in the same universe. And in any universe, no
matter how big, there’s room for only *one* of each of us.

“Look at it as a writer creating a novel. He writes it from beginning to end, all the chapters
connected from first to last. Then, suddenly, he radically changes the first chapter so that
someone who originally died now lives. All of a sudden, the end of the story doesn’t mesh with the
beginning. So what does he do? It’s simple. He tears out the last chapters, chucks them in the
dustbin and writes a *new* ending. The old is gone, as if it never was, replaced by the new.
And that’s what would have happened to *us.*”

“Are you saying,” Harry said through lips suddenly dry, “that if we had found a way to save my
parents, we...you and I...”

“We would erase ourselves,” Hermione said, supplying the words for which Harry struggled in vain.
“Like an essay from a blackboard. A new essay would take our place on the slate of the universe.
The you and I who are having this conversation right now would cease to exist. In time, even the
memory of our presence here would fade from the world. Like an almost-dream that never was. A
nocturne in a minor key.”

This was more than Harry could comprehend. He was real. He could feel his heart beating, hear his
lungs drawing breath – he could *see* that breath fogging the chill October air. Hermione’s
flesh was warm and alive beneath his hands. What she was suggesting was impossible. Wasn’t
it?

“If all that was true –” Harry said slowly, “– and I’m not conceding anything, mind – would it
change what we were about to do before the Fidelius Charm erased our memories? Could we do what we
intended, knowing what we'd lose in the bargain?”

“I should be asking *you* that, Harry,” Hermione said. “Would you trade what we have here and
now – the lifetime we can share – for a new life with your parents – a life without me?”

Harry could not answer such a question, even if he believed the truth of it.

“You don’t have to answer,” Hermione said, her head tilting to rest on his shoulder. “But for my
part, I would stand by you, whatever your decision. I love you. And if that love was destined to
last only a heartbeat instead of a lifetime, I’d still be better off than that *other*
Hermione who might never get to love you at all. Even if she lived a hundred years and I died
tomorrow, I still wouldn’t change places with her.”

“If that other Harry never saw what a treasure you are,” Harry said softly, his cheek nestled
against Hermione’s bushy head, “he’s a git. It would serve him right to stand in the back aisle,
all alone, watching you marry someone more deserving, like Ron, or Cedric…”

“Cedric?” Hermione echoed with a laugh.

“Why not?” Harry laughed in his turn. “You said you were impressed with him, with his good grades
and the fact that he was a prefect. Think about it. If he hadn't died during the Triwizard
Tournament, you and he would have spent a bit of time together in prefect meetings once you got
your badge. He'd have got to know the *real* Hermione Granger a lot quicker than a certain
green-eyed wizard who shall remain nameless.” Harry grinned broadly. “If that other Harry were to
steal Cho away from him, the way you reckoned, he might marry *you* on the rebound, and do a
lot better for himself in the exchange in my opinion.”

Harry felt Hermione start as suddenly as if she had been pricked with a needle.

“What is it?” he asked, tilting his head so he could see her face.

“Harry...” Hermione said, her eyes fixed on something Harry could not see, “...empty your
pockets.”

“What?” Harry said, unsure he had heard right.

“Empty your pockets,” Hermione repeated.

Sensing that compliance would be simpler than arguing, Harry began turning his pockets out.
Hermione examined every item closely as it emerged. Like herself, Harry had brought little with
him, expecting to be away from school for only a couple of hours. His coin pouch contained only a
few Sickles, most of his money having gone to pay for their room over the Leaky Cauldron. He found
a couple of Chocolate Frog cards in the pocket of his cloak, their rounded corners indicating that
they had been carried around unsuspected for quite some time. Two toffees appeared, their gold foil
wrappers emblazoned with the Honeydukes legend, but Hermione ignored them.

Without warning, Hermione pounced like Crookshanks upon Scabbers.

“Harry, where did you get this?”

The frantic note in Hermione’s voice surprised Harry. “What, that? It’s only a butterbeer
cap.”

“Where did you get it?” Hermione said more urgently. “Did it come from the Three
Broomsticks?”

“Why?”

“*Think,* Harry! Did it come from the Three Broomsticks?”

Harry could not imagine why the point of origin of a butterbeer cap could possibly be of any
importance, but he concentrated as best he could.

“No,” he said at last. “It came from the Burrow. Ron’s collecting them. Inside the cap is a picture
of a famous singer or musician. Ron gave me that one because it was a double.”

Hermione sighed as she looked inside the cap. A moving photo of Celestina Warbeck mouthed silently
in a parody of singing.

Knowing better than to ask too many questions, Harry tried his left-hand pockets. He expected to
find very little on that side, as he was right-handed and tended to favor that side of his robes.
His wand was on the left, of course, as it was easier to draw from that side.

Without warning, Harry’s mouth fell open. Alert now, Hermione watched as Harry drew from his
pocket...

“Tom Riddle’s diary?” Hermione said, her amazement matching Harry’s expression. “You brought it
with you?”

“I must have stuck it in my pocket without realizing it,” Harry said as he stared at the worn book
with the gaping hole through its center. “We left in a hurry. I didn’t give it a thought. Must have
been a reflex action. Is it important?”

Hermione thought for a moment before shrugging. “No. I don’t think so.”

Harry returned the diary to his robes, along with everything else. He ached to ask Hermione what
that had been all about, but if she hadn’t volunteered the information already, he knew it was
pointless to ask. If it was important, she would tell him. If it was not, then what did it matter?
Harry’s curiosity was aroused, but he reined it in with the sureness of long practice. This was not
the first time Hermione had left him dangling over something trivial, and God willing, it would be
far from the last.

“I know it’s early,” Harry said, “but all this has taken a lot out of me. Fancy a kip? The room’s
paid for until tomorrow morning. And in any case, we can’t leave until we’ve decided just where
we’re going, can we?”

“I knew there was a reason Dumbledore made you Head Boy, Potter,” Hermione smiled. “After a little
lie-down, I might even be able to face up to Tom’s fish and chips.”

“Bugger that,” Harry sneered. “Gringotts is still open. We’ll change some of your Galleons into
pounds and eat somewhere in Muggle London.”

“Dressed like this?” Hermione chuckled.

“Well,” Harry mused, “Uncle Vernon once said that the first time he saw a bunch of wizards in robes
and cloaks, he thought they were some sort of cult, until he didn’t see any collecting tins. If
anyone stares, we’ll just bow and smile a lot.”

Laughing in harmony, Harry and Hermione walked arm-in-arm to Gringotts. When they left the bank
shortly after, Hermione’s pouch was considerably lighter with half her coins replaced with pound
notes as they mounted the stairs in the back of the Leaky Cauldron and entered their room for what
they were sure would be the last time.



*** * ***
**



Now you know why the story wouldn't work if Hermione were old enough to have learned to
Apparate in her sixth year. Even magic couldn't have patched a plot hole that big. And one
reviewer was surprised that Harry and Hermione were engaged, but if they hadn't been, there
would've been no Bonding Rings, and thus no story. Of such little stones is the mosaic
composed.

So, were there any new clues this time, or is it all in your imagination? Think on that until next
time. See you then.**






6. With This Ring...
--------------------





**Notes:

To reviewer brad: Thanks for the thoughtful and detailed critique. You're right, the plot
necessitated the elimination of every conceivable means of transportation. That was a challenge,
given the fact that J.K. has continued to introduce new notions in every book without regard to how
they apply to what she has already established. Does Floo communication use the same system as Floo
travel? When Amos Diggory's head appeared in the Weasleys' fire in GoF, why did he not come
all the way through and have a proper visit? More to the point, when Harry was using the fire at
Hogwarts to speak to Kreacher at Grimmauld Place, why didn't he go straight through and enter
Sirius' house? This is a point on which J.K. is vague, leaving us to fill in the blanks. I can
only conclude that there are two separate uses for the Floo, and one cannot overlap the other. Even
if Tom had some "communication" powder, who would Harry have "called?" Who
would believe his story? Only Dumbledore, one presumes -- but after the fiasco of Harry's fifth
year, how difficult would this form of contact be? Is every fireplace at Hogwarts open for
communication? Again, J.K. is unclear on this. Rather than split too many hairs, I just brushed off
Floo communication as an unworkable solution.

Regarding Patronus communication, I don't think Harry is that skilled yet. And if he was, how
fast (and for how long) could his stag gallop? All the way to Scotland from London? And does the
Patronus really communicate? Or did Dumbledore merely arrange with Hagrid to come at once whenever
the phoenix-Patronus appeared? This seems more likely.

As for bribing/convincing Ernie Prang to drive all the way up to Scotland? I don't think the
other passengers would have stood for that. And Harry could hardly have told everyone the
*real* reason.

Now, as for Tom Riddle's diary, the first chapter established that Dobby had recently given it
to Harry, who thereafter kept it in his Head Boy quarters. It was within easy reach when Harry took
it up to show "Neville." It was still in his hand when he rushed out to use the Floo, and
he instinctively stuck it in his pocket. Is its presence significant? I'll tell you that it is
neither more nor less significant that Hermione's request for Harry to empty his pockets. All
will be answered shortly.

To RONIN10: Sorry about the excess detail, but as the above shows, certain things that I think are
evident often turn out not to be. Sorry if I overcompensated. One of the hazards of a short format.
My novel (if I ever finish it) should have ample room for such data to be spread out over more
chapters in smaller, easier to swallow doses.

Finally, to Fenriswolf: In my defense, I'm a lifelong Doctor Who fan. The Doctor has been
mucking about with British history since 1963, averting disasters that would have devastated
humanity without his intervention, and after all that tinkering he always returns to a present-day
world that remembers him. I admit, I wrote this story to accomplish a selfish purpose. I wanted to,
in Hermione's words, erase J.K.'s essay from the board and substitute my own. I hope
you'll pop back to review the final result. If nothing else, I might be dissuaded from trying
anything like this again.

And now, on with the story.


**
*** * ***
**


**
**Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow**
**


**
**Chapter 6**
**


**
**With This Ring...**






The dream unfolded as it had a hundred times before. Harry was in his parents’ house. The Potters
were enjoying a quiet evening meal, secure in the knowledge that their newly-engaged Fidelius Charm
had hidden them safely away from those who would harm them and their son. A light knock sounded on
the door, and James rose easily from the table with a promise to his wife that he would dispatch
whoever it was with polite finality.

Since they were living in a Muggle neighborhood with nary another wizard for miles around, James
and Lily had fallen into the habit of dressing in Muggle attire. James, being wizard-born, was
decidedly less adept at this subterfuge than was his Muggle-born wife. But Lily was a patient
teacher (indeed, when things settled down a bit and they were able to live a more or less normal
life again, she intended to pursue a career in teaching), and as James approached the front door it
was with full confidence that whomever he met would not guess that either he or his wife were
anything but the Muggles they gave every appearance of being.

With a tricky movement of his wand, James removed the Locking Charm from the door and slid back the
bolt, quickly hiding his wand in the secret pocket of his slacks. He reached for the
doorknob...

Harry had witnessed this scene more times than he cared to remember, and it never varied by so much
as a centimeter. Until now.

Harry always observed these seminal events in his life as a dispassionate third party, a
disembodied ghost hovering at the periphery of the stage that was his dream-vision. But now, as he
watched his father reach out to turn the doorknob, there was a silent flash, as of heat lightning.
The scene dissolved in blinding whiteness. Harry blinked his eyes once, twice. Color and form
quickly coalesced once again into the familiar parlor of the Potter house. But this time there was
a difference. Instead of watching his father open the door to admit the wizard who would become his
and his wife’s murderer, Harry found himself staring out through eyes other than his own. The hand
that reached out to grasp and turn the doorknob was attached to *his* arm! No longer an unseen
observer in a phantom gallery, Harry was suddenly thrust into the role of the principle player in
this too-familiar drama.

Harry felt the smooth, cold metal as his fingers closed on the knob, heard and felt the faint click
of the tumblers. Cool October air rushed through the crack that appeared as he pulled the door
back. Harry tried to stop himself from completing the action, but his hand would not obey him. He
tried to cry out, but no sound came. Looking out helplessly through his father’s eyes, Harry opened
the door and found himself staring full into the face of Lord Voldemort!

Harry tried to slam the door as he reached for his wand to reactivate the Locking Charm, but
Voldemort was too fast. The Dark Lord burst into the antechamber, his wand pointing at Harry’s
heart.

“Who is it, James?” Lily called out pleasantly from the dining room.

Drawing his wand in a blur of speed, Harry called over his shoulder, “Lily, take Harry and go! It’s
him! I’ll hold him off – ”

Harry heard the sound of a chair clattering to the floor as his mother bolted from the table and
into her son’s room. He backed up slowly, his eyes fixed on those of his – and the wizarding
world’s – greatest foe. Fear coursed through him like ice water. He sent an attacking spell at
Voldemort, but the Dark Lord brushed it aside as if he were swatting a mosquito. James/Harry did
not run. It was imperative that he give Lily time to escape with their son.

“There is no escape from this house,” Voldemort hissed, divining his opponent’s thoughts. “Not for
you...nor for your son.”

Harry trembled with fear, both his and his father’s.

“Then you’ll have to kill me, Voldemort,” Harry said in a steely voice. “Because the only way
you’ll touch my wife and son is over my lifeless body.”

Voldemort’s flinty eyes flashed with mingled amusement and disapproval upon hearing his name spoken
aloud. Those with the temerity to address He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named to his face could be counted on
the fingers of one hand. Those who so dared did so at their peril.

“I expected nothing less from Dumbledore’s most faithful lapdog,” Voldemort said. He thrust his
wand forward so quickly that Harry had no time to fling himself aside. *“Avada
Kedavra!”*

A burst of green light enveloped Harry. The world went black.

Light returned almost instantly. Harry felt himself rising, as if he were floating on his
broomstick. But no, there was a gentle pressure enfolding him. He was being drawn upward in the
gentle but firm grip of a pair of hands. His mother’s hands. Harry tried to speak, but only
gibberish came out. He was himself, Harry, again. But the eyes through which he surveyed his
mother’s terror-stricken face were those of baby Harry, whose tiny body Lily held protectively
against her bosom.

Harry saw his mother’s face tense, as if in concentration. He knew what must be happening. Lily was
trying to Apparate herself and her son out of the house and away from Voldemort. Her inability to
accomplish this filled her with a mixture of confusion and terror. She did not know of the barrier
erected around the house by the Dark Lord. She only knew that she could not escape. Panic blazed
like green fire in her eyes. Harry felt himself being lowered back into his crib. His mother drew
her wand, which shook slightly in her slender hand.

A footstep sounded in the doorway. Lily spun about, standing protectively between Voldemort and her
son. She raised her wand, but Harry saw that it was merely a reflex action. Her body language
revealed that her defensive stance was but a pose. She knew she was no match for Voldemort. As did
Voldemort himself. Abandoning pointless bravado, Lily did what any mother would have done –
*had* done a million times before in the text of history’s endless tapestry – when faced with
the threat of harm to her child: She begged.

“Not Harry! Not Harry! Please – I’ll do anything – ”

“Stand aside,” Voldemort said in a tone of mingled irritation and impatience, as of one brushing an
annoying insect from the rim of his wine-goblet. “Stand aside, girl!”

Like her husband before her, Lily did not, could not, yield. To save her own life at the price of
her son’s did not so much as flicker across her thoughts. From his vantage point in his crib, Harry
almost thought he saw Voldemort shake his head wearily as he pointed his wand.

It was then that the most curious thing of all happened. As he stared with unblinking eyes at the
terrible scene about to unfold, Harry saw the outline of his mother change subtly. Her tall,
slender figure diminished. Her flaming red hair dulled to an inanimate brown, its sheen giving way
to a bushy fullness. Harry screamed as a burst of green light filled his vision.

“NO! DON’T KILL HER! DON’T – ”

“Harry!”

Hands were gripping Harry’s robes, shaking him frantically. His eyes flew open, staring up at the
ceiling. For a moment he could not remember where he was.

“Harry!” Hermione repeated. “Wake up!”

Harry sat straight up in bed. He felt cold dampness on his forehead. He was trembling.

“You had the dream again, didn’t you?” Hermione said quietly.

“Yes,” Harry said numbly, blinking his eyes. The room was a blur. He had set his glasses on the
night table when he and Hermione curled up for their kip on the narrow bed. He thought fleetingly
of reaching for them, but he abandoned the notion. Enhancing the clarity of his outward vision
might serve to likewise sharpen the images still burning in his mind, and that was the last thing
he wanted – especially that last, terrible vision of Voldemort striking down the woman who was
worth more to him than the life in his own body. Instead he turned toward Hermione, whose worry was
evident even through the fog of his diminished eyesight. “It was different this time,” he
said.

“Different how?”

Harry swallowed dryly. “It was…it was like the dreams I had in Fifth Year – the ones where I could
see through other people’s eyes. One minute I was watching it happen, just like always. Then, all
of a sudden, I was seeing it through my dad’s eyes. And when Voldemort killed my dad, everything
shifted again, only this time I was looking through the eyes of my one-year-old self. I watched it
all – I *felt* it all, as if it was happening to *me.*”

“How dreadful,” Hermione said soothingly.

“There’s more,” Harry said. He’d considered for a moment withholding this last detail, but the
spark of the notion had died before it could be kindled to flame. He had wasted too much time –
caused too much death and destruction – keeping secrets from those he loved and who loved him. No
more. “At the end,” he said as Hermione pressed close to him comfortingly, “when Voldemort killed
my mum…she…” Harry felt his throat tightening as if he were choking on dust. “She turned into
you.”

Hermione emitted a gasp of astonishment and shared anguish. “It was only a dream,” she said
reassuringly, her hands sliding down Harry’s arms to give his fingers a reassuring squeeze. “It
wasn’t real.”

“Not now,” Harry said. “But what about tomorrow? Next week?”

Harry pulled Hermione into a crushing hug, his hands tangling in her bushy hair.

“I can’t lose you, too,” he murmured into her ear. “Voldemort is going to kill my parents all over
again tonight. Soon, Sirius will be sent to Azkaban, only to escape and die at the Ministry. You’re
all I have left.”

Hermione’s arms tightened around Harry as she said, “Nothing is going to separate us. We’re a part
of each other. Nothing will *ever* separate us.”

“I wish I could believe that,” Harry choked. “I never knew I could love someone as much as I love
you. Even the thought of losing you...”

Harry began to kiss Hermione’s hair, in which his hands remained tangled. His kisses moved down her
cheek until he felt the softness of her lips. They kissed feverishly, hungrily, the world
dissolving around them until they were the only people in the whole of Creation. Harry’s kisses
moved slowly downward, over Hermione’s throat, down her neck. They were both gasping for breath
when Harry pulled back suddenly. Hermione’s eyes formed the question which her lungs had no breath
to voice.

“If I don’t stop now,” Harry said breathlessly, “I might not be able to later.”

A long, electric silence hung between the two of them before Hermione said very softly: “Don’t
stop.”

Harry stared incredulously. Surely Hermione did not mean what he thought she did?

“This isn’t the time or the place,” Harry said, the regret in his voice palpable.

“Will there ever *be* a ‘right time’ or a ‘right place?’” Hermione said. “Our world has
changed forever. We woke up this morning in a safe, happy world, surrounded by friends and family,
making plans for a long and wonderful life together. Now, thanks to Voldemort – and Malfoy – that
world is lost to us forever. Everyone we love is, or will be, dead, or lost to us in any of a
hundred other ways. If I showed up on my parents’ doorstep right now and told them I was their
daughter, all grown up and hurled back in time from 1997, they’d think I was mad. And who could
blame them?

“Our plans for the future all went up the Floo with the Dust of Set. For us, the old cliché is
true. It really *is* just you and me against the world. And given the challenges we face if
we’re to salvage something good out of so much wickedness, we can’t hope to succeed unless we’re
completely united...in every way.”

Harry detached his hands from Hermione’s hair and caressed her tangled locks tenderly.

“Are you absolutely sure? We always said we should wait until we’re husband and wife – that our
union would have more meaning if – ”

“As far as I’m concerned,” Hermione said, her lips curving into a trembling smile, “we’ve been
husband and wife since the day we placed these rings on each other’s fingers. I made a promise to
myself that day to love you, and stand by you, no matter how hard the path we had to walk. It
doesn’t matter that I didn’t say the words aloud. God heard me. Nothing else matters.”

“I made that promise long before we exchanged rings,” Harry said, his eyes embracing
Hermione’s.

The two lovers melted together in a warm, loving kiss. Harry felt Hermione’s heartbeat,
hummingbird-quick, against his chest. His own was scarcely a beat behind.

“I always thought we’d be on a secluded beach in the Caribbean,” Harry said. “Or maybe in a lavish
honeymoon suite in the grandest hotel in Paris. I never pictured us – you know – in a cold, cramped
room above the Leaky Cauldron.”

“The ‘where’ doesn’t matter,” Hermione said. “Only the ‘who.’”

His hands caressing Hermione’s face and neck longingly, Harry asked haltingly, “Is
it...safe?”

Smiling appreciatively, Hermione said, “The moment we exchanged rings, I went straight to Madam
Pomfrey and had her teach me the Contraceptive Charm. The truth is, I didn’t know how long
*I’d* be able to hold out.” A flush spread across Hermione’s cheeks, which phenomenon was
reflected a moment later on Harry’s face.

His eyes welded to hers, Harry slid his hands under Hermione’s hair and fumbled for the tie at the
back of her robes. On the Quidditch pitch, Harry’s hands were always quick and sure, deft and
smooth and unfaltering in the accomplishing of their assigned task. Now, as he loosened the neck of
Hermione’s robes and slowly drew the material forward, he was shaking as if beset by a contagion.
His hands slid over her milk-white shoulders, which were so soft that they took his breath
away.

“I haven’t been this scared,” he laughed nervously, “since the Chamber of Secrets.”

“Don’t worry,” Hermione said, her own hands shaking slightly as she loosened the neck of Harry’s
robes. “Unlike the basilisk, I don’t bite.

“That is,” she added with a feral gleam in her eye, “unless you *want* me to.”


*** * ***



Harry felt as if he were floating in a warm ocean of utter tranquility. Hermione’s warm body was
pressed against his. Her face was buried in the hollow of his shoulder, her hot breath on his skin.
If this were but another dream, Harry decided, he never wanted to wake up. He ran his hands up and
down the curve of her back, savoring her softness unhurriedly.

“Knut for your thoughts,” Hermione mumbled as she trailed moist kisses along Harry’s neck and
shoulder.

“If I’d known it would be *that* good,” Harry said earnestly, “I’d have tried to get into your
knickers ages ago.”

“Funny,” Hermione said as she turned her head and pressed her cheek against Harry’s chest, “I was
thinking pretty much the same thing.”

Harry hugged Hermione as if he never wanted to let her go. He reveled in the feel of her skin
against his. Though he had never experienced the effects of alcohol, he thought he knew now what it
must be like to be intoxicated. He felt Hermione – his love, now become his lover and wife –
flowing through him like a drug. It was an addiction from which he never wanted to wean himself. He
doubted that were even possible. Using his right hand (his left being otherwise engaged in
appreciating his new wife’s feminine charms under the blankets), Harry thrust his pillow up against
the brass headboard and struggled into a sitting position. Hermione remained prone, her face now
pillowed upon her husband’s smooth, flat stomach.

“How are we going to leave the country?” Harry asked suddenly, surprising Hermione so that her head
shot up.

“I don’t know if I should praise your pragmatism,” she said with a wry smile, “or Curse you for
thinking so rationally with a naked woman pressed against you.”

“Well,” Harry said reasonably, “if we don’t decide *now,* we’ll have to spend another night
*here.* Merlin only knows what Tom’s saying about us downstairs right now.”

“Only *now* it’s the *truth,*” Hermione giggled. Looking up, she saw her knickers draped
over the bedpost, where they had sailed as if with a mind of their own upon being tossed aside by
Harry. She giggled again.

“I hope Tom wasn’t just winding me up about that Silencing Charm,” Harry said seriously. “If I’d
known you’d be so...vocal...I’d have held back a bit.”

“I always suspected you were a bit of an animal,” Hermione said with a feline gleam in her eyes.
“And if it comes to that, it wasn’t *only* me making the windows rattle.”

“That was *your* doing,” Harry said as he ran his fingers cautiously over the fresh teeth
marks indenting his shoulders and neck like a crimson necklace.

“I *did* warn you,” Hermione said, baring her perfect teeth as she raked her tongue along
their serrated edges provocatively.

Giving Hermione’s bum an appreciative squeeze with his hidden left hand, Harry said, “So, how
*are* we getting to America?”

Hermione sat up next to Harry, the blanket slipping down around her waist. The chill air in the
room made her shiver, and Harry, seeing this, drew her close.

“We can’t possibly stay overnight, you know,” she said regretfully as she snuggled against Harry,
drawing comfort from his warmth. “We need to be gone as soon as possible.” She paused for a moment,
her mouth curling thoughtfully. “The Floo is out, of course. Even if we could scrape up some
powder, Britain doesn’t have an international link yet. The Ministry was only just implementing
that in *our* time.”

“We can buy a couple of broomsticks from Quality Quidditch Supplies,” Harry suggested. “I know you
don’t like to fly, but that may be our best option.”

“Yes,” Hermione agreed. “Another possibility is by Muggle aeroplane. We don’t have any
documentation, but a few well-placed Memory Charms should get us through Customs.”

“If we’re leaving,” Harry now thought to ask, “what do we do about my – I mean *our*
vault?”

Hermione gave Harry a mildly exasperated look. “We’ll have to leave it, of course.”

“Leave it?” Harry said in surprise. “Why?”

Sighing much as she did when Harry or Ron failed to understand a homework assignment she had
explained to them repeatedly, she said, “When we thought we were in the future, the gold rightly
belonged to you. But here in the past, everything still belongs to your parents. Think about it.
When – when they die – everything they own will sit in their vault until their son – you – receives
his Hogwarts letter and learns he’s a wizard. What’s the first thing you and Hagrid did when he
took you to Diagon Alley that first time?”

“We went to Gringotts to get some money to buy my school supplies,” Harry said.

“Exactly! If we take your parents’ money away with us, what will the other Harry Potter use during
his seven years at school? Can you imagine asking the Dursleys for money to buy spell books and
potion ingredients?”

Harry *had* imagined that very scene, in fact. At best, his aunt and uncle would have laughed
in his face. At worst, they'd have chucked him back in his broom cupboard and flushed the key
down the loo.

“So, what are we going to do for money?” Harry asked reasonably. “We can’t hang about long enough
to earn any. You said yourself that the sooner we leave, the better.”

“That’s true,” Hermione admitted. “I suppose we’ll have to take a small bag, just to tide us over.
That shouldn’t deplete your parents’ reserves to any degree. We can make more detailed plans after
we've reached our destination.”

“And how *are* we going?” Harry repeated the question Hermione had not yet answered. Hermione
thought a moment before speaking.

“It may be better *not* to go by aeroplane. The more I think on it, the more I’d prefer that
our presence not be documented by Muggle authorities. I think your vault can spare enough gold to
buy a couple of second-hand brooms without adversely affecting the whole. We can enter North
America on the quiet and go straight to their version of the Ministry of Magic – we know there are
wizards in America, we saw them at the Quidditch World Cup. If they know anything about what it’s
been like here in the shadow of Voldemort, I’m sure they’ll grant us sanctuary. I doubt we’ll have
been the first to leave Britain to get away from Death Eaters. Yes, that’s what we’ll do – what are
you smiling about?”

“If we’re going by broom,” Harry said, his smile drawing back into a repressed grin, “I think I
just won my first argument as a married man.”

“Enjoy it while you can,” Hermione said with mock coolness. “One victory does not a war win.”

Hermione’s phrasing struck her at the same moment as it did Harry. She took Harry’s face in her
hands.

“Voldemort may win today’s battle. But *we’ll* win the *war.*”

“Together,” Harry said.

They shared a warm, tender kiss, clinging to each other with a gentle relentlessness, as if
affirming to themselves and to the world that they were, now and forever, one, inseparable.

“You know,” Harry said as he playfully snatched his new wife’s knickers from the bedpost and flung
them over her head, “‘cementing a relationship’ takes a lot out of a bloke. You feeling
peckish?”

“I could eat a Blast-Ended Skrewt,” Hermione said as she flung the blanket back and drew her
knickers up her smooth legs. “Stinger and all.”

Pulling on his briefs, Harry bent and picked up Hermione’s shoes and socks. He handed them to her
as he caught up his own and sat back on the bed.

“Now that we’re officially ‘married,’” Harry said as he pulled on his socks, “we won’t have any
secrets between us, right?”

“Of course,” Hermione said as she pulled on her shoes.

“So tell me,” Harry said as he fumbled with the knot on his shoelace, “what was all that about with
the butterbeer cap?”

“Oh,” Hermione said slowly. “That.”

“It sounded like it was something important,” Harry said as he sat back, looking unintentionally
comical wearing only shoes and briefs.

Hermione sighed and sat close to Harry. “There was a...a chance...a small one...that we could still
get to Hogsmeade in time to warn Dumbledore. I didn’t want to say anything. I was afraid to get
your hopes up, especially when it all came to naught.”

“What does a butterbeer cap have to do with going to Hogsmeade?” Harry said, clearly puzzled by
Hermione’s reasoning.

Choosing her words carefully, Hermione said, “There’s...more than one way to enchant a portkey.”
Harry came alert instantly. “The standard procedure is the way I explained already,” Hermione
began. “That sort of portkey can go anywhere the enchanter chooses. But there’s another type of
portkey. It’s called a Rebound Portkey.”

“What’s the difference between the two?” Harry asked, his interest intensifying.

“As I said, a standard portkey can go anywhere its enchanter directs,” Hermione said. “But a
Rebound Portkey can only go where *it* wants to go. It’s actually much easier to
*understand* than it is to *explain.*” She took a slow, deep breath and began:
“Everything in the universe has a special aura…a signature all its own. I once saw a program on
telly where the end of a leaf was cut off. When the remaining part was viewed under a special
scanner, the missing end could still be seen as a sort of ghost-image, still attached to the
original as if it had never been cut off. Even though the end was physically gone, the remainder
*remembered* its missing part as if it was still there. Are you with me so far?”

Harry nodded, his mind fully focused on Hermione’s words.

“If something – or even someone – occupies a place for long enough,” Hermione said, “their auras
sort of blend together. Place an object in a room, over time it becomes a *part* of that room.
Later, if that object is *removed* from that space, it will ‘remember’ where it’s been. No
matter how far away it’s taken, it will still be connected to the place where it used to be. And
it’s that connection that makes a Rebound Portkey possible. If that butterbeer cap sat on Ron’s
shelf long enough before he gave it to you, it will still be connected to the Burrow as though an
invisible thread were strung from there to your pocket. And if I used the Portkey Charm on that
cap, that thread would become an elastic band, snapping the cap back where it came from, and taking
anyone touching the cap *with* it.”

Harry’s face burst with the light of understanding. “So, if that butterbeer cap had come from the
Three Broomsticks, you could have Charmed it into a portkey that would take us *back* to the
Three Broomsticks.”

“Exactly,” Hermione said. “From there we could have run straight to Hogwarts and told Dumbledore
everything. But as it came from the Burrow – ”

“But since it *did* come from the Burrow,” Harry said, “couldn’t we have gone there instead?
Asked the Weasleys for help?”

“I knew you’d have suggested that if I said something then,” Hermione said sadly. “But there are a
number of reasons why that wouldn’t work. For one, the Weasleys don’t *know* the Potters. They
weren’t original members of the Order of the Phoenix with Lily and James, remember. Even if you
passed yourself off as your father, they wouldn’t know James Potter from Morgan Le Fay. Like as not
Arthur would truss us up and take us to the Ministry, probably hand us over to Magical Law
Enforcement wizards for interrogation.”

Harry was forcibly reminded of the underground chamber wherein sat the special interrogation chair
with the magical chains, shuddering as he imagined them leaping up to fasten themselves around
*his* wrists as they had done with Barty Crouch and Igor Karkaroff...and Bellatrix
Lestrange.

“By the time they let us off – ” Hermione concluded, “ – if they ever did – it would be too
late.

“But we still night have tried it,” she said quickly as she saw the repressed anxiety in Harry’s
eyes, “except that there’s another, less amorphous, reason it wouldn’t have worked. You know that
the Burrow is surrounded by a magical barrier so that only the Weasley family can come and go
freely.”

“Like the one Voldemort placed around my parents’ house,” Harry said grimly. “The one only
*he* could pass through.”

“Precisely,” Hermione said. “Ron was showing you his collection up in his room, wasn’t he? That’s
where he keeps his Chocolate Frog card collection, so it seems reasonable to assume that his bottle
cap collection is there, too.” Harry responded with a grudging nod. “So it wouldn’t have mattered
either way,” Hermione said with quiet finality.

“What would’ve happened if we’d tried anyway?” Harry persisted.

“We’d have bounced off the barrier like a quaffle off a stone wall,” Hermione said.

“Bounced where?” Harry asked, unsure he wanted to hear the answer.

“Presumably, to wherever the cap had been previously,” Hermione said. “Since Ron gave you the cap
over the holidays, I’m guessing he didn’t buy the butterbeer in Hogsmeade.”

“No,” Harry said. “He bought it right here in Diagon Alley on a family shopping trip. He told
me.”

“So in the end, we’d have bounced right back here where we started,” Hermione shrugged. “Except
that the place where he bought the butterbeer almost certainly has its *own* wards. That being
the case, we’d have bounced yet *again,* and this time there’s no telling *where* we’ve
have ended up. But when we finally *did* land, it wouldn’t have been pleasant, that I can
guarantee. When a proper portkey arrives at its destination, it sort of ‘downshifts’ so the landing
is relatively smooth. But if it’s redirected to another destination, the spell is skewed and the
results are unpredictable. The more detours, the worse it gets. And, of course, it goes without
saying that we couldn’t have used the school items in our pockets to go back to Hogwarts. We
addressed that earlier.

“And even if the cap *had* been from the Three Broomsticks,” Hermione shook her head with a
weary sigh, “I’m not sure that the time difference wouldn’t have thrown a spanner in the works.
After all, that cap is from sixteen years in the future. The aura surrounding a building remains
essentially the same, so it *might* have worked. If the cap *had* been from Hogsmeade, it
would’ve been worth a try, I suppose. We’ll never know, will we?”

Harry nodded mechanically. He did not resent Hermione for keeping this from him. He understood that
certain things were better left unsaid if they had the potential to do more harm than good. Though
he disliked the idea of keeping secrets – especially now that he and Hermione were essentially
husband and wife – he understood that she had acted out of love and not selfishness. He could not
help but love her more for that. And when he finally asked her outright, the fact that she did not
hesitate to answer him directly, making no attempt to dissemble, was the final proof in his eyes.
He himself might find numerous occasions in the future to withhold something from Hermione that
would cause her pain. There was no question that he would do anything in his power to spare her
either physical or emotional hurt. He hoped that, under similar circumstances, he would be as
forthright with her as she had just been with him. He owed her that much, at the very least.

Lost in his thoughts, Harry looked down at his Bonding Ring and smiled, feeling his love for
Hermione warming him despite the chill of the waning day (and his pronounced lack of clothing, of
which he was now keenly aware).

Suddenly Harry shot up as if stung by a bee, his hand darting up to clutch at his neck. Without
warning, he leaped from the bed like an uncoiling spring, startling Hermione, who was pulling her
heavy slip over her head before fetching her robes from where they hung over the back of the
chair.

“For Merlin’s sake, Harry!” she scolded teasingly as she tugged her slip straight and reached for
her robes. “If I didn’t know we were the only two people in the room, I’d have grabbed my wand and
stunned you purely from reflex.”

“I’ll remember that the next time I get the urge to sneak up behind you and play peek-a-boo,” Harry
grinned. Then his face grew serious. “Sit down. I have something very important to tell you. And
show you.”

“I’d be able to take you more seriously,” Hermione smirked as her eyes scanned (with undisguised
approval) Harry’s near-naked form, “if you were wearing your robes.”

“All will be explained,” Harry said as he took Hermione’s hand and sat her down on the bed next to
him. Harry took Hermione’s hands in his, running his thumb over her Bonding Ring meaningfully.
“When we were planning our wedding – it seems like it was only this morning – ” ( Hermione rolled
her eyes at Harry’s attempted levity) “ – we planned a wizard ceremony at the Burrow.”

“Of course,” Hermione said, wondering where Harry was going.

“You’ll remember I said we had a lot in common with my parents,” Harry said. “I engaged Madam
Malkin so we could begin our new life the same way my parents did, hoping we could emulate their
success and their happiness. And I don’t have to tell you that you and my mum share the distinction
of being Muggle-born.”

“It’s a good thing you didn’t opt for a career as a lecturer,” Hermione observed dryly.

“What?” Harry said.

“Get *on* with it,” Hermione commanded through a toothy grin.

“Right,” Harry said, hiding an embarrassed grin with something less than complete success. “Well,
um, my dad knew that my mum was still rooted in the Muggle world, at least in part. So he thought
he could show her how much he loved her by marrying her in a Muggle ceremony *after* they got
married wizard-fashion. And that meant...a wedding ring.”

Releasing Hermione’s hands, Harry reached up and touched his throat, his lips forming the words of
a hushed incantation. Hermione squeaked in surprise as a fine gold chain appeared around Harry’s
neck, hugging his throat snugly as a choker. As she watched in silent wonder, Harry unclasped the
chain and dangled it from his fingers. Hermione now saw that an object was suspended from the
chain. Harry slid this off the chain and held it out meaningfully.

“A wedding ring?” Hermione gasped, her eyes round and shining like two polished Knuts.

“We may never get to have a Muggle ceremony,” Harry said. “But I hope you’ll wear it anyway. Maybe
someday, when this is all behind us, we can turn up on your parents’ doorstep and you can show it
to them – if only to prove that wizards *can* be civilized on occasion.”

Harry took Hermione’s hand in his and slid the ring onto her finger. The fit was perfect. She
looked up, her eyes misting with tears.

“It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” she choked. “Now I *really* feel like a
married woman.”

They came together in a deep, passionate kiss, Hermione’s hands playing along Harry’s bare back and
shoulders. As their lips parted, Hermione’s fingers moved along Harry’s neck, her lips slowly
pursing in an expression Harry had come to know well.

“Yes, Miss Granger?” Harry said in a sharp imitation of Professor McGonagall’s crisp Scottish burr.
Then, in his normal voice: “Or should I say, Mrs. Potter?”

“You were wearing this around your neck all the time?” Hermione asked. Harry nodded, flashing a
knowing smile. “But I didn’t feel – ” She cut herself off, her cheeks beginning to burn. Harry
laughed. During their passionate encounter, Hermione’s lips and tongue had missed not a square
centimeter of Harry’s skin, from the soles of his feet clear up to his lightning scar. The bite
marks surrounding his neck were uniform, their pattern undiverted by the ring and chain just
revealed.

“Concealment Charm,” Harry said with a satisfied smile. “Professor Flitwick gave me top marks. Now
you know what *I* was doing while *you* were in the hospital wing learning the
Contraceptive Charm.”

Hermione smiled appreciatively. She knew that the Concealment Charm (a very difficult spell,
N.E.W.T. standard) had distinct advantages over a simple Disillusionment Charm, or even
invisibility. An object enchanted with a Concealment Charm was magically bonded to a host, and so
long as it remained in physical contact with that host, it would be completely intangible. That
explained why Harry had the chain fastened around his neck so snugly. With both ring and chain in
full contact with his body, it would be as if they did not exist, an encirclement of invisible
smoke felt only by Harry himself.

“It fits perfectly,” Hermione said as Harry pulled his T-shirt over his head and bent to pick up
his robes (which, unlike Hermione, he had carelessly tossed onto the floor in a timeless gesture of
masculinity spanning both wizard and Muggle worlds). “Did you buy it in Hogsmeade or in Diagon
Alley? It can’t be Muggle-made – it fits so well, there *has* to be magic involved.”

“Right on the last one,” Harry said as he pulled his robes over his head and tied them behind his
neck (which felt strangely naked without the familiar pressure of the ring and chain he had worn
for so long). “It’s Charmed to fit whatever finger it’s on. But I didn’t buy it in Hogsmeade
*or* Diagon Alley. In fact, I didn’t buy it at all.”

“You didn’t?” Hermione said as she held the ring up to the fading light straining to penetrate the
curtained window. “Then where did you get it?”

“From Sirius,” Harry said. He lowered his voice respectfully as he elaborated: “It was my
mum’s.”

“Your mum’s?” Hermione said in a ghostly voice. “But...but how...your mum was...I mean...the
house...”

“The house was destroyed by Voldemort,” Harry nodded. “Or, more precisely, it was destroyed by the
backlash of the spell that bounced off of *me* and devastated Voldemort’s body. I got the
whole story from Sirius when I got the ring. When he arrived at the house, hoping to get there
before Wormtail’s betrayal had borne fruit, he found the house a collapsed ruin. Hagrid had just
pulled me out of the wreckage. My parents were still in the house, lying where they fell, my dad in
the parlor, my mum next to my crib.”

“Hagrid didn’t move them?” Hermione said in mild surprise.

“No time,” Harry said. “It was more important to get *me* out first. Hagrid still apologizes
to me every now and then, whenever he drinks too much and starts reliving that night.” Harry paused
to reflect that he must break himself of speaking of such things in the present tense. “I kept
telling him there’s nothing to forgive,” he resumed. “I know he didn’t love them any less because
he had to leave them behind until the Ministry of Magic sent someone to collect them. Just the
opposite, he loved them so much that he felt it was his first duty to their memory to see to
*my* safety *first,* so their deaths wouldn’t be for nothing.

“So, when Sirius turned up, and Hagrid refused to disobey Dumbledore’s orders to deliver me to the
Dursleys, Sirius gave Hagrid his motorcycle to take me safely away. Hagrid thought Sirius was
simply being understanding, knowing that he couldn’t Apparate and would have to take the Knight Bus
to Little Whinging. But Sirius had another reason for getting Hagrid out of the way so quickly. As
soon as Hagrid was gone, and before the Ministry wizards arrived, Sirius went into the house and
took this ring from my mum’s finger. He said she would have wanted me to have it, to give to
whomever I married when I grew up. It would be something to remember her by...a way to keep her
alive in my heart. And so it is.”

“But Sirius went straight after Pettigrew,” Hermione said blankly. “What did he do with the ring?
Surely the Ministry would have confiscated it when they captured him?”

“When he went after Wormtail,” Harry said solemnly, “Sirius knew he might not live to give the ring
to me. He was determined to avenge his best friends’ deaths or die trying. So, before he set off,
he made a stop at Gringotts. He left the ring in his vault. It stayed there until his death. When I
inherited Sirius’ gold, I also inherited my mum’s ring. It just took a bit longer to come to
me.”

A strange expression was now clouding Hermione’s face. “There’s something I don't understand,”
she said hesitantly. “You said you got the ring only two months ago. But you said you got the story
from Sirius. How did...”

“How did Sirius tell me the story more than a year after he died,” Harry said heavily. “Sirius had
a lot of time on his hands while he was cooped up at Grimmauld Place. One of the things he did was
make up a will. Dumbledore was the executor. It was decided that the house would go to Dumbledore,
so he could continue to use it as the headquarters for the Order. He left the contents of his vault
to me. I never meant to keep it a secret. I never brought it up because...just thinking about it
reminds me of Sirius. Whenever I go to take something out of my vault, I see all that extra gold
that wasn’t there before, and I think how I’d give it all away, his and mine both, just to have him
back.

“Anyway, when Dumbledore arranged to transfer Sirius’ gold to my vault, he didn't tell me that
there was something besides gold there – something he kept back.”

“The ring,” Hermione said.

"It was in a green envelope,” Harry said. “Sirius left instructions that it be held for me
until the time was right. Remember when Dumbledore called me away just after the Welcoming Feast?
That’s when he gave it to me.”

“But you still haven’t explained...” Hermione began, but all at once a light sprang into her eyes.
“The envelope!” she exclaimed. “A green envelope! It must have been – ”

“An Orate,” Harry nodded with an approving smile. “Actually, I’d never even heard of it until
Dumbledore explained to me what it was.”

“An Orate is like a Howler,” Hermione said, “but without the shouting.”

“When Dumbledore told me who it was from,” Harry said, “I almost didn’t want to open it. I didn’t
know how I’d react, hearing Sirius’ voice after so long. I sat up half the night, listening to
Ron’s snoring, before I finally broke the wax seal.”

Harry’s smile was strained, almost a grimace.

“Unlike a Howler, an Orate doesn’t self-destruct after its message is delivered. The spell lasts
for a while after the envelope is opened, like the rosettes at the Quidditch World Cup that called
out the names of the Irish National team. I sat up all night, opening and closing the envelope,
listening over and over as Sirius told the whole story of how he took the ring and saved it for me.
Remember how you got on my wick for sleeping through all my classes that day – dishonoring my Head
Boy badge and all? Now you know why I was so tired. Anyway, when you slipped off to the hospital
wing to see Madam Pomfrey, I went straight to Flitwick and arranged for him to teach me the
Concealment Charm. I didn’t know how or when I’d be giving you the ring, but I wanted it to be safe
as it could possibly be until then. I wasn’t about to be separated from it for an instant.”

“And you’ve worn it ever since,” Hermione said in a distant, hollow voice.

Harry noticed all of a sudden that Hermione was trembling visibly, her left hand tightly clenched
as the fingers of her right hand closed around it.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Time,” Hermione muttered distractedly. “Time. Where’s my watch?” She leaped upon the table, where
her forgotten watch lay. She scooped it up and tilted its face to the light of the window.

“Hermione?” Harry said with growing alarm.

“It’s nearly six,” Hermione said hurriedly as she tugged the watch strap around her wrist. “It’ll
be close...”

“What are you talking about?” Harry said, raising his voice louder than he’d intended in his
agitation.

“Harry,” Hermione said breathlessly, “I think...I think we can do it.”

“Do *what?*” Harry demanded.

“I think...” Hermione said slowly, pressing her dry lips together to moisten them, “...I think we
might be able to save your parents.”






7. Home Again
-------------





**To Sweet-Lemmon: Since the sex was only referenced without any detail, the lesser rating seemed
to suffice. If the moderators disagree, I'll up the rating and apply the same principles to
similar scenes in future stories. And yes, leprechaun, I created the Orate out of simple need.
That's the beauty of HP fiction. Nearly any problem can be solved by creative use of magic. Of
course, magic also comes with trapdoors that need blocking if a story is to stay on course. The
excitement lies in the challenge. And on that note, the next chapter awaits. Happy reading.


**
*** * ***
**


**
**Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow**
**


**
**Chapter 7**
**


**
**Home Again**






Harry’s heart was in his throat. He felt like he might choke on the words that spilled out of his
mouth.

“Are you serious?” he gaped. “How?” As if following an unspoken command, his eyes fell on his
mother’s ring on Hermione’s left hand. “The ring?” Harry shook his head, feeling momentarily dizzy.
“Are you sure? Is it really possible?”

Harry had said all this very quickly, his repressed excitement making him tremble.

“We have to go, Harry,” Hermione said suddenly. “Time is growing short, and the spell won’t work in
this room.”

“What spell?” Harry said numbly, his mind still refusing to function.

“The Portkey Charm, of course,” Hermione replied as she started for the door. “This whole pub is
protected against people coming and going magically. Too easy for someone to duck out without
paying his bill. If this is going to work, we have to go out into the open.”

Hermione unlocked the door and handed the key to Harry.

“Give this back to Tom,” she said. “This time, we *won’t* be coming back.”

Saying no more, Hermione hurried down the stairs, Harry following as his mind echoed with her
parting words. *“This time, we won’t be coming back.”* He hoped that the deeper implications
of that statement did not come to pass.

When they reached the foot of the stairs, Harry pulled his room key out of his pocket and sent it
toward the bar with a Banishing Charm. With an easy twist of the wrist, Harry sent the key
unerringly toward a row of brass hooks, where it impaled itself on the appropriate number and swung
back and forth a couple of times before coming to rest. Pocketing his wand with a satisfied nod,
Harry dashed out the back door and saw that Hermione was already opening the wall so they could
enter Diagon Alley. Her wand was in her hand, and she thrust it into her pocket hurriedly as the
stones parted before her to reveal the ominous shadows lurking beast-like in the silent, narrow
street. She plunged through the portal without looking back, and Harry had to accelerate his pace
to catch up with her.

“Where are we going?” Harry asked as he loped alongside Hermione, his longer legs having closed the
distance between them easily.

“Somewhere private,” Hermione said. “We can’t afford to be interrupted.”

“Would someone try to stop us?” Harry asked. “Someone spying for Voldemort?”

“No,” Hermione replied, though, in fact, that thought *had* occurred to her. Knockturn Alley
was not far away, and it was certain that the merchants who inhabited that dismal canyon were at
the very least sympathizers with Voldemort’s aims, if not outright supporters. But her immediate
concerns lay elsewhere. “It’s growing dark, and the street will soon be filled with magical folk
celebrating the holiday. The shops may be closed, but the buildings are far from deserted. Most of
these merchants live just above their premises, as Tom does. Any one of them could disrupt our
plans simply by bumping into us at a crucial moment.”

“So, where *are* we going?” Harry repeated.

“A place I heard some of the girls talking about a couple of times,” Hermione said between sharp
intakes of breath. “It’s a deserted shop where couples go to...be alone. They call it the Shag
Shack.”

Harry snorted involuntarily, his short bark of laughter purely reflexive.

“Since it’s abandoned, there are no wards around it,” Hermione said. “Actually, I’m not entirely
sure it will be uninhabited in this era. But one of the girls said her mum used it when she was
still in school, so I’m thinking it’s been empty for a long time. I only pray that ‘long time’ is
at least sixteen years.”

“Are you sure you can find it?” Harry asked logically. Darkness was falling quickly, and the
magical torches that began to ignite one by one cast flickering shadows over the storefronts,
making even such familiar shops as Flourish and Blotts appear strange and unrecognizable.

Either Hermione did not hear Harry’s question, or she was too busy scrutinizing the shadowed
storefronts to spare the time needed to reply. She stopped suddenly, and Harry nearly tripped as he
pulled up beside her.

“This is it,” she said tonelessly, which lack of certitude led Harry to suspect that she was not as
unequivocal as she came off. She pressed her face to the filmed, web-festooned glass and peered
inside. She appeared to have satisfied whatever lingering doubts she had been harboring, for she
drew her wand, looked around and behind her quickly, and stepped before the front door. At a softly
spoken *“Alohomora,”* the door opened silently, surprising Harry, who had expected some sound
of protest from the old, rusted hinges. But this in itself swept away the last crease of doubt from
Hermione’s brow. “These hinges are well-oiled,” she said, her words both statement and final
argument. As Hermione pushed the door open and stepped over the threshold, Harry put a hand on her
shoulder, making her jump.

“Sorry,” Harry said as Hermione chastised him with a quick look. “But I just thought, wouldn’t
tonight be *just* the sort of night when someone might want to use this place for…you
know…”

“Good thinking, Harry,” Hermione said, a smile replacing her stern expression of a moment before.
Pulling Harry inside, she closed the door and pointed her wand again.

*“Colloportus!”*

Harry heard the door lock click. Hermione’s smile tightened triumphantly.

“I put an extra bit of magic behind the locking spell. If anyone tries to enter using an ordinary
unlocking spell, the door won’t open straightaway and we’ll hear them fumbling with the handle,
giving us time to hide. But I hope we won’t be here long enough to test it. In fact, I pray to
Heaven we won’t.”

Harry felt foolish asking the question perching on the end of his tongue like an owl tensed to take
wing, but he knew he must. “You’ll be using the Rebound Portkey Charm on my mum’s ring?”

“Yes,” Hermione said softly over her shoulder as she turned toward the center of the room.
*“Lumos!”* Her wand-tip ignited, and she cast the light before her in a sweeping arc. The back
wall was covered with empty shelves standing behind a long counter. A thick layer of dust covered
everything in sight. No, not everything, Harry observed with a brief smile. When Hermione’s
light-beam passed over a flight of stairs, he saw a dark, slightly irregular path leading up the
steps. He saw Hermione nod at this as well.

“See those footprints in the dust on either edge of the stairs? This place *is* used often.
We’d better hurry.”

Hermione led Harry behind the counter. She sat down on the dusty floor, Harry following her
example. When their heads dropped below the edge of the counter, the torchlight struggling to
penetrate the grimy glass was cut off from their line of sight. There was no chance of their being
observed from without.

“Are you sure this is going to work?” Harry said anxiously. He watched as Hermione removed the ring
he had placed on her finger only minutes (and, it now seemed, a lifetime) ago and held it out
before her.

“As sure as I *can* be,” she said. “It all depends on the accuracy of Sirius’ account in the
Orate. If this ring has followed the exact path you described, the Rebound Charm will send it
straight back where it came from.”

“Back to my parents’ house?” Harry said, his voice sounding almost childish.

“Yes,” Hermione said. “But maybe ‘straight back’ wasn’t the best choice of terms.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s a very long ‘string’ connected to this ring,” Hermione said. “It’s a lot like a shoelace,
threaded through one eyehole, over to another, back through the next one, and so on. When you pull
out a shoelace to replace it, it has to pass through every hole through which it’s threaded, in the
reverse order in *which* it was threaded.”

“Like the Priori Incantatum,” Harry said.

“Yes,” Hermione nodded. “So, as far as the ring is concerned, when we tug on the ‘string,’ the last
place it’s been is the *first* place it will return to. Gryffindor Tower. You slept with it
around your neck for two months. That’s long enough for a link to be established.”

“But that was in 1997, not 1981,” Harry said.

“The magical aura surrounding Hogwarts is over a thousand years old,” Hermione said. “It should be
essentially the same now as in the future.”

“And if it isn’t?”

“But it won’t actually go *to* Gryffindor Tower,” Hermione continued as if she had not heard
Harry’s question. “It won’t be able to penetrate the protective wards. It will bounce off.
*We’ll* bounce off.”

Harry could now see Hermione’s line of reasoning.

“Before Dumbledore gave me the ring,” he said, “it sat in Sirius’ vault for sixteen years. When it
bounces off Hogwarts’ wards, it’ll go straight to Gringotts.”

“Give the Head Boy an ‘O,’” Hermione said approvingly. “And when it gets there, it will bounce off
the *bank’s* protective wards. And when that happens, it will continue to follow the string
straight back to the place where Sirius got it in the first place.”

“My parents’ house,” Harry said with a sort of fearful eagerness. “But what about *those*
protective wards? The ring will pass straight through because that’s where it *came* from. But
what about *us?*”

“Harry,” Hermione said with a touch of exasperation. “Don’t you *see?* That house isn’t just
your parents’ house. It’s *your* house as well! Do you really think that your mum and dad
would have structured the spell not to include their son? You may not be a baby, but you’re
*still* Harry Potter, and the spell surrounding the house will recognize you as such and let
you pass.”

“What about *you?*” Harry said with a chill of realization. “You said it yourself, the spell
will only let a Potter pass! How will *you* get through? If there’s a chance you’ll be harmed
– ”

“I’ve thought about that,” Hermione said quickly. “How was it that we were both hurled into the
past when it was only *my* Bonding Ring that was enchanted with the Inversion Charm? The
Bonding Charm creates a magical link between our rings. When we’re close together, the way we were
when we went up the Floo, our auras mingle until it’s as if we’re a single person. In this case,
I’m banking on it working the other way around. If we cling to one another very tightly, the Charm
linking our rings should allow *your* aura to flow through and around *me,* allowing us
both to pass through as if we were one person, namely *you.*”

“That sounds kind of dodgy to be risking one’s life on,” Harry protested. “If it doesn’t work,
you’ll just go shooting off to Merlin knows where – and you said yourself, every ricochet increases
the risk, and that would be the third deflection. I don’t like it.”

“There’s something else,” Hermione said. “You and I are ‘married’ now, at least in the wizarding
sense. In essence, we’re now a single spiritual entity. ‘The two shall be as one,’” she quoted.
“The wards around your house should now recognize *me* as a Potter, just as it recognizes your
mum. So, if we add that to the Bonding Charm – ”

“*If!*” Harry said sharply. “I’m hearing too many ‘ifs’ and ‘shoulds’ for my liking. I don’t
fancy you risking your life on a bloody *if!*”

“There’s one more thing,” Hermione said very softly. To his surprise, Harry detected an
unmistakable note of apology in her voice. “When I made up my mind to do this – when you were busy
returning the room key – I used my wand...” She paused, averting her eyes from Harry’s searching
gaze. “I...removed the Contraceptive Charm and substituted a Fertility Charm.”

“You *what?*” Harry shouted, heedless of their need for secrecy as the empty shop reverberated
with hollow echoes. His voice immediately softened as he said pleadingly, “Why? Why did you do
that? Why *now?*”

“Because...” Hermione said through the beginnings of tears, “...because when...when we...” She
swallowed heavily, stifling a sob. “Because if I’m carrying the seed of our child...of *your*
child...inside me, then...”

“The protective spell will let you through,” Harry finished, “because an actual, physical part of
*me* will be living and growing inside *you.* Oh, Hermione...”

Harry took his new wife (as she truly was now in every sense of the term) in his arms and held her
tenderly as she trembled against him in silent anguish, her hot tears wetting his robes. The
wedding ring slipped from her nerveless fingers and fell to the floor, its metallic report muted by
the thick layers of dust.

“If there’s even the smallest chance you’re carrying our child,” Harry said, “then I *really*
don’t want you to go. Bloody hell, Potter! Of all the witches in the world, why did you have to
fall in love with the stubbornest...thick-headed...infuriating...” Harry buried his face in the
tangle of his wife’s bushy mane, which absorbed the tears streaming down his cheeks as quickly as
they escaped his eyes. “Don’t go,” he pleaded. “Just Charm the ring and I’ll go alone. It’ll only
take one of us to warn them. I promise, if I can’t save them, I’ll come back. You know nothing in
Heaven or on Earth can keep me from coming back to you.”

Hermione drew back slowly, wiping tears from her eyes. Her smile was pale and thin. “I know you,
Harry. Better than you know yourself. If you went alone, and you were unable to warn your parents
in time, you wouldn’t run away and save yourself. You’d stay and face Voldemort with them. You’d
die with them rather than live with the knowledge that you failed to save them...again. And if that
happened, I wouldn’t want to go on living. I’m sorry, Harry. I know you want to keep me
safe...especially now. But I meant what I said before. A day – an hour – as your wife is better
than a hundred years as your widow.

“I love you,” she said in a hushed whisper that yet rang against Harry’s soul with the force of a
hammer on an anvil. “Your road is my road. Wherever it leads, we’ll travel it together.”

Making no sound, Harry bunched up the sleeve of his robes and wiped Hermione’s cheeks, which burned
darkly in the dusky twilight upon the pale oval of her face. With a strange, unnatural calm, he
removed his glasses, wiped them on his sleeve, and replaced them. He then reached down and picked
up his mother’s wedding ring, which lay a few inches to his right.

“You’d better Charm the ring,” he said evenly. “If Voldemort puts *his* barrier up, neither
one of us will get through.”

Hermione smothered her husband’s mouth in a quick, hot kiss, then snapped back, her shoulders
squared, as Harry placed his mother’s ring in her hand.

Harry sat still and silent as Hermione closed her eyes and concentrated. She lifted her wand,
touched its tip to the ring sitting on her open palm.

*“Portus Reciprocus!”*

Harry watched as his mother’s ring glowed a pale blue in the semi-darkness for a few seconds. The
pallid light faded quickly, leaving dancing spots before his eyes. Without waiting for
instructions, he placed his hand flat over his wife’s, feeling the hard circle of the ring pressed
between their palms. Hermione returned her wand to her robes smoothly. Harry slipped his arm around
Hermione’s waist and held her firmly against him, the hands sandwiching the ring pressed between
them against their stomachs. Hermione’s free arm clung to Harry like a band of velvet steel,
sealing the ring between them.

“I love you,” Harry whispered into Hermione’s ear as his cheek nestled against her bushy
hair.

It happened in an instant. Harry felt a sharp jerk behind his navel, and in a rush of wind the
deserted shop vanished. With an effort, he managed to loop his legs around Hermione’s and lock his
ankles fast. His robes whipped about him. Hermione’s hair danced in front of his face. Time had no
meaning as they flew through the air on the magical wings of the portkey-ring pressed firmly
between them.

Without warning, Harry was rocked by a sharp jolt that momentarily stole the breath from his lungs.
He heard Hermione gasp, felt her jerk in his grasp. Nothing was visible through the fog rushing by
in a frenzied blur, but Harry concluded that they had impacted with, and rebounded from, the wards
protecting Gryffindor Tower. He clung to Hermione more tightly, his arms aching.

Their flight seemed more erratic now. Bouncing off of Hogwarts had affected their stability, as
Hermione had predicted. Once they tumbled heels over head, and Harry felt his stomach lurch. Thank
Merlin they’d had no time to eat before leaving.

A second impact, more jarring than the first. Gringotts! Harry squeezed his eyes shut, praying,
“Please let it work. Please let it work.”

It was a mad flight, Harry thought in the back of his mind. From London all the way up to Scotland,
only to return to London not two minutes’ walk from their starting point. And from there – where?
For all his earlier bluster, Harry did not truly know how far away his parents’ house was. Would
they have to go all the way back up to Scotland? Had his parents perhaps sought refuge in Ireland?
Had they fled the U.K. altogether? Were he and Hermione streaking across the continent, or even
spanning the ocean? Distance meant nothing to a wizard who could Apparate. How he wished *he*
could! But what would that have gained him if he did not know *where* to Apparate? But the
ring-turned-portkey knew where it was going. He would have to place his faith in the ring. And in
Hermione.

Harry’s stomach lurched again, but it was different this time. Were they slowing? Were they even
now approaching his parents’ house? Harry clung desperately to Hermione, determined that his arms
would be torn from their sockets before he let her be separated from him. *She’s got to get
through,* he thought desperately. *She’s got to!*

WHAM! Harry felt himself strike solid ground. Unable to keep his feet (his ankles were still locked
together in a death-grip), Harry tumbled and rolled. He heard Hermione yelp. She was still with
him! They had done it!

Harry sat up slowly. His glasses were hanging off his left ear. A quick examination revealed that
they were undamaged. Thank Merlin! Bad enough the prospect of facing Voldemort, let alone facing
him half-blind!

Hermione was struggling against Harry. He had used his left hand to check his glasses, releasing
the ring in the process, but his right arm was still holding her against him. He relaxed his arm,
and Hermione sighed, groaned, and rose to her feet with a grunt. Harry found this simple action a
bit more difficult. Hermione’s legs had been relaxed throughout their journey, while his were now
cramped from having been tensed for so long. His feet tingling with returning circulation, Harry
stood up beside Hermione.

She was not looking in his direction. What was she looking at? Harry eased up beside her and
followed her gaze downward. He nearly cried out. His hands gripping the railing of the crib, Harry
looked down onto – himself!

One-year-old Harry Potter was sleeping peacefully, his tiny body curled up, the diminutive fingers
of his left hand clutching the arm of a stuffed Paddington Bear. It was by far the strangest thing
Harry had ever experienced. He was literally in two places at once!

Hermione snapped him out of his fog. “How are we going to present ourselves to James and Lily
without panicking them, or getting ourselves attacked? We can’t fight back. We’re here to save
them, not hurt them.”

“There’s no time to be subtle,” Harry said as he strained to see the tiny luminous numbers on the
face of his watch. “Follow my lead.”

Harry drew his wand and carefully opened the door of “his” nursery. Hermione followed, her own wand
before her. Abruptly a soft gasp escaped her lips. She spun around, caught up her fallen wedding
ring and slipped it back on her finger next to her Bonding Ring. In an instant she was back at
Harry's side. They trod lightly through a short corridor until they heard muted voices engaged
in a pleasant conversation. They stopped at the edge of a doorway beyond which lay a small dining
area. As Harry tensed to surge forward, Hermione placed her hand on his arm.

“Try to stay in the shadows,” she said softly. “If they see your face...” Harry nodded.

“Stunning spell,” Harry whispered. “Ready? Go!”

Harry and Hermione leaped out into the dining room. Lily and James Potter jerked their heads toward
them, their youthful faces masks of horror. Both moved swiftly, precisely, their movements smooth
and practiced. James fell back in his chair, reaching for his wand in a lightning motion. Lily
threw herself sideways, drawing her own wand as she fell. Harry had fully expected them to be
carrying their wands on their persons, even in the supposed safety of their home. He would expect
nothing less of picked members of the Order of the Phoenix. Their reactive movements were
calculated to give them the precious moments needed to repel just such an attack as they were faced
with now. And it would have worked against any other opponent. But Harry, having studied basic
Auror strategies with Tonks and Moody for more than a year (and honing those skills in practice
sessions in the Room of Requirement throughout Sixth Year), recognized their moves, and he essayed
the counter-move without a moment’s pause. He leaped away toward his father’s right, forcing the
man to twist around to point his wand at Harry. It was a delay of only a moment, but a moment was
all Harry needed.

“*Stupefy!*” he shouted. A beam of red light hit James square in the chest, and he fell back,
insensate.

In the space of the same instant, Hermione had flung herself at Lily. The red-haired witch had
fallen in the direction opposite her husband, rolling onto her side as she drew her wand and
whirled like a cat crouched to spring. Though Hermione was not technically training to be an Auror,
as was Harry, it was she with whom her fiancée had practiced all last year in the Room of
Requirement. She recognized Lily’s move, and she could have countered it smoothly did she not have
a surer course of action. Trusting that Lily would not use a dangerous spell with her baby son
sleeping in the next room, Hermione stood boldly before her and pointed her wand with an
exaggerated flourish.

*“Expelliarmus!”* Lily cried.

Hermione smiled inwardly as she felt her Bonding Ring hum lightly. The Inversion Charm reversed the
disarming spell, fusing Hermione’s wand to her hand. Lily gaped for a moment, and in that moment,
Hermione acted.

*“Stupefy!”*

Lily Potter fell back, stunned to insensibility. Hermione calmly walked the length of the room and
picked up her defeated opponent’s fallen wand. She turned to look at Harry, who was now holding his
father’s wand.

“Now what?” she asked, indecisive for one of the few times in her life. “We can’t haul them away
bodily. Even using magical stretchers, we’d be moving much too slowly, especially with a baby to
carry. We’d need to get out of range of the Fidelius before hailing the Knight Bus, even assuming
we could convince Ernie to take us aboard – we’d have to do a lot of fast talking to explain away
an unconscious witch and wizard, not to mention a baby. But without some form of magical travel, we
couldn’t get far enough away that Voldemort couldn’t find us easily. We can’t use the ring, because
unlike ordinary portkeys, a Rebound Portkey only works one way. And there’s no time to find a
suitable object to make another.” Her eyes fell desperately onto the unconscious witch and wizard
as she asked, “What do we do with them now that we’ve got them?”

Like Hermione, Harry was staring down at his parents, particularly at his mother. This was the
first time he had seen her in the flesh. His first glimpse of his parents had been in the Mirror of
Erised in his first year at Hogwarts. He’d seen them more clearly a few years later in Snape’s
memory, which he’d visited in Dumbledore’s Pensieve. These images had been augmented by the photos
in the album presented to him by Hagrid, and, later, by his dreams, the most recent of which had
been barely an hour ago. But these shadows paled now in the stark light of reality. His father was
much like the picture Harry had nurtured in his mind, but he was mildly surprised to find his
mother’s hair a shade darker than he’d imagined. It reminded him of Hermione’s hair, though it
could never match Hermione’s bushy fullness. He saw again the fearful scene of Voldemort hurling
the Killing Curse – the burst of green light – Hermione falling –

“Harry?” Hermione repeated. “What do we do now?” Harry shook himself and turned to face
Hermione.

“We convince them,” he said, sounding more confident than he felt as he forcefully swept away the
terrible scene he’d just re-imagined.

Harry pointed his wand at his father. Hermione did likewise with Lily. Nodding, they chorused,
*“Ennervate!”*

James and Lily Potter rose from the floor, shook their heads to clear their thoughts before coming
instantly alert.

“I wouldn’t have believed it,” Lily said in disbelief. “How could he do it?” Harry knew she was
talking about Wormtail. “How could he betray us like this?”

“What does it matter why he did it?” James spat. “He *has.* That’s all that matters.” He
turned to face Harry, who was standing in a shadowed corner, his features a gray blur. “Voldemort
didn’t have the bollocks to come himself, then? He sent a couple of mangy dogs to do it for him?
Gone soft, has he? Or is he simply too cowardly to kill a baby himself?”

Lily’s lovely face instantly contorted. “Please,” she whispered. “Not Harry! I’ll do
anything!”

Hearing these desperate words not in a dream, but from his mother’s own lips, Harry felt as if a
knife had been plunged into his heart.

“We didn’t come here to kill anyone,” he said. “We came here to *stop* a killing.”

James regarded Harry cynically.

“Right. That’s why you invaded our house, attacked us, and took our wands. Would that *all*
our guests had such manners.”

“We’re not Death Eaters,” Harry said. His eyes never leaving his father’s, he jerked the left
sleeve of his robes up, baring his forearm. Thrusting his arm into the light while keeping his face
hidden, he said, “See? No Dark Mark.”

“That proves nothing,” James said acidly. “Voldemort’s spies would be worthless to him if they
couldn’t hide the Dark Mark at need.”

“If you aren’t working for Voldemort,” Lily put in, “how did you find our house? Only Peter knows
where we are. If he were still loyal, he would have told no one without our permission. And if he
*did* betray us to Voldemort, the only way you could have overheard was to be in Voldemort’s
sanctum when Peter told him.”

“Beautiful *and* smart,” James said with a loving glance at his wife. “Well?” he said sharply
to Harry.

“Snape,” Hermione said suddenly. James and Lily turned their heads as one. “Snape got word to us as
soon as he heard. He – he forced Pettigrew to write your address on a piece of parchment, which he
smuggled out to us.”

“No one inside Voldemort’s circle knows Snivellus is working for us,” James said doubtfully.
“Unless,” he added slowly, “Voldemort’s found him out...”

“Damn it!” Harry rapped impatiently. “Voldemort will be here any minute! He’ll place a barrier
around the house to keep you from leaving via magic! You have to take Harry and go,
*now!*”

James and Lily exchanged a worried look, and Harry lowered his voice pleadingly.

“Go to Dumbledore. Tell him Wormtail betrayed you. Tell him – tell him that Sirius is
innocent.”

“Sirius?” Lily said. “How did – of course. Peter told you.”

“No,” Harry said. “Sirius told me. He said it was his idea to use Wormtail as Secret Keeper instead
of him. If anything happens to you, he’ll never forgive himself.”

As James and Lily continued to vacillate, Harry glanced at Hermione, who had fallen silent,
following Harry’s lead.

“What do we do now?” Hermione whispered.

Harry thought a moment before a small smile appeared on his face.

“Remember the Shrieking Shack?”

Hermione nodded, smiling. They produced the wands they had taken from James and Lily. They tossed
the wands back to their owners, who caught them and, hesitating not an instant, immediately pointed
them at Harry and Hermione. Harry heaved a ragged sigh.

“It worked out better when Remus did it.”

“Remus?” James said, his head jerking up. He was still pointing his wand at Harry, but his arm did
not seem as tense as it had been a moment ago. “What’s Remus got to do with this?”

“Never mind Remus,” Harry said urgently. “Voldemort is on his way to kill Harry! For Merlin's
sake, just take him and *go!*”

“James?” Lily said, lowering her wand marginally. “I think they’re telling the truth. Voldemort’s
supporters never call him by name. But it’s more than that...there’s something about his voice...I
don’t know...but I believe him.”

Harry nearly wept. Maybe it *was* something in his voice – or maybe it had to do with the aura
Hermione had gone on about – but his mother seemed to sense that he was something more than the
stranger he appeared to be. Nevertheless, his father’s suspicions were not yet fully quelled. A
forthright man, James Potter would not trust anyone until he had looked directly into his eyes. If
this stranger were what he claimed, why did he continue to lurk in the shadows? What was he
hiding?

“Step into the light,” James ordered.

With a resigned sigh, Harry stepped forward, and Lily cried out.

“It’s – it’s *you,* James!”

“Explain yourself,” James demanded, his wand arm steady once more.

Thinking quickly, Harry said, “Polyjuice. D-Dumbledore took some hairs from everyone in the Order.
I was acting as a – decoy tonight, trying to lure Voldemort away. It didn’t work. Wormtail told him
that you’re all *here.* So please, *go!* Go before it’s too late!”

James paused before he said slowly, “Even if you’re not working for Voldemort, that doesn’t
necessarily make you Dumbledore’s man. If you’re working for Dumbledore, tell me something about
him. Something personal. Something only his friends would know.”

Harry screwed up his face as he thought hard. “He’s...very fond of Muggle sweets. Favors sherbet
lemons. Hates Bertie Bott’s Beans, though. Got a vomit-flavored one as a boy.”

Harry saw James’ arm relax ever so slightly. He strove to think of something else, but Hermione
spoke again.

“Did he ever tell you about Aberforth and the goat?”

James and Lily both looked intently at Hermione.

“But, you know,” Hermione said thoughtfully, “he never *did* tell us the precise nature of
those ‘inappropriate Charms.’ He didn’t happen to tell *you,* did he?”

Lily laughed out loud. “He never did, though Merlin knows we pressed him often enough.”

The tension seemed to flow out of the room like water down a plug hole. Lily was now regarding her
former adversary in a completely new light. Her eyes fell on Hermione’s left hand, darted quickly
to Harry’s, then back again.

“Bonding Rings?” she said with a smile that lit up her whole face and made her green eyes dance
like emerald flames. “You’re married, then?”

Caught off-guard, Hermione stammered, “Um, yes...newlyweds, actually.”

“And is that a Muggle wedding ring you’re wearing? *You’re* Muggle-born, *too?*” Hermione
nodded. James and Lily both laughed, their wand arms relaxing. The day Voldemort engaged
Muggle-borns as Death Eaters, elephants would nest in trees and the Thames would flow backward into
the Irish Sea. “It’s beautiful,” Lily said, her eyes on Hermione’s ring. “Very much like the one
James gave *me.* You must tell me where – ”

But James suddenly exploded to life, the terror in his eyes magnified by the lenses of his
glasses.

“Bloody hell! Voldemort is on his way, you say?”

Lily’s humor vanished instantly. “Harry!”

Harry nearly responded before realizing that his mother was referring not to him, but to her
one-year-old son who was sleeping in the next room. He dashed to the front window and parted the
curtains a crack to see out. The street lights shone on an empty street.

“No sign of him yet,” he said. “Hurry! Go to Hogsmeade! Tell Dumbledore! If he can rally the Order
in time, maybe we can sort Voldemort out for good.”

Lily dashed into the nursery and returned seconds later with a tiny bundle cradled in her arms. She
tugged the blanket over little Harry’s face and looked up.

“How can we ever thank you?” she said, her emerald eyes glowing with inexpressible gratitude.

“Time enough for that later, Lily,” James said. “We’ll thank them properly after we’ve seen to
Harry’s safety.” He caught up two traveling cloaks from a coat rack and draped one over his wife’s
shoulders. “You two coming?” he said to Harry and Hermione as he threw his cloak over his
shoulders. “How *did* you get through the anti-Apparation barrier, by the way? Lily’s Charms
are usually foolproof.”

“Long story,” Harry sighed. “Go!” he said urgently. “We’ll be along.”

Their eyes communicating their gratitude more eloquently than words, James and Lily, the latter
holding her one-year-old son to her bosom, vanished with a soft popping sound. A hush fell over the
Potter house as Harry and Hermione looked at each other in dumb astonishment.

“We did it,” Harry said disbelievingly. “I can’t believe it. We *did* it!

“And I couldn’t have done it alone,” he added, his eyes brimming over with love.

“Now all we have to do is get *ourselves* safely away,” Hermione said. “How are we going to do
that?”

“Actually,” Harry confessed, “I didn’t think that far ahead.”

“Men,” Hermione grunted. But she smiled a moment later, and Harry fell on her and hugged her.

“Let’s go out the back way,” Harry said. “Blimey, I could use a good night’s sleep after all this
excitement. I almost wish we still had our room key at the Leaky Cauldron.”

“Not me,” Hermione said as they walked through the kitchen toward the back door. “We have Muggle
money now. There must be a good hotel somewhere around here – wherever the bloody heck we are.
We’ll get a nice room. With a big, soft bed.” She winked at Harry, who grinned through crimson
cheeks. “But that’s for later,” Hermione announced. “Tonight is Halloween! I didn’t get to go to
the Ball at Hogwarts, but I’m sure there are some good parties out there that won’t notice a couple
of last-minute crashers.”

“Smashing!” Harry said. “But take it easy,” he added, suddenly serious. His eyes fell onto
Hermione’s abdomen, and it was her turn to blush.

“We don’t even know if I *am,* silly. Fertility Charms aren't foolproof, you know.”

“Until we do know,” Harry said, “we’ll act as if you *are.* I’m your husband now. You have to
obey me.”

“I don’t remember promising that,” Hermione said, her eyes narrowing with amusement.

“It’s part of the Muggle ceremony,” Harry said bluffly. “Everyone knows that.”

“Delusion is the first sign of insanity, Potter,” Hermione said as she pointed her wand at the door
lock. *“Alohomora!”*

The clicking sound each expected to hear was not forthcoming.

“Try again,” Harry said, his levity melting quickly.

Hermione repeated the spell, with no better results.

“Everyone always said my mum was a whiz at Charms,” Harry said in as light a tone as he could
manage. “My dad said so just a minute ago.”

“There’s no such thing as an unbreakable Charm,” Hermione said confidently. “All it takes is
time.”

But time was the one thing they did not have. As Hermione pointed her wand at the door lock once
more, the silence was broken by a gentle knocking on the front door.






8. From These Ashes
-------------------





**Sorry about the posting delay. Christmas is coming much too fast, and there's never a
Time-Turner around when you really need one.

On that note, brad's review has taught me a valuable lesson. Stories written for personal
satisfaction might be best left unposted. So many details that are clear in the writer's mind
(and in the characters') are not always as clear to the reader. At the end of the previous
chapter, Harry and Hermione had every expectation of flagging the Knight Bus (which always appears
on the instant when hailed) and being miles away by the time Voldemort arrived. The bus would have
accepted them unquestioningly without the Potters in tow, and Harry and Hermione wouldn't have
cared where the bus was bound as long as it sped them away from Godric's Hollow. It would have
worked, too, but for a simple locked door. Oh, well. Any review that makes its recipient smarter is
a good one. Thanks, brad. I'll know better next time.

And now, I believe someone is knocking at the door. Let's see who it is, shall we?


**
*** * ***
**


**
**Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow**
**


**
**Chapter 8**
**


**
**From These Ashes**






Those who knew Harry Potter, whether friend or enemy, knew that his courage was beyond question,
being far in advance of his seventeen years. But if Harry was not a coward, neither was he a fool.
When there was something worth fearing, he was afraid, nor was he ashamed to admit it. What set him
apart from many a witch and wizard twice his age was that, by acknowledging his fear, he thus
refused to permit it to become his master, to dictate his actions. But what value such discipline
when one was about to come face-to-face – nor for the first time – with the most terrible Dark
wizard ever to walk the Earth?

“What can we do?” Harry said with a quiet desperation that was not two steps removed from outright
panic. “If only my dad had left his Invisibility Cloak behind. But Dumbledore told me back when he
gave it to me that my dad left it with him *before* he died, probably for use by the Order of
the Phoenix.”

Hermione made one more unsuccessful attempt to open the back door before abandoning the effort.
“Even if I could open it,” she said, her own panic held in check by an effort of will, “we couldn’t
escape. Not on foot.”

“Would the Disillusionment Charm work?” Harry asked as the soft knock on the front door was
repeated (with a touch more force this time – or was that merely Harry’s imagination?). Hermione
shook her head.

“Dark Magic can penetrate the Disillusionment Charm easily,” she said. “Otherwise, your mum would
have used it to hide herself and you from Voldemort the first time.”

Harry clapped his hand to his scar, his facial muscles tightening.

“He’s getting angry,” Harry gasped as his forehead burned under his fingers. “He’s not going to
wait any longer.” Harry jerked about and raced into the living room as Hermione stared after him in
bewilderment. “Don’t get up, Lily,” Harry called out in a light, casual voice. “I’ll get it.
Probably a Muggle with a collecting tin or something. I’ll send them packing straightaway.”

A hard, knowing smile was growing on Hermione’s face as Harry looked over his shoulder, nodded
once, and stood against the wall beside the front door. As Hermione stood on the opposite side of
the door, Harry very carefully opened the curtains an inch or so before releasing them.

“IT’S HIM!” Harry shouted at the top of his lungs. “TAKE HARRY AND GO! I’LL HOLD HIM OFF!”

With a deafening roar, the front door exploded in a cloud of slivers and wood dust. A tall, gaunt
figure stepped over the threshold, his wand poised, his dark eyes narrowed with an amalgam of
anger, wariness and hatred. Giving no warning, Harry cried, *“Avada Kedavra!”*

A jet of green fire shot from Harry’s wand and hit Voldemort full in the chest. The Dark Lord
stared blankly as he collapsed like a rag doll and lay still.

Cautioning Hermione with an upraised hand, Harry stepped forward slowly, his eyes fixed on the
unmoving face of Voldemort.

*It can’t be that easy,* he thought. *This isn’t right.*.

Harry took a step backward, his gaze locked on Voldemort’s slitted eyelids as he probed for the
slightest twitch that would betray a sign of life lurking thereunder. He focused on Voldemort’s
narrow chest for long seconds, seeing no hint of inflation that would betray breathing. He dared a
questioning glance up at Hermione, and in that split-second, Voldemort struck. His empty lungs
having no breath to voice an incantation, Voldemort flicked his wand at Harry. A jet of red light
struck Harry in the chest, sending him staggering backward, his whole body suddenly gone
numb.

Hermione rushed forward, her wand pointed at Voldemort. The Dark Lord moved with inhuman speed and,
drawing breath now, rasped, *“Crucio!”*

Voldemort laughed smoothly as his spell hit Hermione. But his smile vanished when she did not
collapse in convulsions of agony, as he expected. Instead, she seemed on the verge of laughter as
she thrust her wand before her in a whip-like motion and said sharply, *“Expelliarmus!”*

The air shimmered in front of Voldemort as its atoms hardened into a magical shield, blocking the
spell aimed at depriving him of his wand. But his eyes flashed in surprise as he felt a faint tug
on his wand where none should have been. In penetrating his shield, the Disarming Spell had been
sapped of its full strength, rendering it too weak to snatch away his wand. But how had even a
small portion of the spell got through at all?

Harry had witnessed this as he clung shakily to the high back of an easy chair. His fingers and
toes were tingling. He suspected that this was the same spell which had precipitated his godfather
through the fatal archway, leaving him too paralyzed to halt his backward motion toward oblivion.
Harry would himself have been helpless before Voldemort without Hermione’s unhesitating assault.
She rushed over to him now, worry in her deep brown eyes. She touched him with her wand, and waves
of gentle warmth spread through him, sweeping away the numbness. Their eyes met for a moment before
they turned as one to face Voldemort.

The Dark Lord was on his feet now, regarding his two attackers analytically, yet also with a sort
of casual dismissiveness. His attitude reminded Harry of a wolf that had just fended off an attack
by an unusually assertive mouse. Though his opponents’ wands were pointed directly at him, he
betrayed no sign of concern. Instead, a thin, hard smile spread slowly across his gaunt face.

“You are full of surprises, Potter,” he said, sounding almost amused. “I would not have thought you
capable of employing the Killing Curse. Many a wizard twice your age cannot summon sufficient magic
to empower it. It was quite adequate, actually. Any other wizard would have fallen dead at your
feet. But Lord Voldemort is not *any* wizard. I have delved deeper into the mysteries of death
than any before me. My Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts assured me that there was
no way to block the Killing Curse. And that is true. But as you can see, there *are* ways to
alter the human body into something *more* than human so as to render the Curse
ineffective.”

This was not news to Harry. It was this protection that had saved Voldemort from his own rebounding
Curse the night he tried to kill the one-year-old child whom he perceived to be his greatest
potential enemy. But for all its devastating effect, that had been merely a *reflected*
Killing Curse. Harry had hoped that a direct attack, employing the Curse in its pure, unadulterated
form, would succeed where the lesser form had failed. In the end, his hope had proved forlorn. What
matter if his spell lacked sufficient power due to his youth, or if Voldemort's transformed
body were proof against the Curse in any form? The result was the same either way. He had spun the
wheel of Chance, and lost.

Voldemort now turned his attention to Hermione. His lip curled into a sneer that was almost a
mirror image of the one Malfoy habitually wore.

“What is it with you and Mudbloods, Potter? Oh, yes, I can smell them. Their stench is
unmistakable. Pure-blood witches not good enough for you? Or are you simply not wizard enough to
satisfy a true witch?”

Neither Harry nor Hermione deigned reply. They bided their time, Harry marshaling his returning
strength as they both watched for an opening they might exploit, either for attack or flight.

“This one must be an Auror,” Voldemort continued, an unmistakable note of contempt in his voice as
his obsidian eyes avoided direct contact with hers. “She has a determined look about her, not to
say an uncommon wisdom and skill. Why did my Cruciatus not work against her? I wonder…”

Harry was stung by Voldemort’s unwillingness to address Hermione personally, as though being
Muggle-born rendered her beneath his notice.

“I wonder…” Voldemort continued to ponder in a low mutter. With a quick motion of his wand, he sent
tiny wisps of vapor swirling around Harry and Hermione like ghostly serpents. They closed in,
tightened. But when they would have wrapped themselves around the young couple in a strangling
grasp, instead they dissipated into smoke and drifted away harmlessly. “Yes,” Voldemort hissed
appreciatively. “Indeed. Very clever.”

In another move too quick for the eye to follow, Voldemort unleashed a violent burst of golden
energy at the young couple. Harry quickly saw that what appeared at first glance to be a single
glowing sphere roughly the size of a football was, in fact, a tight mass of many hundreds, perhaps
thousands, of individual points that coruscated like coals from a fire grate. The whole was like a
seething, quivering mass of angry bees composed of glowing light. At a casual flick of
Voldemort's wand, these erupted in a silent explosion and swarmed around and around Harry and
Hermione, who clung to each other as their minds sought in vain for a viable response. But this was
like nothing they had ever seen before, and lacking an understanding of it, they were powerless to
defend against it.

Harry felt pricking sensations on his skin, like tiny electric shocks. The glowing specks seemed to
be probing, as if searching him and Hermione. Searching for – what?

Without warning, Hermione screamed. Dreading what awaited him even as he jerked his head around,
Harry saw that Hermione was clawing desperately at her Bonding Ring, which was enveloped in a
glowing halo composed of the tiny points of light. The lights had apparently been searching for the
source of the Inversion Charm, and they had found it. But what were they doing to Hermione? Tears
were coursing down her cheeks as her throat rumbled in a long, rising cadence of agony. Harry
instinctively grabbed at her ring, sweeping away the stinging motes of light, only to jerk his hand
back an instant later as he cried out in surprise and pain. The ring was burning hot! An acrid
smell touched Harry’s nostrils – the smell of the skin of Hermione’s finger searing where the ring
encircled it! Acting without thought, Harry pointed his wand and, his eyes locked on Hermione’s
Bonding Ring, cried, *“Accio!”*

The ring flew from Hermione’s finger, leaping over her wedding band by means of the built-in Sizing
Spell common to wizard jewelry. Reacting without thought, Harry slapped it aside. In that brief
instant of contact, he both felt and heard the flesh of his left palm sizzle. Harry stared aghast
at Hermione’s ring finger. There was a red, raw band of burned flesh on her finger marking the
place where the Bonding Ring had sat only moments before. Unable to think of a better reply, Harry
sent a beam of numbing cold from his wand-tip onto Hermione’s hand. Hermione yelped sharply, but
almost instantly she relaxed as the burning sensation abated.

From the corner of his eye, Harry was surprised to see that Voldemort was now holding Hermione’s
ring, which seemed to be normal once more, as Voldemort showed no sign of discomfort. Or perhaps he
had sacrificed so much of his former humanity that he was no longer subject to pain, as were
“lesser mortals.” Harry longed to test that theory with the Cruciatus Curse.

“An Inversion Charm,” Voldemort said analytically, sounding almost bored. “Not an easy spell to
master, especially for one so young.” Voldemort tossed the ring aside indifferently. It clattered
to the floor out of Harry’s sight. “Now,” Voldemort hissed through a terrible smile, “to business.
Where are your wife and son, Potter?”

“With Dumbledore,” Harry said, seeing no point in lying. “You can’t hurt them now.”

“That is true,” Voldemort agreed with surprising amicability. “I cannot hurt them...now. But there
will be another time. They cannot hide under Dumbledore’s robes forever. And when I find them again
– as find them I shall – who will be there to stop me? Not you, James. You will be dead.”

Harry clung fiercely to Hermione, his eyes fearful not for his life, but for hers. Voldemort seemed
to sense this, and his eyebrows rose.

“Cheating on your wife, Potter? And with…this?” He looked disdainfully at Hermione. “Granted, Lily
*is* a Mudblood, but she is at least a comely one. She would have made a passable handmaid in
my keep…a plaything to amuse my Death Eaters in times of boredom. But *this* one…” Voldemort
flashed his Malfoy-like sneer again.

Seething with rage, Harry snapped, “If you’re going to kill us, Tom, I’d rather you made a quick
job of it with your wand rather than boring us to death with your foul mouth!”

Voldemort’s face abruptly contorted with a smoldering fury. “What did you call me, Potter?” he said
in a low, dangerous hiss.

“What,” Harry said defiantly, “you don’t like your Muggle name? Personally, I think it suits you.
You *are* a half-blood, after all.” Playing the role of his father to the utmost, he added
boldly, “Come to that, my *son* has purer blood than *you* do. At least *his*
parents are both *wizards.*”

Voldemort was now quivering with rage. He did not level his wand, but continued to hold it
casually, fearlessly. “I was going to kill you quickly, Potter. But I think I will enjoy watching
you die slowly. You and your Mudblood whore.”

At some point, Hermione had switched her wand to her left hand, allowing her right arm to encircle
Harry’s waist and hold him firmly against her. Her left hand still ached from the fresh burn on her
ring finger, but she had more than enough strength to grip her wand in anticipation of a last,
gloriously defiant stand with her husband at her side.

As she stared at the predatory face of the wizard who would in all likelihood become her
executioner very shortly, Hermione felt Harry’s arm encircling her waist. His hand was on her hip,
and to her utter bafflement, he was pressing his fingers into her flesh avidly, much as he had
during their romantic liaison above the Leaky Cauldron. She thought at first it was no more than a
final, wordless reminder by Harry of his love for her, a silent thank-you for their one (and, it
now appeared, only) moment of carnal passion in the last hours of their brief lives. But she
revised this thought as the true nature of Harry’s action burst upon her. His fingers were applying
and withdrawing their pressure in a pattern, one which she recognized. He was “speaking” to her
with his fingers, giving her specific instructions using a secret Auror’s code that was not unlike
Muggle Morse code. It was one of the many things they had practiced together in the Room of
Requirement at school last year.

When Harry’s hand relaxed at last, his message completed, Hermione responded with a systematic
squeeze of her own hand. Harry tapped her hip once in acknowledgment. Voldemort could not see the
inner smile hidden behind the razor-thin line of Hermione’s steely lips. If she and Harry were
destined to die, by Merlin they would go down fighting!

Giving no warning, Harry exploded into action before Voldemort could bring his wand to bear.

*“Lumos Magnus!”*

A burst of light exploded from Harry’s wand, like a hundred kilos of flash powder igniting from a
thousand wizard cameras. Voldemort screamed, blinded, his left hand darting up to shield his
eyes.

Harry had squeezed his eyes shut a moment before his incantation left his lips. Hermione had done
likewise, but even as the blinding light filled the small chamber, she whirled about and pointed
her wand at the bookcases lining the wall on either side of the fireplace.

*“Animatus Libris!”*

The books leaped from their shelves like a murder of falcons and fell upon Voldemort. They swirled
around him, smote him from every side with relentless fury. Enraged, he sent bursts of destructive
energy in every direction, causing books to explode in clouds of charred and shredded paper. But
the pages themselves wheeled in mid-air and turned to the attack. Whereas the books had swarmed in
the hundreds, the loose pages numbered in the thousands. Like a cloud of locusts they smothered
Voldemort, covered him layer upon layer until he resembled a mummy. He fell to the floor, twisting
like a snake, his muffled screams reverberating from the chamber.

Knowing they could not hope to defeat Voldemort in open combat, Harry had planned this coordinated
attack solely to permit them to dash past him and out the door, where they would have at least some
small chance of escaping while their enemy was disoriented. But they saw to their dismay that
Voldemort, though for the moment blind and impotent, was writhing squarely in the doorway which was
their only egress from the Potter house.

Both were at a loss how to proceed. Should they employ a Summoning Charm to yank the thrashing
figure from their path, they might inadvertently tear the clinging pages from Voldemort, freeing
him. A Levitation Charm? A Stunning Spell? They did not know how powerful were Voldemort’s personal
defensive spells. Any spells they cast might backfire against them. But Harry’s mind suddenly
flashed on the Disarming Spell Hermione had hurled at Voldemort when she had rushed to his aid
following the Dark Lord’s surprise attack on him. Had he imagined it? No, he remembered it clearly.
But what did it mean? He cuffed himself mentally. There was no time for this. He had to decide on a
course of action, and now.

The decision was abruptly rendered moot when, in startling fashion, Voldemort suddenly burst into
flames before their eyes. The smothering pages curled into ash, and, like Fawkes the phoenix rising
from his own pyre, Voldemort rose to his feet smoothly. Neither his skin nor his robes showed any
sign of the flames which had consumed his prison of paper. His smile was terrible to behold.

“Fire is but an element of nature,” he said contemptuously. “And what is nature compared to the
power of Lord Voldemort? The universe itself is my playground, and all about me merely toys
existing for my amusement. But toys are by nature temporary. One grows tired of them. And they do
break so easily. Let us see how easily *you* break, shall we?”

Hermione’s wand had slipped from her left hand, which was now stiff and unresponsive, both from her
burn and Harry’s Freezing Charm. She wrapped both arms around Harry, who stood defiantly with his
wand pointed at Voldemort. The air wavered before her eyes. She blinked, thinking herself dazed and
on the verge of losing consciousness. But she realized after a moment that it was the air itself
that was at fault. Harry had erected a protective barrier around them. She knew it would not
prevent their deaths. Voldemort’s Dark magic would eventually break through. But at least they
would die as they had lived: Together.

In a sudden, savage attack, Voldemort released a burst of energy from his wand. It struck Harry’s
barrier like a giant fist, the impact staggering them. But to Hermione’s astonishment, the barrier
did not shatter. Voldemort seemed equally surprised. Roaring his fury, the Dark Lord sent another
explosive burst of magical energy against the barrier separating him from his foes. This time the
blow knocked Harry and Hermione to the floor. The barrier wavered, fluctuated – and promptly
reasserted itself.

Voldemort stared in disbelief. His black eyes narrowed to slits. “This is not possible,” he
muttered. His slitted eyes seemed to turn inward as his brow furrowed. “The Disarming Spell…” he
whispered. With sharp, decisive strokes, he waved his wand before him, tracing what appeared to be
intricate runes in the air. Ghostly traces of this writing lingered momentarily before fading to
nothingness. Voldemort shook his head again. “Only two,” he said, speaking to himself in a
distracted manner. “And yet…there must be no fewer than *three*…”

“What is he talking about?” Hermione said faintly, her curiosity raging like wildfire even in the
face of torture and death. “What does it mean?”

“I think I know,” Harry said. “I don’t know *how*…but there’s only one answer…only one
possible explanation…the Blood Circle.”

Hermione’s eyes went wide. “How can we have completed the spell without Ron? How can the two of us
have formed the triangle without the third side?”

Voldemort was continuing to mutter to himself, his rage swept away by confusion. He scarcely seemed
aware that Harry and Hermione were present.

“There’s only one answer I can think of,” Harry said, speaking in a low hush. He appeared to be
speaking mechanically, his attention riveted on Voldemort as he held himself at the ready for the
next assault which must come sooner or later. “The answer is in my scar.”

“Your scar?”

“When we all drank Snape’s potion,” Harry said, “it was supposed to infuse you, me and Ron with a
small fragment of Voldemort. In concert with the Blood Circle spell, that would give us a special
resistance to Voldemort’s magic. It would also attune *our* magic to Voldemort’s ‘wavelength,’
so to speak, allowing our own spells to breach *his* defenses.”

“But how can the Blood Circle be activated without Ron?” Hermione pressed. “The spell simply can’t
work with less than three people.”

“But you’re forgetting,” Harry said, “what I myself forgot until just now. That even before I drank
the potion, I already had a part of Voldemort inside me. Dumbledore said that when the Killing
Curse rebounded from me and hit Voldemort, it accidentally transferred some of his powers to me.
That’s why I can speak parseltongue. Don’t you see? When I drank the potion, I wasn’t
*acquiring* a fragment of Voldemort, as you and Ron were doing. I was adding *another*
piece to the one I already *had.*”

“Are you saying,” Hermione said incredulously, “that you *alone* are supplying *two
sides* of the triangle?”

“What other explanation *is* there?” Harry hissed. “It’s only now, with you next to me, that
the Blood Circle was fully activated. You supplied the third side to the triangle. How else do you
explain that your Disarming Spell nearly penetrated Voldemort’s shield when you first attacked
him?”

“Did it?” Hermione whispered in surprise. “I didn’t look back to see. I only cast the spell as a
distraction so I’d have time to get to you.”

“Exactly,” Harry said. “Your thoughts were centered entirely on me. That must have ‘connected’ us
somehow – maybe through our Bonding Rings – enabling the Charm for just a moment. Only a powerful
emotion could have done that. The Blood Circle is all about emotional bonds, remember. Friendship.
Loyalty. Love. And Snape’s potion is part of the spell. Nothing else could have breached
Voldemort’s defenses. And the potion can only function as a part of the whole, ergo the Blood
Circle *must* have been activated. And since you and I are the only members present…”

“This was *never* in the textbooks,” Hermione said faintly.

“That’s because no one ever survived the Killing Curse like I did,” Harry said. “Be a shame if we
don’t live to revise the textbooks for future generations, wouldn’t it?”

“I always wanted to write a book on magic,” Hermione said bravely. “I’ve spotted more than a few
errors in some of the books at Hogwarts.”

“There’s only one problem,” Harry said. “The spell works by all the members of the Circle
channeling their magic through one point. I was designated as the Focus Point, and nothing can
alter that. It was supposed to be two sides – you and Ron – supporting the third one, me. The spell
wasn’t designed for *one* side to support the other *two.*” Harry looked into Hermione’s
eyes, love and hope and desperation pouring out of his soul and into hers. “Can you do it
alone?”

Hermione had no chance to reply. Voldemort’s internal debate had reached a resolution, and the Dark
Lord cast an appraising eye on Harry and Hermione, lingering foremost upon the latter.

“This is *your* doing, Mudblood,” Voldemort said, his tone almost complimentary as he regarded
Hermione appraisingly. Harry almost detected a grudging respect in the Dark Lord’s flinty eyes.
“Between this and the Inversion Charm, you have indeed proven yourself worthy of serving Lord
Voldemort.”

Hermione’s insides jumped. Harry’s turned to ice.

“Potter is of no moment,” Voldemort went on, his head jerking shortly in a dismissive gesture. He
appeared to be talking to himself rather than addressing his audience. “I will kill him – when I
tire of playing with him. But the Mudblood will serve me under the Imperius Curse. It may prove
amusing to see how many Muggles die through her servitude to the cause. And mayhap I misspoke
earlier…she *may* make a passable handmaid. Crabbe or Goyle may find some sport with her. She
would be a marginal improvement over those trollish wives of theirs, at the very least. If I didn’t
know they were purebloods…”

Harry had heard enough. He squeezed Hermione, at which signal she concentrated and focused all her
magical energy through her fingertips and into Harry. Harry felt a surge, as of adrenaline. His
senses sharpened. His muscles hummed.

With the swiftness of a striking cobra, Harry flicked his wand, and the hundreds upon hundreds of
slivers of wood which had been the front door of the Potter house leaped up from the floor and flew
at Voldemort like a swarm of angry hornets. Some of the tiny missiles were slender as needles, and
Harry saw pinpoints of blood appear on Voldemort’s hands and face. Attuned to Voldemort’s personal
aura, Harry’s magic was, if but for moments at a span, the equal of Voldemort’s. His scar hummed in
tune with the potion flowing through his veins.

The Dark Lord covered his eyes, screaming with rage and confusion as his personal shield, powered
by ancient Dark Magicks and theoretically impregnable, failed to prevent this attack upon his
inviolable person. Spurred by Harry’s sympathetic magic, each fragment of wood was charged by a
magical aura which Voldemort’s shield recognized as a part of itself. The shield was designed to
protect its master against unfamiliar magicks, not its own. Each tiny missile was inconsequential
in itself, but in numbers they were formidable weapons indeed.

Drawing now on his Auror training, Harry employed his surroundings as weapons. If Voldemort’s
physiology were altered to render magical attack impotent, Harry would use purely physical attacks
which, if they would not kill his foe, might yet disorient him enough so that the young
time-travelers might escape into the night. A jerking motion of his wand shattered the front
window, and the shards of glass flew at Voldemort, slashing him like tiny razors. Screaming his
wrath while covering his eyes with his left arm, Voldemort lashed out with a fusillade of attacking
spells. Harry worried for a moment that his opponent would unleash the one spell against which
there was no defense: The Killing Curse. But even for one as powerful as Voldemort, the Killing
Curse required sufficient force of will to be effective. A clear head was needed for the Dark Lord
to use that most potent of spells, and therefore that was the one thing Harry was determined to
deny him.

Voldemort was now bleeding from hundreds of tiny cuts. Harry prepared to unleash another magical
onslaught, but suddenly he felt Hermione sag at his side. He caught at her with his left hand,
realization like a lump of stone in his gut. As he had feared from the first, the task of
empowering the Blood Circle by herself had proved too great a burden for Hermione’s small form. Of
courage and fortitude she had no lack, but these alone were not enough. Like a thread of spider
silk snapping, Harry’s concentration broke. The magic with which Hermione had been strengthening
him withdrew back into her own body as she instinctively endeavored to ward off an encroaching
dizziness brought on by Harry’s forceful attacks. The power that had been humming like electric
current through Harry vanished as at the throwing of a switch. Harry glanced at Hermione for only a
moment, assuring himself that her valiant efforts had not wrought any serious harm . When he turned
back to Voldemort, the Dark Lord was laughing, the sound terrible as it issued from his
blood-stained face.

Voldemort’s wand lashed out, and the floor under Harry’s feet exploded with the force of a volcano!
There was no cellar under the Potter house. A geyser of dirt and rocks and foundation stones
erupted, throwing Harry and Hermione off their feet. Their arms slipped from each other’s waists as
they fell back. Harry’s protective barrier flickered and died.

Voldemort’s wand flashed again. Hermione flew up and across the room, slamming against the empty
bookshelves like a rag doll hurled by a petulant child. She slumped to the floor and lay
unmoving.

“HERMIONE!” Harry screamed.

“She is not dead,” Voldemort said. “I said she would serve me, and so she shall. But I did not
promise that she would not suffer.

“But I *can* promise that *her* suffering will be as *nothing* next to
*yours!*”

Harry’s mind was racing at breakneck speed. He was remembering his Auror training, recalling the
dogma repeatedly hammered into his brain by Tonks and Moody.

*“Every opponent has a weakness that can be exploited,”* Moody growled incessantly.
“***If** you know what it **is,** and **if** you’ve been trained to respond in
**precisely** the right way, you can beat **anyone!**”*

*“Knowledge is the key,”* Tonks stressed at every opportunity. *“If you know something about
your opponent that he doesn’t **know** you know, you can use it against him, and he won’t be
able to stop what he doesn’t understand.”*

And Harry knew what he had to do.

“This ends *now,* Tom!” Harry said angrily.

“So it does, Potter,” Voldemort said coolly. *“Crucio!”*

Harry dodged the spell by a hair’s breadth . The beam from Voldemort’s wand struck the fireplace,
sending chips of stone flying like jagged shrapnel. Harry maneuvered across the room, trying for
the angle he sought, the only angle that would serve his purpose. But Voldemort was a strategist,
and he continued to attack Harry from odd angles which permitted no response. Beams of energy shot
over Harry’s shoulder, grazed his legs, even nicked his ear once. Voldemort was toying with him as
a sadistic child might play with an insect trapped in a shoebox. The Cruciatus Curse had grazed him
more than once, and sparks of pain danced through his body, slowing his movements. Maybe he was
going about things the wrong way, he thought. Maybe –

A lance of red flame singed Harry’s side. He cried out – and so, to his amazement, did Voldemort.
The Dark Lord staggered, his free hand clutching at his chest. Harry wondered what had occurred,
but he had no time to ponder the mystery. If his plan had any chance of working, he would have to
take this last, desperate gamble.

Harry stumbled, fell on his back. He rose quickly to his knees, only to find himself looking full
into the face of Voldemort.

”You would have made a good rat, Potter,” Voldemort said. “You scurry about as well as Wormtail
ever did.”

“Never compare me to that son of a bitch!” Harry barked.

Startled by Harry’s outburst, Voldemort narrowed his smile in concert with his eyes.

“I am going to enjoy watching you scream in agony, Potter,” Voldemort breathed.
*“Crucio!*”

Before the first syllable had passed Voldemort’s lips, Harry aimed his wand straight and true and
cried, *“Avada Kedavra!”*

The beams from the two wands met precisely in mid-air, exactly as Harry had hoped. It was necessary
for him to be facing Voldemort squarely for this to come about, forcing Harry to feign stumbling so
as to draw Voldemort into abandoning his previous tactics in favor of a frontal assault. The two
beams of magical energy locked fast. Harry enjoyed the look of surprise that spread across
Voldemort’s face. Knowledge was the key, Tonks had said. Knowledge possessed by one but not the
other. Here, it was the knowledge that Harry’s wand and Voldemort’s were brothers, both possessed
of a core consisting of a phoenix feather taken from the tail of Albus Dumbledore’s faithful pet.
This was something of which Voldemort was unaware in the year 1981. Advantage: Harry. Furthermore,
Harry had experienced this unique phenomenon during his first duel with Voldemort more than two
years ago. Whereas Voldemort was now faced with the unknown, Harry was armed with the knowledge
that might yet save his life.

Harry saw the tiny bead of energy marking the point where the two beams met. He knew that, left to
their own devices, his and Voldemort’s opposing beams would shortly split into hundreds of tiny
filaments, spreading out to envelop them in a shimmering, impenetrable golden dome. Harry was
counting on this. With the two of them locked inside that magical cage, there would be no escape
for either of them until one had conquered the other. Seeing Voldemort’s confusion escalating,
Harry poured every ounce of energy and will power into forcing that bead of magical energy back
toward Voldemort’s wand.

Voldemort’s bewilderment became full-blown astonishment as filaments of energy burst from his and
Harry’s wand-tips, spread out on all sides and wove themselves into a golden cage around the two of
them.

No, Harry corrected himself with a twinge of silent anguish. The *three* of them. The magical
cage had molded itself to the edges of the small room, encompassing Hermione as well as himself and
Voldemort. Some small hope had lurked in the back of his brain that the cage would not be so large
as to envelop Hermione. If she were outside, she would have had some chance of escaping whatever
befell the combatants inside their golden prison. But the room was simply too small to permit this.
It had been Harry’s intention, did no other way present itself, to sacrifice his own life if he
must, if in so doing he could take Voldemort with him while sparing Hermione. Could he now unleash
his full power with Hermione in harm’s way?

He had no choice. It was as she herself had said: At least they would die together. And now, as
opposed to earlier scenarios, they might be able to take Voldemort with them. For just a moment,
Harry thought that Hermione’s life in exchange for a world free from Voldemort was too high a
price. To him, she was worth a hundred worlds. A million. But the moment passed, and Harry steeled
his soul for what he knew he must attempt.

Even without the Blood Circle, Harry was confident that this encounter would not end as had the
first in the cemetery in Little Hangleton. Then, he had been too inexperienced and ill-prepared to
face his enemy. But many things had changed in the intervening two-plus years. Harry was of age
now. He had trained for the better part of a year to think and act as an Auror. His magic was
stronger now (though, admittedly, not in the same league as Voldemort’s), and his confidence was
born of knowledge rather than cocksureness.

And there was the potion. Even without the Blood Circle spell, Harry believed that Snape’s potion
had interacted with the portion of Voldemort’s powers that already slumbered in his body. As he
engaged Voldemort now, Harry did not feel the familiar burning in his scar which proximity with the
Dark Lord always engendered. Instead, his scar was humming – or perhaps that was merely the Phoenix
song rising now to fill the small chamber, the echoes of which bathed his soul like warm,
comforting rain.

With his magically-enhanced blood attuned to Voldemort’s, Harry was confident that he could defend
himself against the Dark Lord better than anyone, with the notable exception of Albus Dumbledore.
Dumbledore was, it was said, the one wizard whom Voldemort feared. Even now, there was no fear of
Harry in Voldemort’s eyes. But there was something almost as potent: Uncertainty. Voldemort did not
understand what was happening, how Harry had stymied him at every turn. How could he? How could
even Voldemort imagine an enemy traveling back in time to use his own powers against him? If he saw
the scar on Harry’s forehead, he could not suspect its true meaning. Knowledge was Harry’s edge –
his only advantage. But it was a tenuous dam to hold back the tide of Voldemort’s inhuman might.
Unless Harry could turn back that tide quickly, it would ultimately overwhelm him. This was his one
and only chance to avenge himself for a life of suffering and torment. Nor were his concerns for
himself alone. If Voldemort lived, his parents – and his younger self – would always be in danger
of renewed attack. No. No half-measures this time. It would be his life – his and Hermione’s – for
Voldemort’s. More than a fair exchange, he thought, to rid the world of a monster.

And he knew deep inside that he could do it. Voldemort’s own power was surging inside Harry. A
scorpion was vulnerable to its own sting. Harry’s whole being concentrated on turning Voldemort’s
power back on itself, destroying the source of that power utterly.

Harry staggered momentarily, his concentration wavering for a split-second. He was growing weak,
more quickly than he had anticipated. Voldemort had boasted that he was become more (or less) than
human. His vitality was not a natural one, and Harry feared now that he must finish the matter
quickly or succumb to his opponent’s inhuman stamina. Feeling his legs beginning to shake under the
strain of his intense concentration, Harry backed up, hoping he might find something solid, perhaps
a chair, upon which to rest. He dared not look back, for to take his eyes from the bead he was
slowly forcing up his wand-beam might result in a slipback. He inched backward, praying he would
not stumble on the debris littering the floor.

With a suddenness that surprised him, he felt his back impact with the rough stones of the
fireplace. Taking some of the weight from his legs, he relaxed and held his wand arm as steady as
he could.

Voldemort was wide-eyed, his wand-arm shaking as he tried to fathom so many unexpected phenomena,
one heaped upon another in a seemingly endless profusion. Harry sent another surge of will power
through his wand, and the bead slid forward another inch. This seemed to send a small shock of
electricity through Voldemort’s hand, and Harry enjoyed the alarmed expression that grew on the
wizard’s blood-stained face.

Harry wondered now whether the Priori Incantatum would occur, as it had the first time. Would his
purpose be aided thereby? He didn’t know, nor, he realized, did he care.

When he had found himself in this situation more than two years ago, he had been less a participant
than a spectator, carried along by events he did not understand and therefore feared to influence.
Not so now. Magic was a mindless force, impelled by the will of him who was its master. The last
time, events had unfolded of their own volition, undirected. Now, Harry would exert his will to
ensure the outcome he sought.

It was not by whim or chance that he had employed the Killing Curse as the counter to Voldemort’s
Cruciatus. It was Harry’s intention to force his Curse straight into Voldemort’s wand and compel it
to rebound upon him. Harry had failed earlier this evening when he used the Killing Curse on
Voldemort. But that spell had been backed solely by Harry’s own magic, against which Voldemort’s
defenses were proof. But now he was drawing on all his power – and upon the remnants of the Blood
Circle – to force Voldemort’s own Dark power to rebound against him. It was Harry’s hope to
recreate the incident that had resulted in Voldemort’s destruction, the one which he and Hermione
had prevented this very night. But there would be a crucial difference this time. Baby Harry had
survived the rebound Curse only through the magical protection imparted by his mother’s sacrifice.
This time, there was nothing to protect Harry – nor Hermione – from the terrible aftermath.

But now, as minutes crawled by like hours, a new factor entered the equation. Harry was beginning
to feel anew the aches and pains induced by Voldemort’s glancing Curses. An unexpected wave of
nausea surged through him. His vision blurred. To his horror, he saw the bead surge back toward
him. *No,* he thought desperately. *Forward!* The bead advanced an inch or so and
stopped. Voldemort’s face tightened with concentration. The bead slid back toward Harry
again.

A throbbing pain shot through Harry’s side. The glancing Curse that had just missed tearing a hole
in his chest had evidently done some peripheral damage. The excitement of the moment – abetted,
perhaps, by shock – had dulled the pain, but in the wake of Harry’s waning concentration, it surged
through him now with breath-quickening lances of rippling fire. He brought his left hand up against
his side, thinking to compress the area and arrest the hot tide flowing through his ribs. But when
he made contact with his side, his arm stiffened in surprise. He slipped his hand into his pocket
and pulled out – Tom Riddle’s diary!

The battered book was sticky with Harry’s blood. Harry’s eyes went instinctively to the gaping hole
made by the basilisk’s fang in the Chamber of Secrets. But his gaze was suddenly arrested by
another, smaller mark, one which he did not recognize. There was a tiny burn mark on the edge of
the book. Harry remembered when Voldemort’s Curse had grazed his left side, and Voldemort had cried
out, clutching his chest. Could there be a connection? Under the circumstances, could there
*not* be?

Harry’s desperate speculation was interrupted by a low groan to his left. From the corner of his
eye, he could just see Hermione moving feebly, struggling to rise.

“Hermione!” Harry rasped.

Harry’s concentration wavered for only a moment, but it was his undoing. With a savage roar,
Voldemort sent the bead a full two feet closer to the tip of Harry’s wand. Harry fought to send it
away from him and toward Voldemort, but it was no use. The Dark Lord now had the upper hand.
Despair washed over Harry like an icy tide. It was over. Harry could see the light of triumph on
Voldemort’s face. They both knew that there was no way to stop that bead from being thrown all the
way back to Harry’s wand. The Killing Curse invoked by his own lips would surge back upon him and
kill him. And with that realization, Harry shifted his mind into Auror mode and made a decision. He
surrendered.

The first time his and Voldemort’s wands had dueled, he had been warned repeatedly, *“Don’t break
the connection!”* It had been sound advice then. Voldemort had unleashed the Killing Curse on
him. Had he been unable to jump away in time, the Curse would have hit him squarely, killing him
instantly. But now, in a manner of speaking, he *wanted* Voldemort’s Curse to strike
him.

Timing would be critical. Harry’s hands tensed, the one on his wand, the other on the diary. With a
sharp jerk, Harry flung his wand straight up, the beam blasting a hole in the ceiling and showering
him with plaster dust as the golden cage winked out. In the same motion, he bought the diary up
before him, interposing it between his body and the point of Voldemort's wand. Voldemort’s
Curse – the Cruciatus – struck the diary. And Voldemort screamed. He collapsed to the floor in a
paroxysm of agony as Harry staggered back under the force of the spell. His muscles turning to
water, Harry slumped back against the fireplace, too weak to move.

*So you **can** feel pain, you sodding bastard,* Harry thought sluggishly as he sagged
against the rough stones. *At least I did that much to you.*

But that thought brought small comfort. Again he had miscalculated Voldemort's inhuman
vitality. The Dark Lord was already shrugging off the effects of the Curse, which would have left
an ordinary wizard with scarcely enough strength to breathe, much less move. But Harry's
greatest miscalculation had been in overestimating his *own* vitality. Even had Voldemort been
incapacitated, Harry was himself clinging to consciousness by the slimmest of threads. His wand had
fallen from his grasp when he collapsed, along with the diary, and he could do no more than stare
down at his empty hands in a kind of torpid vacuousness, his eyes lacking even the impetus to
blink.

Voldemort rose slowly, the pain ebbing away quickly with the termination of the Curse. His face was
livid. He glowered down at Harry, his wand leveled. Then his terrible scowl became an even more
terrible smile.

“Dumbledore taught you well, Potter,” Voldemort said. “Perhaps they should carve that on your
tombstone, that you acquitted yourself in combat with Lord Voldemort. I can imagine worse
epitaphs.”

His body feeling as though an overpowering weight were pressing on him, yet defiance burned
undimmed in Harry's eyes as he fixed his gaze on Voldemort. He longed to spit in
Voldemort's face, though the gesture came with his dying breath, if only to wipe the smile from
his countenance one last time. Lacking his wand, he felt his fingers closing reflexively around the
shaft of a ghost-wand, which he envisioned his arm pointing unwaveringly at Voldemort. His eyes
drooped, and he smiled as his mind's eye conjured the image of his enemy falling dead at his
feet in a burst of emerald light.

He heard soft footfalls approaching. He knew Voldemort must be closing the distance between them,
wanting, perhaps, to look directly into Harry’s eyes when he unleashed the Killing Curse. Harry
would not give him the satisfaction. If he could not prevent Voldemort from killing him, he would
not grant his murderer the adjunctive triumph of gloating in his face. In a last act of defiance,
his head lolled on his shoulders, his eyes opening slowly…

It was fortunate that Harry had not the strength to cry out, else Voldemort would have turned and
seen as well. Hermione was propped up on one elbow. She was holding her wand – no, that couldn’t be
right. Harry had seen Hermione’s wand fly away when Voldemort made the floor explode under them.
There was only one answer. She was holding *his* wand. Harry’s heart surged. Courageous to the
end, Hermione, like Harry, was unwilling to die passively. If death was to be her portion, she
would sell her life as high as she might. How he wished he had the strength to draw one more breath
and tell her how much he loved her one last time.

“What is this?”

Harry’s eyes darted away from Hermione, his insides turning to ice. Voldemort was now looking down
on Hermione, an amused expression on his cruel face.

“The Mudblood thinks she can use your wand against Lord Voldemort better than you did, Potter. Let
us see, shall we? Come, little Mudblood. Demonstrate your vaunted Auror’s might against Lord
Voldemort.”

Hermione pointed Harry’s wand with trembling fingers and gasped, *“A-Ava…Avada…”*

Her head and hand drooped together, and Voldemort laughed.

“Is that the best an Auror can do? Surely you can do better than that, little Mudblood. Try another
Curse – say, the Cruciatus. I daresay it is one of my favorites.”

Hermione struggled to lift her head as she mumbled, *“Cr…Cru…”*

Voldemort exploded with laughter. His wand was no longer directed at either Harry or Hermione. He
held it casually, employing it more like an ornament than a weapon. He turned toward Harry again,
his manner supremely confident.

“I was right about this one, Potter. Once I have shackled her mind with the Imperius, she will make
a fitting servant for Lord Voldemort. A pity you will not live to see that happy circumstance.” His
dark eyes twinkling evilly, Voldemort remarked, “If she were strong enough, I might even command
her to kill *you,* just to see the look on both of your faces. But no,” he said with a shake
of his head. “There will be ample apportunity for her to serve me in this manner. But your death,
James – that is a pleasure I reserve for myself. You have thwarted me this night, James Potter, and
Lord Voldemort ever repays those who dare to defy him.”

Voldemort raised his wand slowly. He appeared to be savoring every moment of the triumph he had
always known must be. Unwilling to give his enemy the satisfaction of betraying even a hint of fear
(though, in fact, he was as afraid as his waning strength would permit), Harry averted his eyes
again. His gaze fell once more on Hermione. To his amazement and abiding admiration, she was
raising his wand yet again. But he knew it was hopeless. Any spell powerful enough to harm a wizard
of Voldemort’s might would require the fullest possible concentration. Voldemort himself had known
that when he taunted her. Injured as she obviously was, she had no more hope of unleashing an
Unforgivable Curse upon him than of heaving the Potter house onto her shoulders and pitching it
across the English Channel. Harry would have been surprised if she had the strength to make a
feather levitate as she had done in Flitwick’s classroom six years ago. But none of that mattered.
All he knew was that the last thing he would ever see before Voldemort’s Killing Curse snuffed out
his life was Hermione’s beautiful and courageous face. And that, he thought, was worth dying for,
and more.

Voldemort was holding his wand steady now – and so, to Harry’s surprise, was Hermione. What was she
doing? Surely even stubborn Hermione Granger knew by now that she had not the strength to stop
Voldemort? Harry saw her struggle up onto both elbows now. His wand was clutched in her right hand,
and her left hand was inching forward, holding –

Harry cried out without meaning to. Voldemort turned his head, saw Hermione’s feeble efforts to
bring the wand in her hand to bear. The Dark Lord laughed shortly, only to choke a moment
later.

“What is that?” Voldemort said sharply. “Where did you get that?”

Ignoring Harry, Voldemort lunged for the book in Hermione’s hand – the book which was impossibly
but unmistakably his old school diary from his days at Hogwarts. His claw-like hand darted down to
snatch the book from Hermione’s fingers. But even as he lunged, Hermione pointed Harry’s wand at
the book and said, very softly: *“Incendio!”*

The book burst into flames – and so, to Harry’s horror, did Voldemort! In the wink of an eye, the
Dark Lord erupted into a pillar of roaring fire, like a scarecrow set ablaze by a carelessly
discarded match. His screams reverberated from the living room walls as he stood rooted to the
spot, his arms flung wide in a gesture of blind, unreasoning terror. Acting more by instinct than
from reason, Voldemort whirled about and raced through the gaping maw of the shattered doorway and
out into the night. Harry heard his shrieks reverberating from the houses lining the street. The
screams grew fainter with distance until they were swallowed up in a numbing, leaden silence that
was, if possible, even more terrible than the fearsome cries still echoing in Harry’s throbbing
head.

As Harry stared mutely through the shattered doorway into the darkness beyond, he could not credit
the scene to which his own senses had just borne witness. Surely it was all just a dream. He had
dreamed of his parents, and of Voldemort, so many times, always crying out in the night for the
scene to alter, to reshape itself into something else, something better. Was this merely a wish
given dream-form, a last fleeting vision of victory snatched from the dragon’s jaws ere the Killing
Curse snuffed out his life like a candle flame?

Flame? If it were only a dream, it yet touched his senses with an authenticity his mind could not
sweep away. Voldemort had fled – hadn’t he? Yes, Harry had seen with his own eyes, heard the
screams receding in the darkness – yet if that were so, whence the flames? They were still there,
dancing before his unfocused eyes. He felt heat on his face despite the chill of the night. And the
smoke, filling his nostrils, strangling his breath –

Harry’s head jerked up. No dream this! The curtains on either side of the ruined doorway were
ablaze! Even as he watched, unable to tear his eyes away, sparks leaped from the flames and fell
upon the couch, from which a thin tendril of smoke began to rise. Cold, skeletal fingers clutched
at Harry’s heart. *Hermione!*

Ignoring the pain and stiffness wracking his body, Harry hurled himself face-forward and crawled
toward Hermione. The process was agonizingly slow, but at last he was close enough to grab a
fistful of her robes and shake them with all the strength his desperation could muster.

“Get up, Hermione! We have to get out!”

Hermione looked into Harry’s eyes, her expression an oasis of serenity in the midst of chaos.

“I think my back is broken, Harry. I can’t feel my legs.”

“I’ll carry you,” Harry gasped. “I’ll – ”

At that moment, the smoldering couch burst into flames. Turning at the sound, Harry saw that the
doorway was a ring of fire. Sparks erupted from every direction. A tiny flame popped up on the seat
of the easy chair against which Harry had steadied himself earlier. The rug at the center of the
room was smoking from dozens of tiny pinpoints. Harry swung back around and strove to pull Hermione
into an upright position from which he might sweep her into his arms and carry her safely away. How
he expected to accomplish this when as yet he could not lift his head above his shoulders without
nearly losing consciousness was a problem his reason chose not to address. He continued to tug
Hermione up until she collapsed into his arms, where she clung to him with no more strength than a
newborn kitten might have manifested.

Desperately, Harry cast about for his wand. If he could manage to produce enough water to keep the
flames at bay –

His heart sank when he saw his wand lying next to the smoking diary, its once gleaming Holly shaft
now a black husk mottled with flickering points of golden flame that danced mockingly before the
young wizard’s eyes. His last hope now turned to ash, even as his wand, Harry sank back against the
hearth, his hands clutching Hermione’s robes as he buried his face in her hair.

Harry began to tremble from within, his eyes burning with tears that streamed down his cheeks and
into the tangle of Hermione’s hair. “An hour ago,” he said in a quavering hush, “We were
together...holding each other…we were...” A gasping sob tore from his throat. “There was so much we
were going to do…so many things to see, to experience…just you and me…I never thought it would
end…like this…”

“This isn’t an ending, Harry,” Hermione smiled, lifting her head as the rising wind from the flames
tossed the fringe of her hair about. “It’s a beginning.”

Twisting awkwardly, her legs lifeless under her, Hermione took Harry’s face in her hands and looked
into his eyes.

“Don’t you see? We did what we came to do. We changed what was into what will be. This is no longer
our world. It belongs to another Harry and Hermione now. There’s no place for us here. Our pages
have been torn out…like the homework parchment you and Ron used to wad up and chuck into the common
room fire. New pages will be written to take their place, while ours…ours will soon be nothing but
ash.”

Harry dragged Hermione into a sitting position against the fireplace and held her against him. The
stones against their backs were warm, heated as they were from flames both without and within. The
heat from the expanding conflagration was searing his face. He could see Hermione’s cheeks glowing.
It reminded him of the blush she had worn following their torrid lovemaking session. He pushed
those thoughts from his mind, averting his eyes. His gaze fell again on the blackened remains of
Tom Riddle’s diary, lying where Hermione had just managed to cast it with the last of her strength
to keep it from igniting her robes. He wondered if Voldemort was in a like state now, a charred,
lifeless hulk of smoking ash.

“How did you know?” Harry said quietly. It sounded to him as if the words were coming from someone
else. There seemed to be no corresponding thought to match the sounds falling from his lips. “The
diary?”

“I saw you use it to block Voldemort’s Curse,” Hermione said. “And how the Curse rebounded on him.
I remembered his original attack on you – the one we prevented tonight when we warned your parents
– how it was his own power turned back on him that destroyed him all those years ago. There was
nothing to lose by trying it. I hadn’t the strength to cast any powerful spells. But in the end, it
was a first-year spell that did the trick. And it was Voldemort himself who gave me the idea when
he set the pages alight to free himself from his cocoon.”

Harry shook his head wearily. “When Voldemort burned the book pages off him, the fire didn’t even
singe him – why did the flames consume him this time and not before?”

“When he set the pages alight,” Hermione said, “the flames never actually touched his body – he was
surrounded by his personal shield, remember. All he did was burn off the pages from the outside.
But when I burned the diary, his body *itself* was set alight from *within.* If anything,
his protective barrier made things a hundred times worse, containing the flames and increasing
their concentration.”

Harry’s thoughts were still reeling. “Trelawney was wrong,” he muttered disjointedly. “The prophesy
– she was wrong – I was never the one...”

“What makes you say that?” Hermione said in surprise.

“The first time Voldemort was destroyed,” Harry said, “it was by his own magic – it only bounced
off me when he tried to kill me. And now, it may have been my wand that set him alight, but it was
your magic behind the spell, not mine.”

“My magic as augmented by Snape’s potion,” Hermione replied, sounding professorial even in the
heart of the flaming hell compassing them on all sides now. “Combined with your ‘brother wand,’ it
was as if Voldemort himself had cast the spell. And I knew that must be your blood on the book. I
hoped that would add the final element to the Blood Circle spell. Even then, I wasn’t sure it would
work. But we’d already seen the effect the Blood Circle enchantment had on Voldemort. So, being as
the spell was empowered by the diary, it stood to reason that it would have the greatest effect on
the very *source* of its power. It would be like a snake biting itself and succumbing to its
own venom.”

“But I still had nothing to do with it,” Harry persisted.

“Didn’t you?” Hermione smiled. “Don’t you remember what Dumbledore said, how you had power the Dark
Lord knows not?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “The power to love. But – ”

“Don’t you see?” Hermione said. “None of what we did tonight would have been possible without the
love inside you – not the Bonding Rings, nor the Blood Circle – we wouldn’t have had the diary at
all if Dobby hadn’t loved you enough to give you his most prized possession. It was love that saved
you from Voldemort sixteen years ago, and now you’ve used the same power against him again. And as
for Trelawney’s prophesy, it said that the Dark Lord would mark you as his equal. It was
Voldemort’s power inside you that defeated him in the end, strengthened by the one power he
couldn’t overcome. Love.”

“The prophesy said I was The One who was supposed to destroy Voldemort,” Harry said. “But what if
he *wasn’t* destroyed tonight? Back when I was tied to his father’s tombstone, he boasted that
his whole life’s purpose had been to conquer death. If he changed his body like he said so that
mortal death can’t touch him, who’s to say he won’t be back? Maybe all we did tonight was destroy
his body in a different way from last time. If that’s true, then we didn’t accomplish anything
here. Voldemort will go into hiding, looking for a way to restore his body. In another ten years,
Quirrell will go on his holiday to Albania, and it will all begin again, just like before.”

“Not like before,” Hermione smiled, her tears glowing in the light of the flames. “This time, Harry
Potter won’t have to grow up alone and unloved. He’ll have a mother and a father, and a godfather,
and loads of friends, all of them united to help him fulfill his destiny.”

“But will be have *you?*” Harry said. “What will that other Harry do without Hermione Granger
to stop him from doing something stupid and getting himself killed – or worse, expelled?”

Hermione laughed, tears spilling from her eyes in rivers. Harry pulled Hermione to him, his hands
tangling in her bushy hair. Clouds of smoke and tongues of flame surrounded them in a deadly
embrace, but its might was as nothing to the strength with which the young witch and wizard clung
to each other.

“I'm so lucky,” Hermione said. “That other Hermione may never know what it’s like to hold you
in her arms...to kiss you...to make love to you...”

“The best thing I ever did,” Harry said, his voice choking from more than the acrid smoke, “was
fall in love with you.”

Her smile glowing brighter than the flames, Hermione said softly, “I love you, Harry.”

“I love you,” Harry said, his soul embracing Hermione’s with a power that reached beyond the
boundaries of infinity. “Yesterday, today and tomorrow. Forever.”

With a terrible roar of smoke and flame, as of an angry dragon venting its wrath, the Potter house
collapsed, releasing acrid black plumes into the evening sky over Godric’s Hollow.


*** * ***



“What d’yer reckon, Professor?” Hagrid said as he stepped from the perimeter of smoking ash and
onto the front lawn of what had been the Potter house. “Yer think there was any truth in it?”

Dumbledore looked up, his reverie broken by the Hogwarts gamekeeper’s gruff voice.

“Truth in what, Hagrid?”

“In the story Lily an’ James tol’ ‘bout them two what came an’ warned ‘em ter get out ‘fore
You-Know-Who came along.”

“Why should I not believe it?” Dumbledore countered pleasantly.

“‘Cause I been through this wreckage careful-like,” Hagrid said, “an’ there ain’t no sign o’ any
folks what might’a been caught in the fire, not skin ner bones. Lily said them two warned her ‘bout
a barrier aroun’ the house ter keep anyone from Apparatin’ out, din’ she? An’ you said none o’ the
Muggles saw anyone come out ‘fore the roof caved in, an’ them all standing aroun’ gawkin’ like they
was, it ain’ likely they’d’a missed ‘em. I’m tellin’ yer, it jus’ don’ add up.”

“While it *is* true that the Potters’ saviors were not authorized by the Order of the Phoenix,
as they claimed,” Dumbledore said, “I am inclined to believe Lily and James, despite evidence to
the contrary.”

“It don’ make no sense,” Hagrid grumbled. “That young wizard lookin’ like James an’ all. Him an’
that Muggle-born witch sayin’ they come from *you,* tellin’ ‘em things on’y *you* coulda
tol’ ‘em, but what yer say yer never *did.* An’ how did they know ‘bout Pettigrew bein’ Secret
Keeper? I asked Black abou’ it, jus’ ‘fore he took Pettigrew off ter the Ministry on that flyin’
motorbike o’ his, an’ he said he din’ tell nobody, not until he showed up here tonight an’ tol’ you
an’ me. An’ he coul’n’t even ha’ come here hisself before the house was destroyed an’ the Fidelius
surroundin’ it dissolved, yet them two come straigh’ through all them magical barriers like it was
their own ruddy house. It jus’ don’ add up no way yer looks at it.”

“There are some things we may never know,” Dumbledore conceded. “But every Muggle we questioned has
told us the same story, that a burning man ran screaming from the Potter house less than an hour
ago and disappeared in a manner that could only have been accomplished by wizardry. And my sources
tell me that Lord Voldemort has disappeared utterly, leaving his Death Eaters in disarray. The two
events must be connected.”

“What’s goin’ ter happen with the Potters now?” Hagrid asked.

“They will go into hiding again,” Dumbledore said. “When a suitable location has been found, I will
engage another Fidelius Charm and plant the secret in Sirius Black, as Lily and James intended all
along.”

“Yer think You-Know-Who’ll try ter hurt Harry again?” Hagrid said worriedly.

“Perhaps,” Dumbledore said. “I do not think we have seen the last of him. But a terrible tragedy
was averted tonight, thanks to the intervention of two brave souls whose names we may never know.
That is enough to be getting on with now, I think. As for tomorrow, what will happen, will
happen…and when it does, we shall be ready.”

Hagrid nodded his great, shaggy head and tugged a flask of firewhiskey from his back pocket,
uncorking it with undisguised longing.

“I hope the little bloke’ll be alrigh’,” Hagrid said sincerely as he hefted the flask in his
massive hand and raised it to the sky. “Here’s ter you, Harry.” He took a long pull from the flask
before corking it and slipping it back into his pocket.



*** * ***
**



The end? Not yet. One chapter remains, wherein the last threads will (I hope) be tied up. See you
then.**






9. All Our Tomorrows
--------------------





**Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow**
**


**
**Chapter 9**
**


**
**All Our Tomorrows**






When Lily Potter heard the boom of thunder reverberate from the trees surrounding the back garden,
she jumped instinctively toward the window, a look of dismay on her face.

*Not rain **today**,* she thought anxiously.

But, looking up now, she saw only a blue, cloudless sky stretching to the edge of the trees
clustered on all sides of the small back garden. She puzzled for a moment, then her head flew back
in a sweep of long red hair, her eyes flashing like chips of emerald.

“Not again!” she groaned.

She dashed out the back door just in time to see a motorcycle fall out of the sky and plow a great
furrow in the lawn less than six inches from a picnic table set with plates and glasses, all shaded
by the branches of a towering elm tree.

“SIRIUS BLACK!” Lily bellowed. “Are you out of your *mind?* This is a *Muggle*
neighborhood! What if someone *saw* you?”

“Not to worry, luv,” Sirius grinned as he swung his leg over the petrol tank and planted his booted
feet on the ground. “I enchanted my bike with a Muggle Repelling Charm last week. Any Muggle who
hears it automatically turns the other way and forgets everything. Trust me, no one saw anything
over your street but clear, blue sky.”

“And what about *that?*” Lily barked, pointing at the disrupted ground under the motorcycle’s
knobbed tires.

“Uh, sorry,” Sirius mumbled. He pulled his wand out of his black leather jacket and pointed it
downward, but when he opened his mouth to cast a spell, no sound came out. He closed his mouth and
looked up at Lily sheepishly.

“Don’t tell me,” Lily sighed. “You skived off Charms the day the Landscaping Spell came up.”

“Aced my N.E.W.T.’s anyway,” Sirius grinned. “Good job Landscaping never came up on the final,
wasn’t it? And what would I have done with it if it had, go off with the Order of the Phoenix and
weed Voldemort’s vegetable patch?”

Lily drew her own wand, glancing around to see that none of the neighbors was looking her way
(something Sirius had not bothered to do). Satisfied, she flicked her wrist smartly, and the rut
under Sirius’ feet closed up as he leaped aside with an amused whoop. The green lawn swept over the
smooth, flat earth like a blanket tugged over a sleeping child. Sirius nodded his approval as he
stamped his boot smartly on the grass, which now showed no sign of its recent disruption.

“Has Moony arrived?” Sirius asked as he eyed the picnic table eagerly.

“James is bringing him,” Lily said. “They should be here any minute.”

“It’s a *double* celebration *this* year,” Sirius said excitedly. “Harry celebrates his
birthday *and* receiving his Hogwarts letter.”

At that moment, the back door opened and James Potter jogged into the back garden, followed closely
by Remus Lupin.

“Glad you could make it, Moony!” Sirius greeted his old friend, who, like himself, had exchanged
his wizard’s robes for Muggle attire. It had long become second nature for their visits to the
Potters.

Remus essayed a tired smile that in no way dimmed the light in his eyes. “Wild hippogriffs couldn’t
keep me away, Padfoot.”

James swept Lily into his arms and kissed her so forcefully that Sirius rolled his eyes at Remus
with a shake of his head.

“They get worse every day,” he grunted. “You’d think they were still seventeen the way they carry
on.”

When James and Lily finally parted, somewhat breathlessly, James asked, “So, where’s our guest of
honor?”

Lily’s bedazzled smile melted away. She looked meaningfully at James as she nodded her head toward
the house next door, the roof of which was just visible through the surrounding trees. James
instantly comprehended the meaning of that gesture, and his own face grew serious.

“I never gave that a thought. What Harry must be going through...”

Sirius and Remus both nodded understandingly.

“You hardly ever see the one without the other,” Sirius said.

“I should have known something like this would happen when Albus relocated us here,” Lily
sighed.

“It was for the best, Lily,” Remus said. “Even with Voldemort gone, there are still any number of
Death Eaters who think they can prove their worthiness to take their master’s place by killing
*you.* It would be just the wedge to unite them under a single leader again. Just now, they’re
in disarray, posing no threat. But I shudder to think what evil they might visit on the world as a
united force. No, Dumbledore knew what he was doing. With Harry going to Muggle school, no one
would suspect him of being the son of the witch and wizard who rid the world of Lord
Voldemort.”

“But we *didn’t,*” Lily repeated for what felt like the ten thousandth time. “We never
*did* find out who that witch and wizard were who stayed behind and fought Voldemort in our
place. We may *never* know their names.”

“Exactly,” Remus said. “And Voldemort’s followers can’t avenge themselves against nameless enemies
who’ve disappeared without a trace. All they know is that their master went to *your* house
and never returned.”

“You’re sure Harry won’t be in danger at Hogwarts?” Sirius asked, resurrecting a subject of much
discussion over the preceding years. “You could still change your mind and arrange with the
Ministry for Harry to receive his training at home. He has all of us to teach him, and I’ve already
offered to let you use my house whenever you need it – it would be an ideal place for Harry to take
his O.W.L.’s. Look around you,” he said, his eyes sweeping the peaceful neighborhood. “No one’s
penetrated the Fidelius in ten years, so if it’s a question of security, we know Harry would be
safe staying here until he’s of age.”

*And happier, too,* Lily thought as her eyes drifted again toward the house next door. But
James gave his head a brief shake.

“Dumbledore must want Harry to attend Hogwarts,” he reasoned. “Otherwise, he wouldn’t have sent the
letter. We just have to trust him. He’s never let us down.”

“Shouldn’t we be getting the party started?” Remus said, redirecting the argument delicately.
“Harry *does* know to be here at one?”

“Yes,” Lily said. “I’m sure they’ll be along.”

James could not miss the sadness in his wife’s voice as she continued to stare past the trees
separating the two yards to the house beyond. “Harry will make loads of new friends at Hogwarts,”
he said reassuringly. “Frank and Alice Longbottom’s son, Neville, is starting school this term. You
remember the Longbottoms? They work with me in the Auror division. Neville was born the day before
Harry.” Lily nodded. “And Arthur Weasley’s youngest son, Ron, got his letter last week – you’ve met
Arthur, he works in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts department. Good chap, if a bit odd. The whole
family’s been in Gryffindor for ages – has three boys there now, in fact – wouldn’t surprise me if
Harry and Ron became great mates.”

Lily was not looking at her husband. Her eyes remained fixed on the house just beyond the trees.
James slipped his arms around his wife’s shoulders in a comforting hug.

“Look at the two of us. Our meeting at school, being sorted into Gryffindor together, was the best
thing that ever happened to me. More than that, it was Fate. I think I fancied you the moment I
laid eyes on you. And once you’d knocked some of the bollocks out of me, I began to see just how
empty my life would have been if we’d never met. I have a feeling the same thing will happen to
Harry. You’ll see. And if he’s smarter than his dad, he won’t have to wait until his last year of
school to spot what’s right in front of him.”

James tightened his hold, and Lily lifted a hand and placed it on her husband’s arm.

“You knew when Dumbledore placed us here we wouldn’t be living in the Muggle world forever,” James
said quietly. “Harry is a wizard. His future is in the magical world. Just as yours was. And is.
When you got your Hogwarts letter, you made the decision to leave the Muggle world behind. I know
you must have missed your mates, but you found new friends at Hogwarts, just as Harry will.”

Lily nodded mechanically, her emerald eyes opaque and unreadable. She and James seldom spoke about
that night when they and Harry had missed death by a razor’s edge, nor of the prophesy which had
brought it all about. It had been easy to draw the curtains on those memories while they lived the
life of ordinary Muggles. But now Harry was about to take his place in the wizarding world. For the
next seven years, he would be isolated from them, from their protection. James was right, it
*was* for the best. If Harry was to fulfill his special destiny, he would need the training
which only Hogwarts could provide. They had taught him all they could. It was time for him to move
on, to learn the things only Albus Dumbledore and the staff at Hogwarts could impart. In that time,
Harry would grow from a boy into a man. He would become self-reliant, a wizard in his own right.
And when the moment came, as they knew it must, for him to prove himself, she could only pray that
he would not have to stand alone. She and James had found each other at Hogwarts. Perhaps Harry,
too, would find the one who could share his unique destiny – one who could see past the prophesy to
the man beyond.

“I’d best go fetch the cake,” she said.

“Make sure you get the right one,” James teased.

“I make two cakes every year,” Lily told Remus, who’d missed more than a few of Harry’s birthdays
due to his “condition.”

“That’s right,” Sirius said, his face lighting up in anticipation. “One for the official party, and
another for the private party later.”

“What’s the difference between the two?” Remus asked.

“The first cake is Muggle-safe,” Lily explained. “Since Harry’s been playing football at school
since last year, I baked a rectangular cake and decorated it like a pitch, complete with goalposts
and little plastic players – all in the school colors.”

“And the other?” Remus prompted.

“Quidditch!” James said, his eyes alight with memories of his playing days at Hogwarts. “Goal rings
and everything! You have to stay on and see it – ruddy masterpiece!”

“Gryffindor colors, of course?” Sirius said in a manner to imply that anything else would be
sacrilege.

“As if Harry would be in any *other* House,” Remus smiled.

“Here they come now,” James said, nodding his head in the direction Lily had been looking. Everyone
turned to look, their faces tensed. Each was expecting to see Harry’s face reflecting something
less than the full measure of joy such a double celebration might ordinarily inspire. Leaving
behind his closest Muggle friend of the last ten years would be the most difficult thing he had
ever done. But when Harry’s face appeared at last, they were startled to see it glowing with a
radiance beside which the afternoon sun seemed to pale as if the sky had suddenly clouded
over.

“MUM! DAD!” Harry cried excitedly. “You’ll never guess! You’ll never *guess!*”

As expected, Harry was not alone. He was leading a girl by the hand, a girl with very large front
teeth and a nimbus of bushy brown hair that flew about her shoulders in a manner to make Harry’s
always-messy hair look positively sartorial by comparison.

“MUM! DAD!” Harry gasped out. “EVERYONE! LOOK!”

Harry was brandishing an envelope of yellow parchment from which flakes of purple wax dribbled.
Lily was momentarily startled, but she and James had left it to Harry whether or not to reveal the
unvarnished truth about his impending departure to his closest friend. Given the strength of the
bond between the two youngsters, it was a concession they felt they could not withhold. The Muggle
authorities, along with their friends and neighbors, had been informed that Harry was to be
enrolled in an exclusive school beginning this term – which was true enough, omitting certain
pertinent details. Whether Harry chose to follow their example or, in James’ words, “release the
Snitch and let it fly,” they were agreed that they could trust their son’s judgment, whichever
choice he made. That choice was now revealed – as was, they realized, the truth about
themselves.

“We know, Harry,” Remus smiled when James and Lily failed to respond. “We know you got your
letter.”

“NO!” Harry said as he pushed the letter into his mother’s hands. “LOOK!”

Lily turned the envelope over, and as James bent to look over her shoulder, the pair gasped in
astonishment. The name on the envelope was not Harry Potter. Instead, the bright green ink
read:

**HERMIONE GRANGER**


Hermione was fairly dancing with excitement. “I couldn’t believe it!” she squealed. “I was so
excited, but I was also so sad, because I didn’t know how I was going to tell Harry I’d be going
away! And when he came and showed me *his* letter – !”

“Sirius!” Harry said excitedly. “Can we fly to Diagon Alley on your bike to get our school
supplies?”

*“No!”* Lily said sharply, coming out of her trance with the force of a whipcrack.

“Lily,” James entreated. “You always forbade Harry to ride with Sirius, and I always agreed with
you he was too young. But now that he’s got his Hogwarts letter, it’s time we started treating him
like a young man and not a little boy.”

Lily’s face was set in stone for long moments before she turned and fixed Sirius’ eyes with
hers.

“You’ll use a Sticking Charm so Harry doesn’t fall off – and one on yourself, come to that. You
will *not* fly faster than fifty miles per hour, and you will *not* perform any dangerous
maneuvers. You will go straight to Diagon Alley and come straight back, with no detours. Do I make
myself clear?”

Sirius nodded gravely, his face a carven mask.

“And Hermione’s parents will have to give *their* permission,” she stressed, her emerald eyes
scrutinizing her son’s closest friend as if seeing the bushy-haired girl for the first time. “I’ll
go have a chat with them later today. We have a *lot* to talk about now, I’m thinking.”

Looking properly cowed, Sirius nodded wordlessly as he repressed a triumphant smile with an iron
will.

“Inside, you two,” Remus said with a surreptitious glance at James and Lily. “Harry, you can carry
the cake. Hermione, you can handle the lemonade.”

Harry and Hermione went inside as Remus held the door open for them. Remus flashed Sirius a
meaningful look, and the smug-faced Marauder followed, closing the door behind him.

“Are you thinking what *I’m* thinking,” Lily said quietly.

“I’m thinking a *lot* of things,” James said. “You *do* know how Albus and Minerva know
when and to whom to send out Hogwarts letters, don’t you?”

“There’s a magical quill in a secret room in the castle,” Lily said knowledgably. “A room known
only to the heads of the school. When a child with magical blood is born, the quill writes that
child’s name on a list so that the letter can be sent out at the appropriate time.”

“Albus *knew* Hermione was a witch!” James said. “Why else would he relocate us *here,*
of all the places in Muggle Britain?”

“I think he knows a lot more than *that,*” Lily said in a ghostly voice.

“What do you mean?” James said.

“Do you remember the young couple who saved our lives – ours and Harry’s?”

“How could I ever forget?” James replied. “Bloke looked just like *me,* didn’t he?”

“And the witch?” Lily whispered. “The Muggle-born witch with bushy brown hair?”

James’ hazel eyes widened behind his round glasses. “That’s impossible! That was ten years
ago!”

“Who’s to say *what’s* impossible?” Lily said. “Yesterday, the Grangers would have said there
were no such things as witches and wizards. Now, they know witches are *real,* because their
daughter *is* one.”

“This is too much for one day,” James said.

“Then let’s think about it *another* day,” Lily said. “Today is *Harry’s* day. His and
Hermione’s.”

The back door banged open. Harry emerged, a large chocolate cake balanced carefully in his hands.
Hermione followed, shivering as she held a pitcher of iced lemonade against her chest. Sirius and
Remus came after, the latter closing the door behind him with his foot, his hands being filled with
cutlery. Remus was watching his young charges carefully, allowing them the fullest measure of
responsibility, all the while keeping his hand on his wand in case of mishap. As the table was set
and the lemonade poured (all without incident), James called his two friends to one side in a
conspiratorial manner.

“Padfoot,” James said in a low voice. “Do you think you can slip into Hogwarts without being
seen?”

“I suppose so,” Sirius said. “I don’t think Filch ever found that secret passage behind the
hump-backed witch. Why?”

“Funny you should mention Filch,” James said. “It’s his office I want you to break into.”

“The Marauder’s Map?” Remus said, his pale eyes igniting with the fires of youth.

“I think Harry can make good use of the handiwork of Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs,”
James said.

“Especially with Snivellus there,” Sirius growled. “If only Dumbledore hadn’t taken Quirrell back
this year as Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher – I know I was only filling in while he was on
holiday in Albania, but I hoped Dumbledore would keep me on for Harry’s first year. Snape’s going
to use his position to bully Harry every chance he gets, you know he will. I wanted to be spot-on
to let him know he’s not going to get away with it.”

“I'm not that concerned about Snape,” James said in a low voice. “I’m more worried about
Voldemort.”

“You really think he’s still out there, biding his time?” Remus asked.

“Dumbledore thinks so,” James returned. “That’s good enough for me. And if he *does* come back
to have another go at Harry, he’s bloody well *not* going to find us napping.”

“Bugger that sodding prophesy anyway,” Sirius said. “As if Harry doesn’t have enough to worry
about. He’s only a boy, for Merlin’s sake. He can’t carry a load like that alone.”

“He won’t have to,” James said. “Not as long as the Marauders are on the job. We’re going to see to
it that Harry has as normal a life as is possible. We’ll do whatever it takes. Are we
agreed?”

Sirius and Remus both nodded.

Smiling slyly, James cast a narrowed eye toward Harry and whispered, “I’m giving Harry a very
special birthday present this year, something I’m sure he’ll make good use of at Hogwarts.”

Remus responded with a curious look, but Sirius grinned insightfully.

“Your Invisibility Cloak!” he said, careful not to let his voice carry to Harry’s ears.

“I had it from *my* father,” James said. “It’s time it passed to the next generation.”

“Do you think that’s wise, James?” Remus cautioned. “Between your cloak and the map, there’s no
telling what kind of mischief Harry could get into over the next seven years. Look at all the
trouble *we* got into.”

James and Sirius exchanged wicked grins, and Remus sighed in defeat, feeling as if his old prefect
badge were still pinned over his heart, as useless now as then.

Painting an innocent smile on his face for his wife’s benefit, James said, “Come on, let’s go join
the party before Harry eats all the cake.”

The three Marauders took their places at the table as Harry sat poised with a long, blunt knife in
his hand. Everyone was admiring the cake, but none more so than Hermione. She was bending close to
examine the tiny figures arranged in two groups on a field of green icing – and the two sets of
rings on either edge of the flat surface.

“This is a very special cake, Hermione,” Lily smiled, nodding her approval at Remus and Sirius;
their slightly guilty expressions confirmed her suspicion that it was they who had chosen which of
the two cakes Harry ultimately carried outside. “It was originally going to be saved for the
family-only after-party and another cake brought out instead – one safe for Muggle eyes.”

“Muggle?” Hermione said, not recognizing the word.

“Our word for non-magical folk,” James said. “One of the most important laws in the wizarding world
is that we’re not to use magic in the presence of Muggles. But there are no Muggles at *this*
table, are there?”

He winked at Hermione, who smiled broadly, revealing her large front teeth. Returning her smile,
James reached into his pocket and brought out his wand with a grand flourish. Hermione’s face lit
up at once.

“Is that a wand?” she said excitedly.

With a Marauderesque chuckle, James waved his wand over the top of Harry’s cake. Hermione gasped as
the tiny Quidditch players came to life and flew a few inches above the surface of the cake, borne
on tiny brooms no bigger than an eyelash. The two sets of players – half of them red, the rest
green – flew around and around, and Hermione laughed delightedly when she saw an orange speck the
size of a pinhead sail through one of the hoops.

“Ten points for Gryffindor!” Harry cheered.

“Gryffindor?” Hermione said curiously.

“One of the four student Houses at Hogwarts,” Remus explained.

“The *best* House!” Harry declared, his eyes quickly returning to the miniature Quidditch
match atop the cake. The tiny figures darted around for another minute, then one of them shot
straight up in a blur of red and hovered over the rest in an attitude of triumph. “He’s caught the
Snitch!” Harry laughed, his eyes dancing behind the lenses of his glasses.

“The what?” Hermione said.

“You have a *lot* to learn about the wizarding world, Hermione,” Harry said good-naturedly. He
flashed a superior grin as he began to pick the tiny players out of the icing, where they had
fallen inert with the conclusion of the “match.”

“Then you’d best get busy teaching me,” Hermione said, her peremptory tone offset, as ever, by the
familiar twinkle in her eye. Holding out her plate as Harry cut a large slice from the cake, she
said, “I may be a – what did you call it – Muggle-born witch, but I don’t intend to let those from
wizarding families outdo me just because they had a head start. I’m going to turn Hogwarts
upside-down and shake it until it begs for mercy.”

“I have no doubt of that,” Lily said sincerely. “I think Harry will have a job keeping up with
you.”

“I’m gunna be Head Boy,” Harry said cockily. “Like Dad.”

“Then it’s a good job I'm going to Hogwarts with you, isn’t it?” Hermione said as she licked
cake icing from the corner of her mouth in as ladylike fashion as she could manage through a
profound smile.

“And why’s that, then?” Harry challenged with a defiant smirk.

“How many letters has your mum got from school about you not paying attention in class?” Hermione
said. “I’ve seen you hiding them in your school bag,” she added when Harry assumed a offended
demeanor while stuffing cake into his mouth with forced nonchalance. “Who’s always borrowing my
notes the day before an exam, then, feeding me all that rubbish about what a lifesaver I am and how
he’ll do better next time? Who spent nearly every day last year thinking about football when he
should have been doing his lessons? And I shudder to think what the teachers would have said about
the state of your homework if I hadn’t checked it over for you before you handed it in. I don’t
reckon you’d have got beyond grade three without me being spot-on every time you needed a swift
kick in the bum.”

“I suppose you think *you’ll* be Head Girl, then?” Harry responded, his eyes rolling skyward
over the rim of his uplifted lemonade glass.

“Piece of cake,” Hermione said, brandishing a forkful of birthday cake for emphasis.

“What do *you* think, Lily?” James asked as he shoveled cake into his mouth with a childish
enthusiasm easily the equal of his son’s.

“I think,” Lily said as she regarded her son and his best friend warmly, “that those two can do
anything. Together.”

Lily raised her glass of lemonade, and everyone responded in kind.

“To Harry and Hermione,” she said. “The future Head Boy and Girl of the Hogwarts class of
’98.”

As everyone drank to the two fledgling wizards, none noticed Harry’s hand slip under the table to
gently tap Hermione’s where it lay on her lap. Her eyes swiveling covertly, she slid her hand over
and into his, her cheeks coloring slightly. Their fingers curled together for a moment; then,
exchanging a secret smile, they returned their hands to the table and tucked back into their
cake.



*** * ***
**



Closing comments:

As mentioned earlier, this story was written in a fit of pique shortly after the release of Order
of the Phoenix. I was so disgusted by the misery J.K. had heaped on Harry in such appalling
abundance that I simply couldn't stand any more. Rather than simply erase the novel from canon,
I decided to wipe the entire slate clean and completely remake Harry's world from scratch. I
would grant Harry the blessing of being as ordinary as he could be, without the stigma of being The
Boy Who Lived. He would grow up with a loving family whose presence would shape him into a man
equal to the burden of Trelawney's prophesy. This story was to be my safety valve if the book
series ultimately let me down. If I chose, I could use it as a springboard to re-write the entire
seven books to suit my own vision. Given the events in HBP, I may end up doing just that. But for
now, this story stands alone, an exercise in wish fulfillment that stands ready to serve as a door
to a different world, one which I may or may not choose to explore.

I hope all this didn't prove to be a total waste of everyone's time. I'll try to do
better next time. See you next year.**






